Read Online The Pearl that Broke Its Shell by Nadia Hashimi - Free Book Online
Authors: Nadia Hashimi
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your cousin Muneer will be in your class as well. No one, the teacher, the students, no one will ask you about… about anything. Just remember that your father has decided to send you to school this year. You are one of the boys and… and… mind what the teacher tells you.”
It would be different, I understood. Khala Shaima’s plan had worked well within the confines of our family compound and even in my trips to the bazaar. School would put this charade to the test though, and I could sense my mother’s trepidation. My sisters were furious. Padar- jan had decided they were to stay home even though I could have accompanied them to school.
Muneer and I walked to school together. He wasn’t the brightest of my cousins and I rarely saw him since his mother kept her children away from the rest of us. That probably worked in my favor. He needed to be told only once that I was his cousin Rahim and always had been, and in his mind there never had been a Rahima. I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to worry about his giving me away.
“ Salaam, Moallim-sahib, ” I said when we arrived.
The teacher grunted a reply in return, nodding as each student walked in. I wiped my moist palms on my pants.
I felt the teacher’s curious eyes follow the back of my head but it could have been my imagination. I scanned the room and stayed close behind Muneer, noting that none of the boys seemed fazed by me. I kept my head bowed and we made our way to the back of the classroom, where Muneer and I shared a long bench with three other boys. One boy was especially eager to show how much he knew about the teacher.
“ Moallim-sahib is very strict. Last year he gave four boys bad marks because their fingernails weren’t clean.”
“Oh yeah?” his friend whispered. “Then you better keep your finger out of your nose!”
“Boys! Sit up straight and pay attention,” the teacher said. He was a rotund man, his shiny bald head rimmed with salt-and-pepper hair. His neatly groomed mustache matched his sparse hairs. “You’ll begin by writing your names. Then we’ll see what, if anything, you learned in your last class.”
I quickly realized the male teachers were just as strict as the women. Class wasn’t much different except that there was more whispering and shooting each other looks than I’d ever seen in a girls’ classroom. I wrote my name carefully and watched Muneer struggle from the corner of my eye. His letters were awkwardly connected and an extra dot had changed “Muneer” to “Muteer.” I debated correcting him but the teacher looked in my direction before I could even begin to whisper. He walked around the room and looked at everyone’s names, shaking his head at some and grunting at others. Very few seemed to meet his standards.
He looked over my shoulder and I could hear the air whistle through his nostrils, his belly casting a shadow over my paper. My name got no reaction, which I could take only to mean it had not severely disappointed him. Muneer’s notebook, however, made him groan.
“What is your name?” he demanded.
“M-M-Muneer.” He stole a glance upward at the teacher but quickly looked down again.
“ Muneer, ” he said dramatically. “If you come back to this class tomorrow and make a single mistake in your name, I’ll send you back to repeat last year’s work. Understood?”
“Yes, Moallim-sahib, ” Muneer whispered. I could feel the heat from his face.
So the boys weren’t learning much more than the girls, I realized.
After class, the boys were more interested in racing outside and kicking a ball around than questioning who I was or where I’d come from. Muneer and I walked home with two boys named Ashraf and Abdullah. They were neighbors who lived a half kilometer from our family’s house. This was the first time I’d met them, though they knew Muneer and my other boy cousins.
“What’s your name again?” Ashraf asked. He was the shorter of the two and had light
It would be different, I understood. Khala Shaima’s plan had worked well within the confines of our family compound and even in my trips to the bazaar. School would put this charade to the test though, and I could sense my mother’s trepidation. My sisters were furious. Padar- jan had decided they were to stay home even though I could have accompanied them to school.
Muneer and I walked to school together. He wasn’t the brightest of my cousins and I rarely saw him since his mother kept her children away from the rest of us. That probably worked in my favor. He needed to be told only once that I was his cousin Rahim and always had been, and in his mind there never had been a Rahima. I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to worry about his giving me away.
“ Salaam, Moallim-sahib, ” I said when we arrived.
The teacher grunted a reply in return, nodding as each student walked in. I wiped my moist palms on my pants.
I felt the teacher’s curious eyes follow the back of my head but it could have been my imagination. I scanned the room and stayed close behind Muneer, noting that none of the boys seemed fazed by me. I kept my head bowed and we made our way to the back of the classroom, where Muneer and I shared a long bench with three other boys. One boy was especially eager to show how much he knew about the teacher.
“ Moallim-sahib is very strict. Last year he gave four boys bad marks because their fingernails weren’t clean.”
“Oh yeah?” his friend whispered. “Then you better keep your finger out of your nose!”
“Boys! Sit up straight and pay attention,” the teacher said. He was a rotund man, his shiny bald head rimmed with salt-and-pepper hair. His neatly groomed mustache matched his sparse hairs. “You’ll begin by writing your names. Then we’ll see what, if anything, you learned in your last class.”
I quickly realized the male teachers were just as strict as the women. Class wasn’t much different except that there was more whispering and shooting each other looks than I’d ever seen in a girls’ classroom. I wrote my name carefully and watched Muneer struggle from the corner of my eye. His letters were awkwardly connected and an extra dot had changed “Muneer” to “Muteer.” I debated correcting him but the teacher looked in my direction before I could even begin to whisper. He walked around the room and looked at everyone’s names, shaking his head at some and grunting at others. Very few seemed to meet his standards.
He looked over my shoulder and I could hear the air whistle through his nostrils, his belly casting a shadow over my paper. My name got no reaction, which I could take only to mean it had not severely disappointed him. Muneer’s notebook, however, made him groan.
“What is your name?” he demanded.
“M-M-Muneer.” He stole a glance upward at the teacher but quickly looked down again.
“ Muneer, ” he said dramatically. “If you come back to this class tomorrow and make a single mistake in your name, I’ll send you back to repeat last year’s work. Understood?”
“Yes, Moallim-sahib, ” Muneer whispered. I could feel the heat from his face.
So the boys weren’t learning much more than the girls, I realized.
After class, the boys were more interested in racing outside and kicking a ball around than questioning who I was or where I’d come from. Muneer and I walked home with two boys named Ashraf and Abdullah. They were neighbors who lived a half kilometer from our family’s house. This was the first time I’d met them, though they knew Muneer and my other boy cousins.
“What’s your name again?” Ashraf asked. He was the shorter of the two and had light
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