“Now taste this. See? It has no flavor at all. You’ve got to add some salt. Everything tastes better with a little salt. Mmm.”
Shahnaz stirred the pot once more, the tomatoes melting into the simmering oil. She was teaching me a few basic dishes. It wasn’t easy but I realized she took well to flattery. It was much better than antagonizing her.
“You see the difference? Now just touch the edge of the potato. It should be soft. See? It’s cooked. My God, it really amazes me that you don’t even know this much. You must have been so spoiled at home. I hope your sisters aren’t such oafs in the kitchen!”
I wasn’t worried about that at all. Shahla and Parwin could cook nearly as well as Madar-jan. But the mention of them made my heart ache. It had been two weeks since we were taken away from our home. I wondered what my mother was doing. I could picture my father, asleep in our living room with a satisfied smile on his face, clouds of heady smoke around him and his stomach heavy with food.
“Shahnaz, how can I see my sisters? I miss them so much! Parwin is so close by. Can I go to visit her?”
“Not a question to ask me. Ask your husband. Or your mother-in-law,” she said. I wasn’t sure if that was really a good idea or if she was setting me up again.
I saw my mother-in-law most afternoons. My third day at the compound, I was summoned back to the main house but this time by my husband’s first wife, Badriya. There was laundry to be done. Badriya was also Bibi Gulalai’s second cousin and, therefore, her favorite bride. Abdul Khaliq treated Badriya well, since she had been a good wife to him and because there was a family relation to respect. But as he added newer, younger wives to his compound, she spent fewer and fewer nights in his bed. This was a point of contention, though I couldn’t understand why.
Badriya was nothing near pretty. Her cheeks hung low and she had two moles above her mouth, a constellation that looked to me like the letter tay. Her face was as thick as her hips, but she didn’t need looks. Now in her thirties, she was heavyset, her girth widened by the five sons and two daughters she had proudly borne her husband. Bibi Gulalai loved the grandchildren Badriya had given her and boasted about them to the other wives. This fed the tensions among Abdul Khaliq’s wives and kept life interesting for Bibi Gulalai.
“Make sure she does a good job, Badriya. This girl has a lot to learn. She was a bacha posh, don’t forget. Can you believe that? A bacha posh at this age! No wonder she has no clue how to carry herself as a woman. Look at the way she walks, her hair, her fingernails! Her mother should be ashamed of herself.”
Badriya was resentful of Abdul Khaliq taking me on as a fourth wife, but he was a warlord and this was common practice for anyone, so she bit her tongue as any good wife did. Badriya had nothing to complain about anyway. She had the best house in the compound, the one with an actual bed and sofas in the living room. She had a cook and a housekeeper to tend to all the chores in her house. She was the most esteemed wife, the one Abdul Khaliq would discuss matters with, and she made sure the others knew as much.
There was a rhythm and routine to life in the compound. The wives tended to their children while Abdul Khaliq tended to his affairs, whatever that meant. There hadn’t been any armed fighting lately, but nearly every day he and his bodyguards sped off in his three black SUVs, clouds of dust in their wake. His entourage circled him as he walked, nodding when he gave out orders and keeping away from any of the women in the compound. The men ate meals together, served by the housekeepers that Abdul Khaliq had brought on. They ate in Abdul Khaliq’s entertaining room, a carpeted room with a perimeter of cushions and pillows on which the men reclined, licking their fingers and sipping their tea as they discussed the day’s affairs. When they were finished, the women and children ate what was left. The servants were the third round, hoping enough had slipped through the many greedy fingers before them.
The women never left the compound. The children played together and fought together as brothers and sisters but subdivided. Half brothers got along most of the time but a casual game of soccer could quickly disintegrate into a scuffle where the sons of the first wife teamed up against the sons of the second. The same held true for the girls, who could become catty in the blink of an eye.
Badriya had no problem putting me to work. Nor did anyone else. Though they had plenty of help at the compound, the women seemed to derive a special pleasure from making me take on the most menial of tasks, especially since I fumbled with them. I swept the floors, washed the diapers and cleaned the western toilets as best I could. My hands burned at the end of the day and all I wanted to do was lay my head down. Most nights, that wasn’t possible. Abdul Khaliq called for me to join him in his bedroom to repeat what he had done the night before. And the night before that.
My insides burned and I walked as if a shard of glass was stuck in my underwear. Sometimes I would wake up in the night remembering. It made it impossible to go back to sleep. I would pull my thighs together tight and curl up, praying he would tire of me. I wished my monthly bleeding would come more often but it had only started six months ago and came infrequently. My only escape was training my mind to wander when I was with him. I would close my eyes or stare at a stain on the wall, like seeing shapes in the clouds.
