All I could think was that I could do this. I trusted Jameela would take good care of my son. Maybe this would be good for Jahangir and me in the end. Anything had to be better than waiting on every person in this house.
“All right,” I said in agreement, thinking this might be my crossroads, my naseeb.
CHAPTER 38. SHEKIB
When Shekib had first arrived at the palace, she could barely make eye contact with anyone she came across, even the women. She had been veiled for so long and had worked in homes where people wanted neither to hear nor see her. The first time she’d crossed paths with a soldier, her heart had nearly pounded out of her chest because he’d muttered some unintelligible greeting to her. The second time, it was a gardener. It took an hour for her hands to stop trembling and for her to get over the awkward eye contact they had made.
It was hard for Shekib to believe that she could look directly at a stranger and speak. Instinctively, she wanted to run away. But as days passed and her legs grew more confident in their pants, she slowly became more accustomed to small interactions. She forced herself to speak with the other guards and listened when they spoke with each other.
Some days, Shekib came across people who worked in the palace, not just outside it. Each time, it became the slightest bit easier for her to strike up a conversation. And inevitably, she would find a way to interject something about the long lineage of sons in her family. She wasn’t very deft about it, but that was of no concern to her.
It had been a year since she had first arrived at the king’s palace. She walked the grounds with confidence. She knew more about each concubine than she had thought possible. She had watched their children, the king’s children, take their first steps, write their first words. Habibullah seemed to be a good king, according to the palace workers. He had expanded the network of roads across the country. He had founded a military academy and other schools.
King Habibullah was gone for weeks at a time and occasionally returned with a new concubine, girls, doe-eyed and nervous. Shekib watched as the new consorts floundered until they settled into the harem.
Everybody has a role in the palace.
New concubines made older concubines purse their lips and reconsider their position. Sakina grew feistier, gave the newcomers facetious advice and stayed silent for days when King Habibullah passed her over for a fresh face. Benazir had given birth to a little girl. She had named her Mezhgan and lined her eyes with kohl, as Halima advised.
Fatima had grown pale in the last few weeks. Her son had just turned a year old but spent a good deal of time with Halima, since she rarely had enough energy to keep up with him. Her illness unnamed, she was visited often by the harem’s physician, a British woman named Mrs. Brown. Kabul had only male doctors, which would not suit the king’s insecurities. Mrs. Brown had been brought in from abroad, a kind but firm woman who satisfied the monarch in both her competence as well as her demeanor. She stayed at the palace and traveled back to England infrequently. Mrs. Brown (“Khanum Behrowen,” as the women called her) placed her stethoscope on Fatima’s chest and back, her hands pressed into her belly. She would sigh and tap her forefinger against her lips, thoughtful.
Despite its tensions, the harem was a family. The older women were mothers to the younger concubines, while the younger consorts had rivalries with each other like siblings with only one toy. King Habibullah visited when he chose, appearing sometimes in daylight and other times well into the night. He came with minimal fanfare but he made no secret of his visits. Unlike the other man.
The other visitor, whoever he was, came rarely. The guards would almost believe he had tired of his mistress when he would make another appearance, always under the cloak of darkness. He must have known the guards had seen him and probably surmised that they felt powerless to stop him. Whoever he was, he boldly betrayed the king with the most sinful trespass and then returned to slumber in his palace.
Shekib wondered who could be so brazen. And why.
Amanullah stayed closer to the palace while his father ventured out into the country to check on the roads he had commissioned. He came to the harem’s courtyard from time to time, leaning over to pat his younger half siblings on the back, ruffle their hair and kick a stray ball back in their direction. Shekib watched him, her heart beating in odd tempos, wistful and hopeful. He would acknowledge her and give her a light smile, a formal nod. Like a secret handshake between them, Shekib thought.
I probably look a bit older than him but I haven’t outgrown the possibility of marriage. I am young yet, able-bodied and strong. I hope the others have told him about me, how I help the gardeners replant shrubs, how I carry the children when they grow sleepy, how I bring trays of food into the ladies’ quarters. My back is as strong as that of any soldier in the palace, my arms solid and my mind rational. Think of me, Amanullah-jan, and I am certain I would not disappoint a man like you.
Shekib was not the only one thinking of Amanullah’s naseeb.
King Habibullah also believed it was time for his son to be given a bride. In his mind, there were a handful of contenders — daughters of the viziers or his closest advisers. In his own words, words Shekib overheard one day as she stood outside his suite in the harem, “I cannot force his hand. He will choose for himself, my boy. Amanullah is different than his brothers. He is more like me than the others. And so unlike me in other ways. I sometimes wonder how I would feel about him were he not my own son.”
Shekib felt a clock ticking. Amanullah would choose a bride soon. She charged ahead with her humble efforts. She found a reason to speak to nearly anyone who crossed her path and made certain to mention that women in her family rarely bore anything but boys.
She saw him again with Agha Baraan. They crossed the palace’s grounds, returning from a meeting at Dilkhosha Palace. Shekib dug her hands into her pockets and looked around. She floated in and out of genders easily now, aware of her flattened bosom and hidden curves only in Amanullah’s presence. She tingled for him. She hoped he knew.
The men stopped at the bench. Agha Baraan plucked a red rose, breathed in its perfume and stuck it in his blazer pocket. Shekib was a good distance away but slowly and casually made her way toward them, pretending to inspect the shrubbery as she wandered over. Once seated, their view was blocked by the greens and they were unaware of the woman-man guard at their side, eavesdropping and flirting.
“So you have decided?”
“I am ready, Agha Baraan. I think it is time for me to take a wife. I want to have a legacy of my own and I must start a family to do so. I want to have at my side a woman who is thoughtful and who will be as dedicated to Kabul as I am. I am confident in my decision. She is strong-willed and has undergone hardship; people have turned against her and yet she walks with her head held high. When I see her face, I see that she brings with her a gentle understanding because of what she has experienced.”
Shekib froze. Her face? Could he be talking about my face? Yes, people have turned against me! Nearly everyone has turned against me! But I would work so hard for Kabul! I would do anything he needs! She did not move, terrified that she would give her presence away.
Maybe Agha Baraan had told him about her? Maybe he had shared those morsels she had laid out for him and maybe they knew she was listening at this very moment.
“And what will your father say? I mean, given where she comes from…”
“I know that, but it was my father and this palace that introduced me to her.”