Khala Shaima told us how Bibi Shekiba adjusted to the changes in her life. Now I had to adjust to the changes in mine. I had to learn how to interact with boys. It was one thing to play soccer with them, running alongside them and bumping elbows or shoulders. It was a whole other to be talking with them as we walked home from school. Abdullah and Ashraf would pat me on the back, sometimes even sling an arm around my neck as a friendly gesture. I would smile meekly and try not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. My instincts were to jerk back, to run away and never look them in the eye again.
My mother would raise an eyebrow if I came home before Muneer.
“Why are you home so early?” she would say, wiping her wet hands on a rag.
“Because,” I said vaguely, and tore off a piece of bread.
“Rahim!”
“Sorry, I’m hungry!”
Madar-jan bit her tongue and resumed slicing potatoes into round chips with a hint of a smile on her face.
“Listen, Rahim-jan. You should be out with the boys, playing. That’s what boys do—do you understand what I’m saying?”
Madar-jan still spoke in circles when it came to talking about my shift from girl to boy. I think she was afraid she would stop believing the charade herself if she spoke of it too directly.
“Yes, Madar-jan, but sometimes I just don’t want to. They . . . they push each other a lot.”
“Then push back.”
I was surprised by her advice but the look on her face told me she was serious. Here sat my mother telling me the exact opposite of what she’d always said. I would have to toughen up.
Padar-jan had been home for three days and everyone was on edge. Every sound, every smell jarred him, inciting a string of profanities and a few slaps when he mustered the effort. For most of the day, he sat in the living room and smoked his cigarettes. Our heads grew dizzy from the smell and Madar-jan had us spend more time in the courtyard. She swaddled Sitara in a blanket and turned her over to Shahla while she did the cooking on her own. Sometimes my uncles would sit with him, smoking and talking about the war, about the neighbors and the Taliban, but none of them smoked as much as Padar-jan.
“What do you think it would be like if Kaka Jamaal was our father?” Rohila asked one day. She and Shahla were collecting the laundry from the clothesline. Shahla stopped in her tracks.
“Rohila!”
“What?”
“How could you say such a thing?”
I listened but kept my attention on the marbles in front of me. I flicked my finger and watched one send another off too far to the left. I let out a frustrated huff. Ashraf’s aim was much better than mine.
Just pay attention to where you want it to go, Abdullah had said. You’re only looking at the marble in front you. You have to look at the target.
I froze when he took my hand and showed me how to position my fingers, tucking my pinky under so it wouldn’t get in the way. I still wondered what my mother would say if she were to see us. Was this okay too?
Abdullah was right. Once I started looking in the direction I wanted the marble to roll, my shots were better. Marbles tapped against each other and rolled out of the circle. I would have won against Abdullah today. Well, maybe not Abdullah but definitely against Ashraf. My aim was improving.
“It’s just a question, Shahla. You don’t have to get so upset about it!”
Shahla shot Rohila a chastising look.
“It’s not just a question. If it were just a question, I’d like to see you go and ask it in front of Padar-jan. Anyway, Kaka Jamaal always looks like he’s mad. Even when he’s laughing. Have you noticed the way his eyebrows move?” She cocked her head to the side and turned both her eyebrows inward, leaning toward Rohila, who burst into laughter.
“You can’t ask for another father,” Parwin interjected. Rohila’s chuckles quieted as she turned to hear what Parwin was thinking. “It would throw everything off.”
I sat up. My left side had gotten stiff from leaning in one position.
“What are you talking about, Parwin?” I asked.
“You can’t just have Kaka Jamaal as your father without making a lot of other changes. That means Khala Rohgul would be your mother and then Saboor and Muneer would be your brothers.”
Parwin was Padar-jan’s favorite—if he had to pick one, that is. Maybe he’d already suffered enough disappointment by the time she was born that her being a girl hadn’t stung him as the other two’s had. But more than that, there was something about her temperament and drawings that calmed him. Maybe that’s why she was more forgiving of him. Or it could have been the other way around.
“Anyway, you’d better stop before someone hears you,” Shahla warned Rohila. Sitara had started to whine and wriggle in her blanket. Shahla bounced her over her shoulder expertly. She was about to enter adolescence, her body no longer an androgynous shape. Rohila, strangely enough, seemed to be two steps ahead of her. Madar-jan had started her wearing a bra a year and a half ago when her breasts began to poke through her dresses impertinently.
I had tried her bra on once. Just out of curiosity. Rohila had left it behind in the washroom by accident again. Madar-jan had slapped her once for being so indecent. Still, she had forgotten. I laid it out in front of me and tried to make sense of the straps. I stuck my arms through the loops and tried to fasten it in the back, my arms reaching awkwardly, blindly for the clasp. After a few minutes I gave up and looked down at the lumps of cloth hanging loosely over my square chest.