During the day I watched the compound’s walls, hoping for a glimpse of my sister. I prayed Parwin would hobble into our courtyard unannounced and surprise me with a visit, a drawing, a smile. I couldn’t bear to think of what her days were like. I hoped she didn’t have to do all the things I had to do. Parwin’s legs moved slowly, clumsily. People didn’t like that. If the people around her were anything like the people around me, she was sure to be punished. I’d been smacked around more than once for a job not done well enough.
I couldn’t bear knowing my sister was just over the wall. I wanted to see her. I wanted to look at a face that knew me, that loved me. I couldn’t bear it anymore and worked up the nerve to ask Bibi Gulalai when I saw her walking through the courtyard.
“Khala-jan! Khala-jan!” I panted, running up behind her.
My mother-in-law turned around, already displeased. When I reached her she wasted no time and slapped my face.
“What are you doing yelling and running like that? My God! You have absolutely no idea how to behave yourself! Have you learned nothing here yet?”
My face stung and my mouth gaped as I searched for an apology that wouldn’t make her angrier.
“Forgive me, Khala-jan, but I wanted to speak with you before you left. Good morning. How are you feeling?” I asked, not really caring but trying to show her that I did have some manners.
“You came running across the yard like a rabid dog to ask me that?”
There was no winning with her.
“Khala-jan, I wanted to ask you something. I really miss my sisters. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen either one of them or anyone from my family. Would it be possible that I could see my sister Parwin, at least? She’s just next door and I—”
“You were not brought here to go playing with your sister and taking her away from her responsibilities as well. It’s bad enough that you can’t manage what’s asked of you here! This is your family now. Stop thinking about anything else and go finish your chores. Your sister is hardly a help over there with her limp leg. Forget about making things even worse.”
“But, please, Khala-jan. Just to see her for a few moments. I promise I’ll have all my work done. I’ve already washed the floors and beaten the dust from the carpets this morning. I could even go there and help her with whatever she needs to do—”
Another slap across my face. I took a step back and felt my eyes blur with tears. I was always surprised by the amount of force her wrinkled fingers brought.
“You had better learn to hear what I say the first time I say it.”
She turned her back to me and walked out of the courtyard, shaking her head.
I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. My sister was yards away but she might as well have been across the country. Bibi Gulalai made me wonder even more how she was doing, with her “limp leg.” I prayed the other wives had some sympathy for her, that there was at least one kind face.
In Abdul Khaliq’s compound, there was only one person who was genuinely nice to me, Abdul Khaliq’s second wife, Jameela. While Badriya and Shahnaz appeared friendly enough, it took a half day with each to see their true colors. Badriya, with her larger, second-story home, looked down on everyone but even more so on me, the young latecomer.
“Badriya was the same way with me,” Shahnaz said when I came back to the house crying one day. “It’s not easy being the oldest wife.”
“Why not? She’s got everything! The best cook, the best maids, the best rooms!”
“It’s not about any of those things. Abdul Khaliq doesn’t want her. He doesn’t call for her, now that he’s busy with you. He used to be the same way with me and she hated it. Hated me for it.”
“But . . . but I don’t want to be called to him. I would be happy if he ignored me. What does she do that he doesn’t call for her?”
Shahnaz laughed, her eyes lit up with amusement. “Simple, just get old. You see how Abdul Khaliq doesn’t like to eat food cooked yesterday? Men want something fresh, hot off the stove.” She cocked her head to the side and gave a sly smile.
That night I prayed for Allah to make me old, as old as Badriya, who looked older than my own mother.
But Shahnaz was just as bitter toward me as Badriya was. She, too, hated being called by Abdul Khaliq, but it wasn’t much better when she saw me going toward his quarters. She would bang the pots around, huff if I asked her anything and slam her door. The following day, more chores were piled on me than usual, even if I was also called to clean Badriya’s house.
Jameela was the only one who was different. She was Abdul Khaliq’s second wife and, being such, had the second-best accommodations of the compound. She lived downstairs and down the hall from Badriya. She had been given to Abdul Khaliq by her family as a token of gratitude. No one was sure exactly what they were grateful for—it was always spoken of in very vague terms—but she seemed content enough with the arrangement. She had borne him three sons and two daughters, making him satisfied enough that she was holding up her end of their arrangement.
At thirty, Jameela was much more beautiful than Badriya and even Shahnaz, who was at least ten years younger than her. Her eyes sparkled with kindness and good humor when she spoke. My mother’s warnings had been sage advice when it came to the other wives of the compound, but when I met Jameela, I knew I could trust her.
I had met Jameela last. She’d run into me coming out of Badriya’s home.
“You must be Rahima! Ay, you’re even younger than Badriya predicted.”
“I’m not that young!” I’d shot back. I was tired and sweaty and didn’t need anyone else making comments about me. “Who are you anyway?”
“Looks like you’re off to a good start.” She’d smiled gently. Her reaction had embarrassed me. “I’m Jameela. I live in the part of the house here with my children. My son Kaihan is probably your age. My daughter Laila, too. Have you met them?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t seen anyone my age yet. I wondered if Laila was as nice as her mother.
