There was barely enough room in our small home for Abdul Khaliq’s family. They wanted to hold all three nikkahs at the same time and brought with them Abdul Khaliq’s mother, a gray-haired woman with downturned lips and narrowed eyes. She needed a walking stick but refused to use one, preferring to lean on her daughter-in-law’s forearm instead. They also brought Haji-sahib, a mullah. Khala Shaima scoffed at the mention of his name.
“Haji-sahib? If he’s Haji, then I’m a pari!” said Khala Shaima, whom no one would describe as an angel from heaven. The title haji was given to anyone who had made the religious pilgrimage to Mecca, God’s house. Haji-sahib, Khala Shaima reported, had dubbed himself with the title after paying a visit to a shrine north of our town. But as a dear friend of Abdul Khaliq, no one contested his credentials. The two men chatted amicably outside.
Shahla kept her head down and pleaded with my crying mother not to give her away. Madar-jan’s body shook, her voice trapped in her clenched throat. Shahla was more than a daughter to her. She was Madar-jan’s best friend. They shared the housework, the child care and their every thought.
Parwin was her special girl. Part of Madar-jan had held on to Khala Shaima’s prediction that no one would want Parwin as a wife. Sometimes it comforted her that she would have her singing, drawing daughter with her always.
And me. I was Madar-jan’s helper. Her spunky, troublemaking bacha posh. I know she wondered if she had made the right decision. If I were a little wiser, I would have told her it had been the best thing for me. I would have told her that I wished I could have stayed a bacha posh forever.
The family was here to claim their three sister brides. We listened to hear what Khala Shaima would say.
Haji-sahib started with a prayer. Even Madar-jan cupped her hands and bowed her head to join in. I was pretty sure everyone was praying for different things. I wondered how Allah would sort it all out.
“Let us begin with a dua, a prayer. Bismillah al-rahman al-raheem . . .”
The room echoed behind him. Haji-sahib, the mullah, went on to recite a sura from the Qur’an.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asaabi.”
After a moment, we heard Khala Shaima interrupt.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asbaabi.”
There was a pause. The room had gone silent.
“Khanum, did you have reason to interrupt Haji-sahib?”
“Yes, I did. Mullah-sahib is reading the sura incorrectly. Oh causer of the causes, the verse is meant to read. Not causer of the fingers. I’m sure he would want to know he was making such an egregious error, wouldn’t you, Haji-sahib?”
The mullah cleared his throat and tried to pick up where he had left off. He thought hard but recited the verse the exact same way, error and all.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asaabi.”
Khala Shaima corrected him again.
“Asbaabi, Mullah-sahib.” Her tone was that of an annoyed schoolteacher. It didn’t go unnoticed.
I feared Padar-jan would make good on his threat to cut out Khala Shaima’s tongue. I was nervous for her.
“Shaima-jan, please have a little respect for our esteemed mullah here,” Boba-jan said.
“I have the utmost respect for him,” she said facetiously. “And I have the utmost respect for our Qur’an, as I’m sure you all do. What a disservice it would be for us to recite the verse incorrectly.”
Once more, the mullah sighed and cleared his throat.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asbaabi Yaa Mufattihal Abwaabi.”
“That’s better,” Khala Shaima interrupted loudly. I could hear the satisfaction in her voice.
We could hear the men beginning the nikkah in the next room. Padar-jan was giving his full name, his father’s name and his grandfather’s name to be written on the marriage contract.
Parwin tried to put on a strong front, seeing Madar-jan’s condition. Khala Shaima, our only advocate in the nikkah, had strategically positioned herself between my grandfather and Abdul Khaliq’s mother. No one knew what to make of her presence. Padar-jan huffed in frustration but thought it best not to make a scene in front of his guests.
Madar-jan spoke softly. We had formed a tight circle in the next room.
“My daughters, I prayed this day would not come so soon for you but it is here and I’m afraid there’s nothing I or Khala Shaima can do to stop this. I suppose this is God’s will for you. Now, I haven’t had much time to prepare you, but you are young women,” she said, hardly believing her own words. “Your husbands will expect things of you. As a wife, you have an obligation to your husband. It won’t be easy at first but . . . but with time you’ll learn how to . . . how to tolerate these things that Allah has created for us.”
When Madar-jan began to cry, we cried as well. I didn’t want to know what it was Madar-jan was talking about. It sounded like it was something terrible.
“Please don’t cry, my girls. These things are a part of life—girls are married and then become part of another family. This is the way of the world. Just as I came to your father’s home.”
“Can I come back sometimes, Madar-jan?” Parwin asked.
Madar-jan exhaled slowly, her throat thick and tight.
“Your husband will want you at home but I hope that he is a man of heart and will bring you here from time to time to see your mother and your sisters.”
This was as much as she could promise. Parwin and I sat on either side of our mother, her hands stroking our hair. I had my hands on her knee. Shahla kneeled in front of us, her head resting on Madar-jan’s lap. Rohila and Sitara watched on nervously, Rohila understanding that something was about to happen.
“Now, my girls, there’s one more thing. There will be other wives to deal with. Treat them well and I pray they will show kindness to you. Older women are spiteful toward younger girls, so be careful how much you trust them. Make sure you take care of yourselves. Eat, bathe, say your prayers and cooperate with your husbands. And your mothers-in-law. These are the people whom you will need to keep satisfied.”