I stuck my chest out, trying to see if I could fill the miniature cups and realizing I didn’t want to. Instead, I sat on the ground, cross-legged and comfortable, while my sisters became women.
Later that night, I answered a knock at the door. Padar-jan lay in the living room, his loud snores rumbling through his chest. Sometimes he snorted so loudly that Rohila giggled and Shahla’s hand instinctively clamped over her sister’s mouth to stifle the sound. Parwin would shake her head, disappointed in her sister’s behavior. Madar-jan shot both girls a warning look; Shahla’s eyes widened in a declaration of innocence.
There was a man at the front gate. I recognized him as one of my father’s friends. He was gruff and had skin the texture of our plaster walls.
“Salaam, Kaka-jan.”
“Go and call your father,” he said simply.
I nodded and ran back into the house, taking a deep breath before I nudged Padar-jan’s shoulder. I called out to him, louder and louder, before his snoring rhythm broke and he fumbled to rub his bloodshot eyes.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me, Padar-jan. Kaka-jan is at the gate.”
His eyes began to focus. He sat up and scratched his nose.
“Fine, bachem. Go and bring me my sandals.” I was his son and allowed to wake him up for important matters. I saw Shahla’s eyebrows draw upward. She noted the difference too.
I went to the courtyard to listen in on their conversation. I sat away from the gate where they were talking, out of the man’s view.
“Abdul Khaliq has summoned everyone. We’ll meet in the morning and then head out. They’re bombarding an area north of here and it looks like they’ll gain some ground if we don’t fend them off. There’s a lot of talk about that area. Seems the Americans are going to be sending us some weapons or something.”
“The Americans? How do you know that?” Padar-jan asked, his back against the gate. His guest had declined his invitation to come in.
“Abdul Khaliq met with one of their men last week. They want those people out of there. They’re still looking for that Arab. Whatever the reason, at least they’ll be helping out.”
“When are we leaving?”
“Sunrise. By the boulder on the road going east.”
Padar-jan was gone for two months that time but it felt different to me. I felt proud to know my father was fighting alongside a giant like America. My grandfather wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. He seemed more suspicious of these Americans but I didn’t see why.
Khala Shaima was sitting in our living room when I came home that afternoon. Since my transformation, I had only seen her once, and that was before school had started.
“There you are! I’ve been aging waiting for you, Rahim-jan,” she said, emphasizing the new twist on my name.
“Salaam, Khala Shaima!” I was happy to see her but nervous to hear what she would say about my progress.
“Come sit next to me and tell me exactly what you’ve been doing. Your mother has obviously failed in getting your sisters to school, despite the fact that we came up with a plan to make everyone, even your intoxicated father, satisfied.” She shot Madar-jan a look from the corner of her eye. Madar-jan sighed and moved Sitara to her left breast to nurse. She looked as if she’d already tired of this conversation.
“I’ve been going to class and Moallim-sahib is giving me good marks, right, Madar-jan?” I wanted Khala Shaima to approve, especially since it had been her who had won me these new freedoms.
“Yes, he’s been doing well.” A small smile. Shahla and Parwin were sitting in the living room, their fingers nimbly sifting through lentils and removing stones. Shahla had done twice as much as Parwin, who had arranged her lentils into piles of different shapes. Rohila had come down with a cold and was sleeping in the next room.
“Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner to check up on you all. My health hasn’t been very good. I hate that it keeps me from doing what I want.”
“Are you feeling better now, Khala-jan?” Shahla asked politely.
“Yes, bachem, but for how long? My bones are tired and achy and the dust was so bad last month that each breath threw me into a hacking fit. Sometimes I coughed so hard I thought my intestines would fall right out of my body!”
That was Khala Shaima’s way of explaining things.
“But anyway, enough talk about old people. You know your sisters aren’t as lucky as you, Rahim.”
“Shaima! I told you, once things have settled down, I’ll be able to send the girls back to school.”
“Settled down? Settled down where? In this house or do you mean the whole country? And when do you think that will be, because as far as I can remember these children have been living under rocket fire for their entire lives! For God’s sake, I can’t even remember a day when this country wasn’t at war.”
“I know that, Shaima-jan, but I don’t think you understand my situation. If their father forbids them from—”
“Their father can eat shit.”
“Shaima!”
Shahla and Parwin both froze. That was more than we would have expected, even from Khala Shaima.
“You’re so defensive about him! Open your eyes, Raisa! Can’t you see what he is?”
“What he is, is my husband!” Madar-jan yelled, louder than we’d ever heard her before. “And you have to understand that! Please! Don’t you think I know better than anyone what he is or isn’t? What can I do?”
“Your husband is an idiot. That’s why I worry about these girls being around him. Sit with us and you’ll be one of us. Sit with a pot and you’ll be black.”
“Shaima, please!”