“Laila!” she called out. “Laila-jan, what are you doing?”
“Zarlasht dirtied her clothes, Madar-jan! I’m changing her!”
“Come here for a second, janem, and bring Zarlasht with you. There’s someone you should meet.”
I heard footsteps. Laila was indeed close to my age, probably a couple years younger than me, but the baby on her hip hid the difference. She looked like her mother—her eyes and hair the color of night, dark and dramatic against her gauzy emerald head scarf. She looked at me with curiosity. Zarlasht was about a year old. Seeing them made me think of Shahla and Sitara. As a baby, Sitara spent just as much time in my sister’s arms as she did in my mother’s.
“This is Rahima-jan,” Jameela said, taking Zarlasht from her daughter’s arms. “Remember the nikkah we heard about last week? This is your father’s bride.”
Laila raised an eyebrow. “You are?”
I stood still, unable to bring myself to admit to a title that seemed too heavy for my shoulders.
“She is, so you’ll be seeing her around more.”
“Why is your hair so short? Like a boy?”
I felt my face flush and turned away. I wasn’t sure how much to share. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to tell everyone I’d been a bacha posh.
“That’s . . . that’s how I wore it when I was going to school!” I blurted, hoping that was explanation enough but mostly wanting Laila to know that I’d been to school.
“School?” she exclaimed. “You were going to school like that? Madar-jan, she looks like Kaihan, doesn’t she?”
“You were a bacha posh, weren’t you?” Jameela asked. “That’s what I’d heard. Bibi Gulalai mentioned it before the nikkah. My children have never seen a bacha posh but I remember my neighbor’s cousin had been one. Up until she was ten years old, that is. Then she changed back to a girl.”
“What’s a bacha posh?”
“Laila-jan, I’ll explain more later. I just wanted you to meet Rahima-jan for now. And this is Zarlasht, my youngest.”
More footsteps came down the hallway as I tried not to stare too much at Laila, who reminded me how much I missed my sisters.
“Kaihan! Hashmat! Stop running inside! You boys are shaking the walls!” Jameela turned to me and explained. “Hashmat is about the same age as my son. He’s Badriya’s boy.”
I took one look at Hashmat and a knot formed in my stomach. He looked from Jameela to me and grinned.
“Who are you supposed to be?” he said bluntly, his tongue slipping through his teeth and giving his words a wet lisp. It occurred to me that I’d seen him before, that I’d heard him before. We’d played soccer on more than one occasion in the streets a few blocks from our school. My voice escaped me. I wondered if he’d recognize me as well.
“This is Rahima, your father’s bride,” Jameela said. I turned my face and looked down, avoiding his gaze. Jameela was surprised by my modesty given how I’d spoken to her just a few moments ago.
“Oh. Yeah, I heard about you. You’re . . . hey, aren’t you . . . you’re Abdullah’s friend, aren’t you?”
I didn’t know how to respond. I fidgeted and looked to Jameela. I knew this looked strange to everyone. No girl my age should have been referred to as “Abdullah’s friend.” Jameela looked at Laila, who seemed more confused now than before.
“Never mind that, Hashmat,” she said intuitively. “She’s your father’s bride and you’ll be respectful of that. No one wants to hear anything else from your mouth.”
I stared at the ground, knowing now why he looked familiar. I remembered him pushing and shoving his way to the ball, his mouth open and his dirty fingernails clawing at anyone in his way. He had friends only because boys were afraid not to be friends with Abdul Khaliq’s son, a lesson they’d learned from their parents. We had made a point to avoid him and his group entirely. It had been a year since I’d seen him.
“You’re a girl?” he exclaimed. “What kind of girl are you? That’s you, isn’t it? That’s why you’re not answering!”
“Hashmat! Do you want me to tell your mother—”
“Look at that! You’ve even got short hair and everything! What kind of bride are you? You’ve been running through the streets with Abdullah and his gang. No wonder you guys couldn’t score a single goal!” Saliva sprayed out when he spoke with excitement. I covered my face with my veil, wanting to hide from his wet assault.
“Hashmat! That’s enough I said!”
“Maybe Abdullah’s a girl too! Maybe you all are!” he laughed.
I would think of lots of clever things to say later, when Hashmat was not around.
Instead of saying any of those things now, I ran. I ran with the washrags still in my hand, my eyes blurring with tears. I wanted to get away from Hashmat, from this boy who knew me as I wished I still were—a boy just as free as him. I hated that he lived here. I knew he would always bring it up. He would always look at me and laugh at the girl who used to be a boy.
By the time I got to my room and slammed the door behind me, I wondered if he would see Abdullah again. I imagined what he might say and felt my heart drop. I didn’t want Abdullah to see me as a girl, as Abdul Khaliq’s wife, as Hashmat’s stepmother.
I dropped my head into my hands and cried.