by Phil Halton
The Mullah did not move from where he stood on the asphalt. When he spoke, his voice was firm and unyielding. “Give back what you have stolen and win the blessing of God.”
The bandits’ laughter sounded like the short barks of wild dogs. The tall bandit moved to the left while the shorter one moved to the right, approaching the Mullah from both sides as if they were a pack, circling their prey. The short bandit made a stabbing gesture toward the Mullah with his kalash, punctuating each of his words. “Enough of your noise.”
“Give us whatever you have or you’ll ask God for His blessing in person,” added the tall bandit.
The Mullah looked straight ahead and did not move. He held his hands out to his side, showing that they were empty. “You threaten a religious man with a gun? And by blaspheming?”
The boy in the sequined vest spat on the ground and glared at the Mullah. The short bandit stepped closer to him and lifted the kalash in an overhand grip, high over his own head. Staring at the Mullah, he then drilled it slowly downward until the muzzle just touched the Mullah’s forehead. He and the Mullah locked eyes, the bandit snarling to try to frighten the Mullah. The Mullah kept his head up, and it was the bandit who looked away first.
Wasif watched in horror as the other bandit charged forward and hit the Mullah in the chest with the butt of his rifle. The Mullah staggered, but remained on his feet. Both bandits shouted in his face. “Kneel!”
As Wasif lifted himself out of a crouch to better see what was going on, Amin crouched down beside him. Wasif looked at his brother, eyes wide. Amin’s new kamiz was stained with blood across the back, and the boy’s face was tight and stained with tears.
“You should have stayed in the madrassa,” whispered Wasif.
“I don’t want to be apart from you again,” croaked Amin through his tears.
Wasif hissed into his ear. “Choke it back, brother. Act like a man. The Mullah will make this right.” Wasif wiped his brother’s face with his own sleeve, but Amin pushed him away. Wasif saw that his sleeve was red with blood. Amin wiped his tears away with his own sleeve and tried to harden the expression on his face, staring down at the road away from where the Mullah still stood with bandits on his right and on his left.
Wasif saw that the Mullah had closed his eyes. His right hand clenched and reopened, his thumb and forefinger clicking with purpose through the prayer beads that dangled from his fist. Other than his hand and his lips, which were moving slightly, he remained perfectly still. The bandits stared at him, confused by this man who showed no fear.
Amin kept his eyes fixed on the bandits, but spoke quietly to his brother. “We have to help the Mullah.”
Wasif’s voice wavered with doubt. “Amin, what can we do? I’ve already seen how well you fared against them.” Amin’s face recoiled as if he had been stung. Wasif took his hand again, but Amin pulled it away. “I didn’t mean that, Amin. Any one of us would have …” Wasif didn’t have the words to continue.
The Mullah, who had been whispering to himself, began to speak louder, his words growing in strength, tumbling out of his mouth. “As for the thieves, amputate their hands in recompense for what they have committed, as a punishment from Allah, for He is exalted in might and wise.”
The bandit pressed the muzzle hard against the Mullah’s forehead, trying to push him to the ground. “I said kneel!” he shouted. The Mullah’s body bent backwards at the waist under the pressure from the gun, but his feet did not move. His fingers gripped the prayer beads in his hand so tightly that he snapped the string that held them together. The beads scattered at his feet.
Amin gripped his brother’s arm. “We have to do something.” When Wasif did not reply, he gripped his arm even tighter. “We have to do something right now.”
Wasif picked up a stone off the ground and ran a short distance until he was in range of the bandits. He drew his arm back and threw the stone as hard as he could. His first throw fell short, but he grabbed another jagged rock from the ground and threw it even harder. It struck the short bandit on the arm, causing him to turn to see where it had come from. Another boy who had followed Wasif threw a stone of his own that struck the taller bandit in the chest. Soon all the young boys were pelting the bandits with a steady hail of rocks. The bandits turned and pointed their rifles at the boys, but neither fired.
“We’ll kill you all if you don’t stop,” shouted the short bandit. The boy in the vest hid behind the taller bandit, clutching the man’s legs with both hands.
The Mullah opened his eyes and looked around. Seeing the boys, he stepped back from the bandits, out of the way of the hail of rocks. The boys redoubled their efforts, raining down a torrent of stones that struck the bandits again and again. The Mullah pointed an angry finger at his tormentors and once again began to recite scripture: “But whoever repents after his wrongdoing and reforms, indeed, Allah will turn to him in forgiveness.”
