The Price of a Bride

“Zubair-ul-Sharif, what has brought you and the rest of the men to have a jirga set so urgently?” asked one of the elderly badarey of the village.

From the rooftop, a few other women and I, along with my mother, watched this staged drama. It didn’t make sense to me that the male badarey would decide the fate of everyone else. I didn’t even know why a jirga was set, and why so suddenly. Usually a jirga is announced three days early, so the villagers can plan ahead.

I could see one of the badarey, with his long thick white beard that almost touched the floor, sitting on the charpai and chatting back and forth with the other men who raised the issue. Later, I heard what the issue was—and to my surprise, it was about Sherry. A man in the back yelled, “Get the bad omen out of the village; she has started the trouble within our village and she is the one who needs to be prosecuted.”

I didn’t understand what all the anger was about and why it built up to such an extent, considering the good she has done for this village.

“Ummi jaan, why are they against Sherry? She has done nothing wrong that they have called for a jirga,” I said.

“Bacha, they are accusing her of spreading evil around the village, and they believe she’s a bad omen for this village and want her out of here—or want her to stop practicing her medicine.”

I hoped inside that the jirga deciders would understand how she is helping them. But they are blinded by their own faith and the belief that they are right. After a few closing arguments, the jirga decided the fate of Sherry Khan, which was for her to close her clinic down or leave this village. Sherry wasn’t present at the rooftop when the decision was being announced because she had an emergency case on the other side of the mountains.

After the jirga adjourned, I went to Sherry’s place with my parents’ permission. Her home was dark inside and I called out, “Hello, Sherry baji? Is anyone home? Massi ji, are you home?” Sherry’s massi suddenly appeared.

            “Hush jaan, your going to make it worse for Sherry than it already is,” said massi.

            I looked around the dark room for Sherry, but there was no sign of her. I went into her back room, where her patients came in, and there she was, looking at her diplomas and crying. When she saw me, she ran to hug me and cry on my shoulder.

            “I just wanted to help the people out; my people, my village! Why do they consider me an outsider?”

            There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.

            “I was born and raised here, as were my parents, their parents, and their parents. My lineage is here, and I own this land as much as they do.”

            Sherry put her hands together and covered her face so she wouldn’t look weak in front of me. I wasn’t as wise as Sherry, who was 29 at the time, to console her or say anything to make her feel better.

            I couldn’t believe what had happened. I blamed the lack of education these people have, and their perpetuation of the old ways. What disturbs me most is that they don’t recognize it, and to justify it they use religion, which they lack as well. Besides the fact that she was very educated, she was also put down by many people. Before her parents died, they were her shield; they educated her, sent her to medical school, and gave her the best education possible.

            She was a self-made woman, which many people couldn’t accept. Her parents fought for her and gave her a spot for her clinic, which took more than four years to put in place. I felt so bad for her; she was broken at the moment and nothing I could do or say would make her feel better. The morning after the jirga decided her fate, Sherry had to close her clinic or move out of the village. Obviously, she chose to close the clinic as the other option was unthinkable.

The badarey came the following day to be sure that there was no medical equipment left in her clinic, which now was just a room.