“Padar-jan, I want to go to school like my sisters.”
“Oh, this again,” he said, sighing. KokoGul, bent over her crochet needles, paused at my mention of schooling.
“I can still help at home, since it’s only for a few hours. All the other girls go, and there are no little ones left in the house now. I want to learn the things they are learning.” That was as much as I could get out before the cascade of tears. I lowered my head, cursing myself for not being able to get more out without my voice breaking. I waited for the knot in my throat to release or for my father to speak. I wasn’t sure which would come first.
“Fereiba-jan, I thought that by now you didn’t care about schooling anymore. Your sisters all started when they were younger. You’re now a young woman and you’ve not attended a single day of classes.” He grew pensive, his brows furrowed. I pursed my lips, focusing my frustration.
“I know that,” I said simply. KokoGul resumed her needlework at full speed, satisfied that the outcome of tonight’s discussion would be no different from any other.
“Is it that you want to read? Maybe Najiba can spend some time with you to help you learn how to read. Or even Sultana — she’s doing very well in her writing and loves to read poetry.”
I’d never before felt so angry with my father. I was hurt by his patronizing suggestion and resented his warm smile. I didn’t want my younger sisters to teach me how to read. My sisters came home quoting their teachers daily. Their voices reinforced all that I was missing out on.
Moallim-sahib says that my penmanship is improved. Moallim-sahib says we should drink a glass of milk every day to stay strong and healthy.
I didn’t want to look at my younger sister as my moallim. She might have been able to instruct me on the basics of the alphabet and sounding out words but she couldn’t be a true teacher, standing in the front of the classroom, pushing me to memorize multiplication tables, monitoring my progress. I wanted more.
“No, Padar-jan.” I could feel my windpipe reopening, my voice returning with new resolve. “I don’t want to learn from a student. I want to learn from a teacher.”
My response must have surprised him. He must have thought my aspirations were childish, fanciful ones. He must have thought I wanted to don the school uniform and escape some of the housework. But I wanted much more than I could put into words, and I knew only that I was running out of time. My father considered me carefully, the corners of his mouth turning down.
“It would not be easy for you. You would have to start from the beginning, in a class with children.”
“He’s right. You’ll be a giant sitting among babies. It’s a terrible idea. Like a chicken trying to climb back into an egg!” KokoGul cautioned.
“It won’t bother me,” I promised.
A necessary lie. This was the first time I’d seen my father consider my wish in a real way.
“Let me talk with the principal of the school. Let’s see what they say. Although I’m sure your mother will miss you being around during the day.”
“Isn’t this all a bit silly? Why would she want to bother with school now? She has everything she needs here at home.” KokoGul was clearly surprised at the direction this conversation had taken.
“I’m not promising anything. Let me talk with the school and see if they’ll consider it,” he said. Ever noncommittal, my father left both KokoGul and me feeling hopeful.
Much to his surprise and KokoGul’s disappointment, the school agreed to enroll me provided I start from the beginning. I entered the first grade six years behind schedule. The night before my first day, I ironed the austere skirt and blouse, wanting to make a good impression on Moallim-sahib. Mauriya and Mariam, my two youngest sisters, were tickled to see me in uniform for the first time as we left the house together in the morning.
Najiba and Sultana, the older two, seemed a bit more concerned about what others would say to see an adolescent walk into a first-grade class. On the walk to school, Najiba tried to prepare me.
“Moallim-sahib will check to make sure that you have a pencil and a notebook. And she will probably ask you to sit in the back of the room, you know, since you’ll be taller than the other students.”
I appreciated the delicate way Najiba phrased her prediction. Sultana nodded in agreement, but less diplomatically.
“Yes, no one would be able to see over your head.” Najiba shot her a look and Sultana focused on her shoes, her steps slowing.
“You’ll be moved soon. You mostly know the alphabet already. You’ll be reading quickly.”
I gave Najiba a grateful smile. My sister and I were not very close, but there was sincerity in her words and on this particular day I needed it.
“If Sultana could learn it, then I’m sure I’ll have no problem.”
Sultana huffed, glared straight ahead, and quickened her steps. I hadn’t meant my comment to be biting. Ashamed, I turned around to check on Mauriya and Mariam trailing behind us. They walked hand in hand, bags slung over their shoulders.
My sisters distracted me from the trepidation of my first day of school. Najiba pointed me in the direction of my classroom once we passed the school’s wrought-iron gates. Sultana quickly disappeared into her own classroom. Mauriya and Mariam waved me off cheerfully.
I entered slowly, my eyes scanning the room. I wasn’t sure if I should find a chair or walk to the front and introduce myself to the teacher first. The other students were filing in and busily taking their seats. I decided I’d best make my presence known, rather than have the teacher notice me and make a scene. I was almost more a woman than a girl, yet here I sat beside children. In another setting, I could have been their caretaker. Here, I was their peer.
“Welcome, dear. I had heard you would be joining us. You’ll sit in the last row, on the end. It’s the last empty seat we have. Here, take this book. This is what we’re learning from now. Do you know your letters?”
My first teacher was a firm but kindhearted woman who took an instant liking to me, thank goodness. She spoke to me differently than she did to my classmates and did not make me feel as awkward as I must have looked to sit among such young children. Grateful and determined, I worked fervently. I had listened while my siblings mastered the alphabet, so the letters rolled off my tongue easily enough.
Within two months, I moved into the second grade. I was happy to be advanced but sad to leave my teacher behind. And that was before I’d met my next moallim. My second-grade teacher seemed put out to have such an oversized pupil in her class. She called on me often to read aloud and took great pleasure in watching me fumble the words. When my classmates snickered, she would facetiously chastise them.
“That’s enough! Remember, students, don’t be fooled by Fereiba’s size. She is new to second grade.”
I worked even harder and, after passing the competency exam, she had no choice but to move me along to third grade. Every afternoon, I came home from school and got started on the chores I couldn’t escape. Since I’d promised that I would still help KokoGul and I didn’t want her to complain to my father that I was lagging in my housework, I still beat the dust from the carpets, laundered, and tended to the animals in the backyard. Only after the chores were finished and the family had eaten did I sit down to my studies. I toiled into the late hours. Padar-jan noticed.
“Fereiba-jan, you’ve been studying harder than your sisters ever did. The proof is in the marks you’re getting. Are you managing well enough?”