Under the barrage of rocks, the bandits contorted their faces in frustration. They pointed their rifles at the boys and shouted curses. A sharp stone struck the short bandit in the face, staggering him and drawing blood. The bandits began to wither under the hail of stones and the Mullah’s shouted sermon. Then both bandits covered their heads and faces with their arms and shrank away from the Mullah and the volley of stones. The boy in the vest, who had been struck in the head, lay in a fetal position on the dark grey asphalt strip, his arms shielding his face. The short bandit peered through his fingers in fear at the Mullah, who seemed to tower over them now, roaring out the judgment of God.
“Indeed, Allah is Forgiving and Merciful,” the Mullah shouted, waving with one hand in a gesture for the boys to stop. They had moved even farther forward as the bandits’ power waned, and they now stood in a loose line behind the Mullah, still gripping rocks in their hands.
The boy in the vest squirmed on the ground in pain but reserved all his spite for the Mullah. “Kill him!” he whined to the bandits. “Get up and kill him! Or Tarak will hear of it!”
Amin, holding onto his brother’s shoulder for support, pointed at the writhing boy. “He’s the one who ordered them to beat me.”
The Mullah was incredulous. “Are you sure? These men listen to that boy?”
The short bandit regained his wits and grabbed the boy by the wrist, pulling him to his feet. He was met by a sudden shower of rocks from the boys. The bandit scuttled away from the Mullah and the students, pulling the boy with him along the road. As he went, he called out to the Mullah: “You don’t understand. This one is Tarak’s favourite.”
The boy hissed and spat but could not break free of the bandit’s grip. The taller bandit disappeared behind the ZIL, quickly reappearing atop a battered motorcycle, his kalash balanced across the handlebars. A few of the boys threw rocks at the rolling target, but they all missed, their missiles clanging off the metal sides of the ZIL. The bandit kick-started the bike and tore off down the highway, stopping by his two companions.
The taller bandit handed his kalash to the other one, who mounted the bike and lay the weapon with his own across his knees. The boy, who had turned toward the Mullah, shouted at him: “Tarak will know of you!”
Wasif threw another stone that struck the boy full in the face, staggering him. The short bandit reached behind himself to pull the boy onto the motorcycle seat, and was hit by another hail of stones. The motorcycle began to pull away, and with both hands on the boy the bandit lost his grip on the two kalashes, which clattered to the ground.
As he sped off, the taller bandit shouted back at the Mullah, “Nothing happens here without our say-so! We’ll be back.” The boy sat sideways behind the two older bandits, holding on to the underside of the seat, staring malevolently at the Mullah as they peeled away into the distance in a churn of dust.
The smallest boy from the madrassa threw one last rock that fell well short of the retreating bandits. The Mullah shook his head in disbelief. “Imagine! Bandits ordered around by a bacha bereesh!”
; Wasif was puzzled by the unfamiliar word. “I don’t understand, Ma’alim.”
The Mullah’s answer was curt. “Be glad that you don’t.” The boys had gathered around him in a tight knot, seeking his protective nearness.
“Ma’alim, you won’t let them come back?” asked Amin, forcing his voice to be firm.
“Insh’allah, they will not return.”
Amin persisted. “But if they do?”
The Mullah turned, an expression of irritation showing on his face as he looked above Amin’s head over at the chai khana. “Then we will do what is right.”
The shopkeeper raised the door to his stall, and at the same time a small crowd of men approached the Mullah cautiously from the chai khana. At their head was the tea shop’s owner, a heavy-set old man named Faizal, with few teeth and some grey hairs cut close to the scalp showing under a greasy, green turban. He waddled toward the Mullah, holding his hand at his forehead in a vague, obsequious gesture and looking down at the ground.
“Haji, I was just coming out to assure you that I can pay you for protection, as I paid the last, er, police at the checkpoint.”
The Mullah scanned the faces in the crowd, looking to see someone laugh at what sounded to him like a joke. “Police?”
Faizal looked nervous as he explained. “These were Tarak Sagwan’s men. He is calling himself the chief of police for the district.” Faizal broke into a wide gap-toothed grin. “But this cannot be news to you, Haji. You must all know each other’s doings …” His voice trailed off as the Mullah’s face turned even more grim.
