“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.”
“He’s right. You’ll be a giant sitting among babies. It’s a terrible idea. Like a chicken trying to climb back into an egg!” KokoGul cautioned.
“It won’t bother me,” I promised.
A necessary lie. This was the first time I’d seen my father consider my wish in a real way.
“Let me talk with the principal of the school. Let’s see what they say. Although I’m sure your mother will miss you being around during the day.”
“Isn’t this all a bit silly? Why would she want to bother with school now? She has everything she needs here at home.” KokoGul was clearly surprised at the direction this conversation had taken.
“I’m not promising anything. Let me talk with the school and see if they’ll consider it,” he said. Ever noncommittal, my father left both KokoGul and me feeling hopeful.
Much to his surprise and KokoGul’s disappointment, the school agreed to enroll me provided I start from the beginning. I entered the first grade six years behind schedule. The night before my first day, I ironed the austere skirt and blouse, wanting to make a good impression on Moallim-sahib. Mauriya and Mariam, my two youngest sisters, were tickled to see me in uniform for the first time as we left the house together in the morning.