Khala Shaima sighed and relented. “Fine. All right then, Raisa. But that’s why I keep coming here and harping after these girls. Somebody needs to oppose him.”
“And who better than . . .”
“That’s right,” Khala Shaima said with satisfaction. She turned her attention back to me. Shahla and Parwin resumed their work but at a slower pace, unnerved by Madar-jan’s yelling. “So, tell me then. Have you been adjusting well? No troubles with the boys?”
“No, no trouble, Khala-jan. I’ve been playing soccer and I’m better than my cousin Muneer, I think.”
“And no one’s said anything to you?”
“No, Khala-jan.”
“Good. And what kinds of things are you doing to help your mother?”
“Rahim’s been going to the market for me. The store owners give him better prices than they do me.”
“Don’t forget, Madar-jan. I’ve been working with Agha Barakzai and he’s been giving me a little money!”
“I was getting to that, Rahim. You know Agha Barakzai has that little shop in the village. Well, he’s been in need of help with errands and I asked Rahim to stop by there and see if he could pick up a bit of work. Agha Barakzai can hardly see anymore with his terrible eyes.”
“You’re a working boy! Now, that’s news!” Khala Shaima clapped her hands together.
“Yup, I go all around town and no one bothers me. I can do anything! I even saw Padar’s friend Abdul Khaliq yesterday.”
Madar-jan stiffened and looked at me.
“Who did you see?”
“Abdul Khaliq,” I repeated, quieter this time. Khala Shaima looked as displeased as my mother. I wondered if I’d done something wrong.
“Did he say something to you?”
“Not much. He bought me a snack and told me I was coming along nicely.”
Madar-jan shot another look at Khala Shaima, who shook her head.
“Raisa, that is not a man to have your children tagging along after. Not even Rahim!”
“You’ll stay away from that man, Rahim,” Madar-jan said, warning me, her eyes wide and serious. “Do you understand me?”
I nodded. My sisters fidgeted in the silence that followed.
“Khala Shaima, could you tell us more about Bibi Shekiba?” Parwin asked.
“Bibi Shekiba? Ah, you want to know more? Well, let me see if I can remember where I left off . . .”
Just as Khala Shaima leaned back and closed her eyes to tell us more of the story, we heard the door open. My grandmother rarely came to visit us but Padar-jan had been gone two months and she felt compelled to check up on things, especially when she saw Khala Shaima hobble through the front gate. Khala Shaima treated my grandmother with respect, but it was measured and anything but warm. My grandmother, on the other hand, felt no obligation to put on airs with my aunt.
“Salaam,” she called as she entered. My mother jumped to her feet, startling Sitara, who had nearly fallen asleep. She adjusted the top of her dress and walked to the door to greet her mother-in-law.
Khala Shaima took her time but pushed herself up to greet her sister’s mother-in-law.
“Salaam, Khala-jan. How is your health? Well, I hope.” She almost sounded sincere. My sisters and I kissed her hands. She sat down across from my mother and Shahla brought a cup of tea from the kitchen.
“Oh, you’re here, Shaima-jan! How nice of you to drop by again so soon.”
I could hear it in my grandmother’s voice: You come too often. Khala Shaima said nothing.
“You’ve heard nothing from Arif-jan? Any word on when they’ll return?”
Madar-jan shook her head. “No, Khala-jan. Nothing at all. I pray they will return soon.”
“In the meantime, I’ve spoken with Mursal-jan and her family has agreed to give their daughter’s hand in marriage for Obaid.” Obaid was my father’s brother. This was surprising news.
“Obaid-jan? Oh, I didn’t realize . . .”
“Yes. So we’ll be preparing for her arrival. We will have their nikkah in two months’ time, inshallah. This will be a blessing for our family. A second wife will bring him more children and grow our family.”
“They have five children, nam-e-khoda,” Madar-jan said softly.
“Yes, but only two boys. Boys are blessings and Obaid wants more sons. Better to have more children than to try to change the ones you have. Anyway, I’ve made you aware. Fatima may call on you for help preparing a place for his new wife. This is happy news and we’ll all take part in it.”
“Of course, Khala-jan. It’s wonderful news.” Madar-jan’s voice was soft. Khala Shaima watched the interaction with narrowed eyes.
“Hopefully, there will be more of it in the future,” she said, nodding her head.
My grandmother got back up and walked to the door.
“Anyway, that’s all for now. Shaima-jan, send my regards to the family, will you please? I guess you’ll be leaving soon, as it is getting late.”
“You’re too kind, Khala-jan. You make me feel so welcomed here, it’s difficult to leave.”
I saw my grandmother’s shoulders stiffen before she left and the way Madar-jan and Khala Shaima looked at each other. Khala Shaima shook her head. This meant bad news for our household.
“Come, girls, let me tell you more about Bibi Shekiba. I’ll tell you how easily women pass from one place to another, from one home to another. What happens once, happens twice and then a third time . . .”