Azizullah sat in the living room with his brother, Hafizullah. There were two other men with them as well but Shekiba did not know their names and had never seen them before. They had white turbans on their heads and pale blue tunics and pantaloons. Hafizullah wore a brown vest over his tunic, his prayer beads hanging from the pocket.
“Shekiba, Padar-jan wants the food to be ready in twenty minutes,” announced Haris. “He says they’re going to leave soon so it better not take too long.”
Shekiba nodded nervously, knowing the rice would have to be a touch undercooked. She added more oil to the pot, hoping that the extra grease would soften the grains.
Haris leaned over her shoulder and tried to snatch a piece of meat from the bowl next to Shekiba. Her right arm went up instinctively and snagged him by the wrist.
“You know better, Haris. Not until after they’ve eaten.” Her tone was gentle but firm. Haris was by far her favorite of the children. He would sometimes sit with her when he had tired of his siblings. She didn’t mind his company. On the contrary, she enjoyed his chatter and the stories he would tell about his teacher.
“Just one piece!” he pleaded.
“If you have a piece, then your brothers will want some too when they see you licking the sauce off your fingers.”
“No, I promise! I won’t tell them I had some! I’ll lick my fingers clean here before I go back out!” Haris was already an expert negotiator.
“Fine then. But just one—”
He had snatched the largest chunk before Shekiba could finish her sentence.
“Haris!”
He grinned, his cheeks lumpy with lamb. How lucky she was to live in a house that could afford to eat lamb! Shekiba sighed and pretended to be annoyed.
“What are they talking about in there, anyway?” she asked.
“Don’t you know? The king is coming!”
“The king?” Shekiba asked. “Which king?”
“Which king? King Habibullah, of course!”
“Oh.” Shekiba had no idea who King Habibullah was. It had been years since her father had shown an interest in anything beyond their walls. “Is he coming here?”
“Here? Are you crazy, Shekiba? He is going to Kaka Hafizullah’s house.”
Azizullah’s brother had managed to secure himself a position as a friend of the monarchy. He served as a regional overseer and reported to the authorities in Kabul, the capital. For years, he had served as a loyal delegate and traveled frequently to the palace to meet with the king’s advisers. He was vying for royal attention in the hopes of becoming hakim to their province. With such a title came an attractive amount of power, and so Hafizullah often shared hearty meals and lavished compliments on anyone with any influence.
Azizullah had no patience for such highbrow relations but he did enjoy the secondary benefits that came with having a strategically placed brother. People in the village showed Azizullah deference, hoping they could curry favor with Hafizullah. This was how influence trickled down from the monarchy into the most insignificant of homes in the countryside.
And while Shekiba had no knowledge of such diplomatic matters, she too became enchanted by the prospect of the king paying a local visit. She imagined horses and regal clothing, guards at his side.
She adjusted her head scarf and poured fresh cups of tea, hoping to distract their appetites for a few more minutes. She carried a tray into the living room and kept her head bowed, wanting to be as discreet as possible.
“It is a huge honor. This is the opportunity I have been waiting for. Thanks be to Allah, I have called in many favors and secured the makings of a fine feast for the night. We will make qurbani; a goat will be slaughtered in the king’s good name. I am sparing no expense.”
“How are you to pay for this? How many people will be with him? Surely, there will be at least a dozen pretentious mouths to feed!”
“There is a price to pay for everything but it is a chance I could not let escape. Sharifullah has been hakim of this province for long enough. It is pure good fortune that he has traveled across the country now to attend the funeral of his cousin.”
“Good fortune for you!” Azizullah laughed. “But not for his cousin!”
“Forget about his cousin, dear brother. The point is that this is a chance for our family to reach the next level. That is what our father would have wanted to see, may Allah forgive him and keep him in peace. If I am made hakim, we will control the entire province! Imagine the life we would have.”
“You would be an excellent hakim, certainly. And from what I have heard, many of the villages are displeased with Sharifullah’s rulings.”
“The man is spineless. The kingdom would all but forget our province were it not for the crops our land produces every season. Sharifullah has done nothing for us! When Agha Sobrani and Agha Hamidi disputed that land by the river, it was his idiotic idea that they should each take half.”
Shekiba listened as she gathered the empty teacups and brought the dish of nuts closer to the men.
“Now, neither Sobrani nor Hamidi has any respect for him. They are equally dissatisfied with him. He should have given the land to Hamidi. His claim was reasonable and his family carries more clout than Sobrani’s. Better to have Hamidi’s full support and anger only Sobrani!”
Irrefutable logic. Shekiba quietly crept out of the room. She had grown accustomed to Hafizullah’s animated speeches and found him entertaining in some way. At the same time, she was thankful that Allah hadn’t placed her in his custody, as she was certain he was a brute in his home.
As soon as she left the room, she heard Hafizullah’s tone change. She stopped and tilted her ear toward the living room.
“And how are things going with your new help? Shekiba-e-shola is fulfilling her duties around the house?”
“Well enough,” Azizullah answered. “Marjan has not had many grievances about her.”
