“That’s all right,” I mumbled, and got to my feet, dusting off my pants and trying to avoid my mother’s accusing eyes.
“Salaam, Khala-jan,” Abdullah called out. Ashraf and Muneer were reminded of their manners and echoed the same. She turned abruptly and went through our front gate.
“What happened? Your mother seems upset.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. She’s always telling me that I come home with my clothes filthy. More to wash, you know.”
Abdullah looked skeptical. He knew a mother’s angry face and could tell there was something more behind this.
I didn’t want to go home. I knew Madar-jan was upset but if I delayed facing her, things would be worse.
I couldn’t look at Abdullah, already feeling my face flush. My mother had seen something different than everyone else. She had seen her daughter pinned under a boy in the middle of the street. Few sights could have been more shameful.
I felt a crunch and saw red peppers, crushed by my sandal, at our front gate. Where Madar-jan had dropped them. I collected what I could from the ground and went inside.
“Madar-jan, I’m going to wash up for dinner,” I called out. I could see her in the kitchen and wanted to test the waters, without actually meeting her eyes.
She didn’t answer me, which I could only take as a bad sign.
I felt my hands start to shake. Sure, I knew better. Even dressed as a boy, I shouldn’t have let things go so far. My aunts or uncles could have seen me. And it was possible they had. I would hardly have noticed with Abdullah up against me.
I wondered if she would tell Padar-jan. That would be the end of me. Every possibility sent my brain spinning and drove me into a wild panic. I left the broken peppers on the family room table and went to wash up as I’d said I would. I tried to come up with a plan to talk my way out of this mess. I went to the kitchen, my face still wet.
“Madar-jan?”
“Hmm.”
“Madar-jan, what are you doing?” My voice was meek and unsteady.
“Dinner. Go and finish your work now that you’re done embarrassing yourself in the streets.”
There it was. I felt a tiny bit relieved to hear her say it. Now I could start to defend myself.
“Madar-jan, we were just playing.”
Madar-jan looked up from the pot she was stirring. Her eyes were narrow and her lips tight.
“Rahim, you know better. Or at least I thought you did. This has gone on too long.”
“Madar-jan, I—”
“I don’t want to hear another word out of you. I will talk to you later. Right now, I’ve got to get your father’s dinner ready or I’ll have a second disaster on my hands.”
I retreated to the other room and worked on my homework assignments for a while before I decided to see if Agha Barakzai needed any help for the afternoon. I didn’t want to be around while Madar-jan’s anger festered. He kept me busy until the evening and I came home to find that Madar-jan had not saved me any food.
She saw me looking into the empty pots.
“There’s a little soup left. You can have it with some bread.”
“But, Madar-jan, there’s nothing but onions and water in this soup. Wasn’t there any meat left?”
“We finished it all. Maybe next time there will be some for you.”
My stomach growling painfully, I suddenly became very angry.
“You could have left me something! That’s how you treat me? You want me to just go hungry?”
“I’m not sure what it is you’re hungry for!” she whispered pointedly.
Padar-jan walked in just then. He rubbed his eyes.
“What’s all the yelling about?” he asked. “What’s going on, bachem?”
I shot my mother a look and spoke without thinking.
“She didn’t save me a single piece of meat. She wants me to have onion broth and bread! I was working at Agha Barakzai’s shop and there’s no dinner for me when I come home!”
I threw my wages on the table for good measure. The bills fluttered in the air and spread out dramatically.
“Raisa! Is this true? Is there nothing for my son to eat?”
“Your son… your son…” Madar-jan fumbled, trying to find a reasonable explanation for why she was punishing me. But Madar-jan wasn’t quick enough or sly enough to come up with an alternative story on the spot. And as angry as she was, my mother couldn’t bring herself to throw me into the fire.
I saw it coming and instantly wished I could take back what I’d said. I saw his face redden with anger. I saw his head tilt and his shoulders rise. His arms began to wave with anger.
“My son is hungry! Look at the money he’s brought home! And even with this you can’t find a morsel of food for him? What kind of mother are you?”
A clap as the back of his hand swung across her face. She reeled from the blow. My stomach dropped.
“Padar!”
“Find him something to eat or you’ll be going hungry for a month!” he barked. He struck again. A drop of blood trickled from my mother’s lip. She covered her face with her hands and turned away from him. I trembled when he looked at me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Shahla and Rohila peeking from across the hall.
“Go, bachem. Go to your grandmother and ask her to fix you something to eat. Make sure you tell her what your mother has done. Not that she’ll be surprised to hear it.”
I nodded and stole a glance at my mother, thankful she didn’t meet my gaze.
That night I thought of Bibi Shekiba. I liked to compare myself to her, to feel like I was as bold and strong and honorable as her, but in my most honest moments I knew I wasn’t.
CHAPTER 13. SHEKIBA
The idea brewed for some time before Shekiba considered actually going ahead with it. The conversation with Marjan should have discouraged her but it hadn’t. All she had gleaned from it was that, officially, she had a right to claim at least a portion of her father’s land.
She lay awake every night thinking of the deed. A mere piece of paper with a handful of signatures, and yet it carried so much weight. Where would her father have kept it? Shekiba closed her eyes and imagined herself at home. She heard the clapping of the gate against the latch, the metal rusted over. She pictured her father’s corner, his blankets laid out and ready for those chilly nights. She saw her mother’s kitchen stool and her brother’s sweaters, folded and stacked on a shelf.
It must be in his books, Shekiba thought. Since she’d been the only one to tend to it, she knew every inch of the house. She thought of the shelf and how she’d given up on dusting it after her mother died. Padar had collected three or four books over the years and that was where he kept them.
When Shekiba made the realization, she nearly hit herself for how obvious it was.
But how do we know, Padar-jan?
All the answers are in the Qur’an, bachem.
Her father taught them all to read, first with the Qur’an and next with the books he kept. She would follow along as his callused finger traced the words. Her brothers occasionally brought home a newspaper from their adventures into the village and the children would take turns poring over the pages and practicing making sense of the words and phrases. It was difficult but Padar-jan patiently let them make mistakes, peering over their shoulders when they faltered and filling in the pieces.