When the Moon Is Low(7)

They played with numbers. In singsong chants, they learned multiplication tables. I listened. On paper, they manipulated numbers and symbols. They learned to calculate, to make sense of digits.

They learned stories. The history of our country. The rise of kings and their sons. How our country was carved from the mountains. My brother was first to learn the national anthem and would sing it, a hand up in salute. My sisters learned play songs from their classmates, the rhythm and lyrics putting a hop in their carefree gait as they walked hand in hand.

Coo coo coo, leaf of a plane tree

Girls seated in a row neatly

Plucking pomegranate seeds

If only a pidgeon I could be

In the skies my wings soaring free

Sifting through river sand slowly

And drinking of waters so holy

In the mornings, I watched my sisters put on their uniforms, steel gray and modest. They would hike their socks up and hastily buckle their shoes, afraid of being late but even more afraid of appearing unkempt. The teachers took both issues very seriously. Every day I resented seeing them rush off while I stayed home. I envied their bags full of papers, pencils, and stories. I knew I was just as smart as my sisters—maybe even smarter.

My brother had always done well, maybe not top of his class, but well enough that my father and grandfather did not complain. I’m sure he could have excelled if he’d tried, but he rushed through homework assignments to get on with other business—soccer with the neighborhood boys, climbing the orchard trees, and bicycling down the streets near our house. As a teenager, he endured his most awkward phase, with his spotty skin and unpredictable voice. Once on the other side of puberty, his voice was that of a confident man who wanted to be out in the world.

I had broached the topic of school with my father in the past. His tired answer was always that KokoGul needed my help at home with the younger children but now this excuse was wearing thin. Mariam, my youngest sister, was seven years old and in primary school herself. There were no babies in the house.

We’d cleared the dinner dishes when I approached my father again. I was thirteen years old and determined. I knew girls who hadn’t gone to school usually married earlier, and I did not want to be married. Every year put me further away from a chance at schooling and one step closer to becoming a wife.

“Padar-jan?” He looked up at me and smiled gently. He turned a dial and shut off the radio, his evening news program over. I placed a cup of hot green tea next to him, two sugar cubes quickly dissolving. He always took his evening tea sweet.

“Thank you, my dear. Just what I needed after such a good dinner,” he said, patting his stomach and exhaling deeply.

“Noosh-e-jan,” I replied, a wish his appetite be satisfied. “Padar-jan, I wanted to ask you something.” My father raised an eyebrow as he took a cautious sip of his tea.

“Padar-jan, I want to go to school like my sisters.”

“Oh, this again,” he said, sighing. KokoGul, bent over her crochet needles, paused at my mention of schooling.

“I can still help at home, since it’s only for a few hours. All the other girls go, and there are no little ones left in the house now. I want to learn the things they are learning.” That was as much as I could get out before the cascade of tears. I lowered my head, cursing myself for not being able to get more out without my voice breaking. I waited for the knot in my throat to release or for my father to speak. I wasn’t sure which would come first.

“Fereiba-jan, I thought that by now you didn’t care about schooling anymore. Your sisters all started when they were younger. You’re now a young woman and you’ve not attended a single day of classes.” He grew pensive, his brows furrowed. I pursed my lips, focusing my frustration.

“I know that,” I said simply. KokoGul resumed her needlework at full speed, satisfied that the outcome of tonight’s discussion would be no different from any other.

“Is it that you want to read? Maybe Najiba can spend some time with you to help you learn how to read. Or even Sultana—she’s doing very well in her writing and loves to read poetry.”

I’d never before felt so angry with my father. I was hurt by his patronizing suggestion and resented his warm smile. I didn’t want my younger sisters to teach me how to read. My sisters came home quoting their teachers daily. Their voices reinforced all that I was missing out on.

Moallim-sahib says that my penmanship is improved. Moallim-sahib says we should drink a glass of milk every day to stay strong and healthy.

I didn’t want to look at my younger sister as my moallim. She might have been able to instruct me on the basics of the alphabet and sounding out words but she couldn’t be a true teacher, standing in the front of the classroom, pushing me to memorize multiplication tables, monitoring my progress. I wanted more.

“No, Padar-jan.” I could feel my windpipe reopening, my voice returning with new resolve. “I don’t want to learn from a student. I want to learn from a teacher.”

My response must have surprised him. He must have thought my aspirations were childish, fanciful ones. He must have thought I wanted to don the school uniform and escape some of the housework. But I wanted much more than I could put into words, and I knew only that I was running out of time. My father considered me carefully, the corners of his mouth turning down.

“It would not be easy for you. You would have to start from the beginning, in a class with children.”