“Hmmph. That family must be so relieved to have unloaded her. From what I have heard, Bobo Shahgul was heartbroken at her son’s passing. Could not bear to have his child in her home because she was a constant reminder of her dead son.”
“You would have heard more than me. The girl does not speak of her family. Actually, she hardly speaks at all. She has that much sense.”
“At least your wife doesn’t have to worry about your taking her as a second wife!” Hafizullah joked, slapping his hand on his thigh loudly.
“No, she is not for marriage. She is able-bodied and does the work of a man. Sometimes it escapes us that she is, in fact, a girl. Her strength makes me marvel. I saw her just a few days ago carrying three pails of water and walking straight, as if it were no effort whatsoever. Her uncles told me she had been keeping up her father’s farm along with him.”
“More useful than a mule. Good,” Hafizullah said. “Whatever happened to her father? I remember running into him just after his children were taken in the cholera wave. He looked terrible. Too sensitive, that man was.”
“His brother told me that he had not been feeling well in the last few months. Agha Freidun told me they had a conversation and he knew his time was coming. He made arrangements for his daughter to live with Bobo Shahgul and distributed his land, his tools and his animals among his brothers.”
Shekiba’s eyes widened.
A lie! My father had no such conversation!
He had not seen his brothers after her mother died. She wondered if this story was Kaka Freidun’s idea or Bobo Shahgul’s. Her family was swooping in to pick up any scraps her father had left behind.
That land should be mine. My grandfather gave it to my father. My father wanted nothing to do with his family. I should be the owner of that land.
Shekiba wondered where the deed was. The deed was a simple document signed by her grandfather, her father, a few distant relatives and a village elder to confirm the transaction. Surely her uncles must have been looking for it when they dumped the contents of the house outside.
“Shekiba? What are you doing here?”
Teacups rattled in Shekiba’s startled hands. Marjan had come up behind a very distracted Shekiba. She looked puzzled to see her frozen a few feet away from the living room.
“I just . . . chai . . . ,” she mumbled, and headed directly for the kitchen, her head bowed to conceal her hurt eyes.
The scent of cumin and garlic filled the room. Azizullah and his brother shared their meal, tearing off chunks of flatbread and picking up morsels of rice and meat. Shekiba wondered if any would be left for the rest of the family. Meat was hard to come by, even in this household, and it seemed that the men were going to finish the week’s stock in one sitting.
Her mind began to wander as she dried the pots. What would happen if she were to try to claim that land? The thought almost made her laugh. Imagine that. A young woman trying to claim her father’s land, snatching it from her uncles’ greedy claws. She tried to imagine taking the deed to the local judge. What would he say? Most likely he would kick her out. Call her insane. Maybe even send her back to her family.
But what if he didn’t? What if he listened to her? Agreed with her? Maybe he would think it was her right to have her father’s land.
Marjan was in the kitchen with her. She was sifting through the rice for any small stones.
“Khanum Marjan?” Shekiba said meekly.
“Yes?” Marjan paused and looked up. Shekiba spoke so rarely, one had to take notice.
“What happens to a daughter when her father . . . if her father has some land . . . if he is not . . .”
Marjan pursed her lips and cocked her head. She could sense the question buried in Shekiba’s ramblings.
“Shekiba-jan, you are asking a ridiculous question. Your father’s land will go to his family, since your brothers are dead, may Allah grant them peace.” Marjan’s response was blunt but it was reality—regardless of what the laws might say. Her candor gave Shekiba confidence to speak openly.
“But what about me? Am I not rightfully an heir to the land? I am his child too!”
“You are his daughter. You are not his son. Yes, the law says that daughters may inherit a portion of what the son would inherit but the truth is that women do not claim land. Your uncles, your father’s brothers, have no doubt taken the property.”
Shekiba let out a frustrated sigh.
“My dear girl, you are being quite ridiculous. What do you think you would do with a piece of land? First of all, you are living here now. This is your place. Secondly, you are unmarried and no woman could possibly live on a piece of land alone! That is simply absurd.”
I lived alone on that land for months. It didn’t feel absurd. It felt like home.
But Marjan could not know about her time alone. Shekiba did not dare share the details, knowing it was unspeakable for her to have done so. No reason to give the village more fodder for gossip.
“But if I were a son?” she asked, unwilling to let the matter go completely.
“If you were a son, you would inherit the land. But you are not a son and you cannot be a son and your life is now here as part of this home. You are asking questions that will invite nothing but anger. Enough!” Marjan needed to put a stop to the discussion. If her husband heard them, he would surely be displeased. If these were the kinds of thoughts that ran through her head, Marjan was thankful Shekiba did not speak more often.
But I have always been my father’s daughter-son. My father hardly knew I was a girl. I have always done the work a son would do. I am not to be considered for a wife, so what is the difference? What of me is a girl?
Shekiba gritted her teeth.
I have lived alone. I have no need for anyone.
Azizullah’s family had been relatively kind to her but Shekiba was restless. She felt freshly resentful of her family.
I cannot go on like this forever. I must find a way to make a life for myself.