Too often, I missed the opportunity to learn from Bibi Shekiba’s story. She was determined to make a life for herself and I seemed determined to unravel the one I had.
I wonder how long I would have gone on as a boy had Madar-jan not seen us on that day. Most children who were made bacha posh were changed back into girls when their monthly bleeding started but Madar-jan had let me go on, bleeding but looking like a boy. My grandmother warned her it was wrong. Next month, my mother would promise. But I was too useful to her, to my sisters, to the whole family. She couldn’t bear to give up having someone who could do for her what my father wouldn’t. And I was happy to continue playing soccer and practicing tae kwon do with Abdullah and the boys.
We didn’t have any hot pepper at home and Padar-jan liked his food spicy. Those peppers changed everything for me.
Abdullah, Ashraf, Muneer and I were coming down our small street. The boys walked with us and then continued on to go to their own homes, smaller than ours but in as poor condition. People in our neighborhood weren’t starving but we all thought twice before throwing a scrap to a stray dog. This was how it had been for years. Some days we walked lazily. Other days we were boisterous and raced each other to the tin can, to the old lady, to the house with the blue door.
Abdullah and I stayed close together. In our circle of friends, we had something different. Something a little more. His arm across my shoulder, he would lean past me and tease Ashraf. I was a bacha posh but it had gone on too long, like a guest who had grown too comfortable to leave.
It was Ashraf who had started it. He had kicked his leg up into the air, though not as high as he thought it went. We tried to tell him he could barely reach our waists but he was certain he saw his foot swoop past our faces. Muneer shook his head. He was tired of Ashraf practicing on him.
We were fans of martial arts. We’d seen some magazines with fighters in different poses, their feet higher than their heads, their arms fired forward. We wanted to be like them and flipped through the pages copying their stances.
We had fought this way before. All of us. Playfully and without giving it much thought. I had started wrapping a tight cloth around my breast buds. I didn’t want the boys to notice them or comment on them. It was awkward enough that my voice had not begun to change as theirs had. Sometimes I came away with bruises. Once, my ankle twisted in under me as I ducked a kick from Ashraf. For one week, I limped from home to school and back. I told Madar-jan I’d tripped on a rock, knowing I couldn’t tell her how it had really happened.
But it was worth it. Worth it for that moment when, inevitably, Abdullah would have me cornered, or would twist my arm behind me and I could feel his breath on my neck. Somewhere inside I tingled to be that close to him. I didn’t want him to let go, even if I could feel my arm pulling from its socket. I reached out and grabbed at his other arm, feeling his adolescent muscles flex under my fingers. When I was close enough to smell him, to smell the sweat on his neck, I felt dangerous and alive. That’s why it was often me who started the sparring. I loved where it put me.
That was what we were doing when Madar-jan came out of the neighbor’s house, a fistful of red peppers in her right hand and the corner of her chador in her left hand. It couldn’t have been worse. She spotted us just as he’d tripped my foot. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I looked up and saw Abdullah’s handsome grin as he, victorious yet again, straddled me and laughed.
“Rahim!”
I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and horrified. I saw her faded burgundy dress out of the corner of my eye. I felt my stomach drop.
Abdullah must have seen the look on my face. He jumped to his feet and looked over at my mother. Her face confirmed that something had gone wrong. He reached his hand out to me so I could get up.
“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.