A voice bellowed from the next room.
“Bring the eldest girl! Her husband, Abdul Sharif, is waiting. May their steps together as husband and wife be blessed. Congratulations to both your families.”
“Shahla!” my father called out unceremoniously.
Shahla wiped the tears from her face and bravely pulled her chador over her head. She kissed my mother’s face and hands before she turned to us, her sisters. I squeezed my sister and felt her breath in my ear.
“Shahla . . . ,” was all I could get out.
It was Parwin’s turn next. They started over again, a new contract. For the sake of tradition, they repeated all the same questions, wrote down all the same names.
“Agha-sahib,” Khala Shaima interrupted again. “Allah has given my niece a lame leg and I can tell you better than anyone else that it is not easy to manage with such a disability. It would be in this girl’s best interests for her to have some time to go to school, to learn to manage physically, before she is made into a wife.”
Abdul Khaliq’s father was taken aback by the sudden objection, as were the others in the room.
“This has been discussed and I think my nephew has been more than generous in agreeing to give this girl a chance to be the wife of a respected man. School will not fix her lame leg, as it has not fixed your hunched back. Let’s continue.”
The nikkah resumed.
“Bring the girl! May Allah bless this nikkah and Abdul Khaliq, who has made this possible. May God give you many years, Abdul Haidar, for agreeing to take on a wife in the tradition of our beloved Prophet, peace be upon him. And a disabled wife at that; truly you are a great man, Abdul Haidar. What a relief this must be for your family, Arif-jan.”
Madar-jan kissed Parwin’s forehead and stood up slowly, as if the ground was pulling her back. Parwin stood up and straightened her left leg as best she could. Madar-jan whispered to Parwin things she hated to say.
“Parwin-jan, my sweet girl, remember to do your chores in your new home. There may not be time for drawing, and sing softly and only to yourself. They’ll say things to you, just as the others always have, about your leg, but pay no attention, my daughter.”
“Agha-sahib, you are keeping this man waiting. Please bring him his new bride,” the mullah ordered.
“Bring her out!” My father’s voice was cold and loud as he tried to assert control. Madar-jan’s delaying made him look small in front of the mullah and Abdul Khaliq’s family, as if Khala Shaima’s behavior hadn’t been enough.
“Please, my sweet daughter. Remember these things that I’ve told you. May Allah watch over you now,” she whimpered, brushing away Parwin’s tears and then her own. She fixed Parwin’s chador and had her hold it close under her chin before she turned her around and led her down the hallway and into the living room, where she became the wife of a man as old as my father.
I sat in the room with Rohila and Sitara. I listened to Parwin try to mask her limp, lifting her left leg so it wouldn’t drag along the floor as it usually did. Our cousins always teased her, as did the children in the neighborhood. Even for those few months when she attended school, her classmates had mocked her gait and the teacher had doubted she would learn anything, as if walking and reading were related. They wouldn’t treat her well, we knew. Our hearts broke for her.
“Rahim, where is Parwin going?” Sitara asked.
I looked at my youngest sister. She still called me by my bacha posh name.
“It’s Rahima,” Rohila reminded her. Her vacant eyes stayed glued to the door, willing Parwin to come back.
“Rahima, where did Parwin go?” Sitara asked again.
“She’s . . . she’s gone to live with a new family.” I couldn’t say words like “marriage” or “husband” in the same sentence with my sister’s name. It sounded awkward. Like a little girl wearing her mother’s shoes.
I knew my mother was watching Parwin from behind the doorway. Their voices faded as they walked out the door. I went to the window to see my sister one last time. Because of her limp, she was shorter than any other fourteen-year-old girl and looked to be half the size of her new husband. I shuddered to think how she would feel to be alone with him.
“When will she come back?”
I looked at my sisters blankly. Madar-jan returned, drained. I was next. Khala Shaima had not succeeded in saving my sisters from Abdul Khaliq’s family. I knew I shouldn’t hope for any better, but I did.
I wish I could say that I put on as strong a front as Shahla or even Parwin, at least for my mother’s sake. I wish I could have done something. After all, I’d been a boy for years. Boys were supposed to defend themselves and their families. I was more than just a girl, I thought. I was a bacha posh! I had been practicing martial arts with my friends in the streets. I didn’t have to crumple as my sisters had.
My father had to drag me from my mother’s arms while I cried, the chador falling from my head and revealing my absurdly short hair. Abdul Khaliq’s family watched in consternation. This didn’t bode well. My father dug his fingers into my arm. I only know because I saw the bruises later.
I tried to pull my arms away, kick my legs, twist my body away. It wasn’t the same as play-fighting with the boys. My father was stronger than Abdullah.
All we managed to do was embarrass my father. My mother sobbed, her hands in powerless fists. Khala Shaima shook her head and shouted that this, all of this, was wrong, a sin. She didn’t stop until my father slapped her across the face. She reeled backward. Our guests looked on, feeling it was well deserved. My father had redeemed himself in their eyes.
My struggle changed nothing. I just made it harder on my mother. And Khala Shaima.
My father handed me over to my new husband. My mother-in-law stared with a critical eye. She would have a lot of work to do to set me straight.
And Abdul Khaliq, my new husband, smirked to see me squirm under my father’s grip. As if he liked what he saw.
That was my wedding.