“I have a great deal of respect for your family and always have,” Boba-jan said simply. It was up to the suitors to do the talking.
“And it is for this reason that we have come to this home. We believe that your granddaughter would make an excellent match for my son Abdul Khaliq, whom this village has come to respect and appreciate for defending our people and our homes for years.”
“Our people owe him a debt of gratitude. He has shown great bravery.”
“Then you will agree that he would be an honorable husband for your granddaughter.”
“Well,” Boba-jan said slowly. I could picture my father’s eyes on my grandfather, hoping he would stick to what they had rehearsed. “With the highest respect, Agha Khaliq… we have concerns, which I believe my son Arif expressed to you last week. I understand you are speaking of Rahim. We agree that he… she has been kept as a bacha posh for too long and should be returned to what Allah created. But, still, there are two sisters before her, and as you know tradition dictates that—”
“This is understood and we have already discussed your other two granddaughters. We have here again my nephews Abdul Sharif and Abdul Haidar. Each of them will be honored to take a daughter as a wife. Even better to further strengthen the ties between our families.”
“Hmm,” Boba-jan said, considering the proposal. My father cleared his throat.
“My second daughter — you probably do not know this, but she was born with a lame leg. She limps…”
“No matter. She will not be a first wife anyway. I’ve seen lame-legged women bear children. You should be happy then, anyway. Unlikely you would otherwise marry her off.”
“Yes, unlikely…”
Three daughters married off at once would be a huge burden lifted from my father’s inept shoulders. While his mind toyed with the idea, my uncle Fareed spoke.
“Abdul Khaliq Khan, sahib, you honor us with your proposals but… but my family also has traditions. I don’t mean to insult you but there is something that has been passed down through generations…”
“I can respect tradition. What is it?” I could hear annoyance in his voice. He was losing patience with our family, having had to make a second trip. He’d acquired his last wife with much less fuss.
“Well, my family traditionally asks for a large bride price for our daughters and I am embarrassed to bring up matters of money with a man such as yourself, but it is something that I cannot brush under the carpet. This goes back generations and to break from what our ancestors…”
My father must have been nervous. The bride price was the critical part he and his brothers had discussed.
I could tell by my mother’s face that my uncle was lying. She was trying to read through the wall if Abdul Khaliq was buying his story.
“What is it?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much is the bride price?”
“It’s — as I’ve said, I’m embarrassed to be discussing this but it’s quite hefty. It’s… it’s one million afghanis,” he said finally. My mother and I nearly choked at the amount. We’d never heard of such a large figure!
“One million afghanis? I see,” he said, and turned to one of the men with a gun slung over his shoulder. “Bahram,” he said simply. We heard the door open and close. The room was silent until Bahram returned. Abdul Khaliq was tired of cajoling.
We heard a soft thump. Abdul Khaliq began speaking again. “That should cover it,” he said simply. “You’ll have plenty there to cover the bride price of each of your three daughters. Of course, as family, we will share with you some of the products of the land to the north. Perhaps that would be of interest to you.” I knew my father’s eyes were bulging at the promise of opium. My mother shook her head.
“Now we need only arrange the nikkah date for these three unions. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I… I suppose… Abdul Khaliq, sahib, what about a wedding? A celebration?” Usually there was something. Guests, food, music.
“I don’t think that’s really necessary. My cousins and I, we’ve all had weddings. The most important thing is to have the marriage done properly with a mullah. For that, I’ll bring my friend Haji-sahib.” He waved his hand in the direction of the bag. “Now that this matter has been settled, I’m sure you agree that the nikkah is the most important part.”
My father, my grandfather and my uncles were silent. My mother and I felt our stomachs drop, knowing they could not resist what Abdul Khaliq was offering — more money than our family had ever seen and the promise of a steady opium supply. I covered my face with my hands and pressed my head against the wall.
I slipped out of Madar-jan’s clutching fingers and left her standing there, stunned. Three daughters. Turning me into a boy hadn’t protected me at all. In fact, it had put me right in front of this warlord who now demanded my hand in marriage. Barely a teenager, I was to be wed to this gray-haired fighter with bags of money and armed men to do his bidding.
My sisters looked at me, already crying. Shahla was trembling.
“It’s terrible, Shahla!” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry! It’s so awful!”
“They’re really agreeing to it?”
“It’s… it’s just like you said… there’s too many… they’re giving Padar so much money…”
I couldn’t bring myself to form the words. Shahla understood though. I saw her eyes well up and her lip stiffen before she turned her back to me. She was angry.
“God help us,” she said.
I wanted to be outside with Abdullah. I wished I could be chasing stray dogs with him or kicking a ball down the street. I wondered what he would say if he knew I was to be married.
That night, I dreamed of Abdul Khaliq. He had come for me. He towered over me with a stick in his hand, laughing. He was pulling me by the arm. He was strong and I couldn’t get away. The streets were empty but as I walked past the houses, gates opened one by one. My mother. Khala Shaima. Shahla. Bibi Shekiba. Abdullah. Each one stood in a doorway and watched me walk by; they all shook their heads.
I looked at their faces. They were sad.
“Why aren’t you helping me?” I cried. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Please, can’t you do something? Madar-jan! Khala Shaima! Bibi-jan! I’m sorry! Shahla, I’m sorry!”
“Allah has chosen this as your naseeb,” they each called out in turn. “This is your naseeb, Rahima.”
CHAPTER 19. RAHIMA
Abdul Khaliq Khan was a clever man. A clever man with many guns. He knew all the right buttons to push. My father had never seen so much money and would choose opium over food even if he hadn’t eaten for days. What good were his daughters anyway?
We were young but not that young. Shahla was fifteen years old, Parwin was fourteen and I was thirteen. We were flower buds that had just started to open. It was time for us to be taken to our new homes, just like Bibi Shekiba.
My father had come into our room and ordered my mother to make a shirnee, something sweet he could put before the guests to show our family agreed to the arrangement. We didn’t have much so Madar-jan gave him a small bowl of sugar, wet with tears, which he took and laid before Abdul Khaliq’s father. The men embraced each other in congratulations. We girls huddled around my mother, looking to each other for comfort.