“Perhaps all bandits do know each other’s doings. I know little of this Tarak Sagwan.”
Faizal bowed and shuffled his feet as the men behind him began to murmur, wondering who this man really was, with his crowd of boys. “Of course. Of course, I did not mean to imply anything of the sort. A thousand apologies.”
The Mullah scanned the crowd again, but no one else stepped forward to speak. Weary of the interaction, he ended it. “Now we will return to the madrassa and leave you to your business.”
When the Mullah mentioned the madrassa, the villagers’ faces relaxed and their voices became louder. Faizal’s smile broadened and he gestured at the orphans with a dirty finger. “Ah, Haji Mullah! I see that you have students, but where is this madrassa?”
“In the village on the plateau,” replied the Mullah. “We will be returning now, after Amin retrieves the oil that was stolen from him.” Amin understood and nodded. He and Wasif began looking for the oil among the many pieces of loot strewn around the checkpoint. All the other boys soon joined in.
“That village has been deserted for years,” continued Faizal.
“Was deserted,” said the Mullah. “I moved into my uncle’s home three months ago.”
Faizal wrung his hands and let his jaw drop in confusion. “But how is it that we have never seen you in all that time?”
The Mullah looked Faizal square in the eye. “Hospitality, though a duty, is onerous. The boys come to market. I make my own tea.” The Mullah seemed distracted by a sudden thought, and turned to address the boys. “It is time for us to return.”
Faizal raised both hands in a loose gesture of prayer. “Praise be to the Righteous! Let me at least feed you to say thanks.”
The Mullah spoke curtly. “As I have said, we will not be staying.” He turned his back to the crowd, supervising the boys, who were still searching the checkpoint.
When it was clear to Faizal that he had been dismissed, he returned to the chai khana, the crowd following him inside, abuzz with conversation. The Mullah saw that none of the boys had picked up the two rifles that lay on the asphalt, although they eyed them with interest.
Before he touched the weapons, the Mullah first gathered up the scattered bits and broken string from his prayer beads. Satisfied that he had found all of the beads, he put them into a pocket to be restrung later. He picked up the first rifle, the butt covered in layers of blue tape to hold it together where the wood had split. The Mullah’s hands flowed over the worn and familiar parts of the weapon. He pulled the action partway back to expose, to his surprise, an empty chamber. He looked and saw that the magazine was empty, as well. He set the first weapon aside and inspected the second rifle in the same way. It, too, had only an empty magazine.
The Mullah glanced up to see that all the boys had stopped what they had been doing and were squatting on their haunches in front of him, watching as he handled the weapons. Their eyes followed every move of his hands, drinking it all in.
He put the second rifle down in the dust at his feet and gave a sparse laugh. Neither kalash had been loaded! Looking at the boys, the Mullah repeated something that his own father had often said. “An unloaded gun makes two people afraid.” The boys looked baffled. Instead of explaining, he asked them, “Did you find the oil?”
Amin looked uncomfortable as he answered. “Not yet, Ma’alim.”
The Mullah nodded at Wasif. “Get the boys into two lines and count them to see that they are all here. We will leave in a few minutes.” When he saw Wasif start pushing the boys into line, he focused his attention on the ZIL. He took a few steps in its direction, pushed aside the door covering, and stepped inside. The boys watched him enter the ZIL, wondering what he might find in it.
Wasif finished manhandling the boys into line, counting them twice to be sure that they were all there. He put Amin at the end of the second line and told another boy to support him. Amin was tired and in pain, but he complained bitterly. “Brother, you could for once put me at the front of the line.”
Wasif went to give him a playful swat, but stopped when Amin winced before he even touched him. “Brother, it is not from spite that I put you here. I will be at the head of the line. With you at the end, we will be sure to shepherd all the boys home.”
Amin was embarrassed at his own complaint and said nothing more.
Before long the boys became rowdy, pushing and wrestling each other on the asphalt as they waited for the Mullah. Wasif’s thin authority could not to keep them in line — the group risked descending into chaos. Just then, the Mullah reappeared in the doorway. An automatic pistol, stuffed in a leather holster, hung from a belt slung over one shoulder. In one fist the Mullah held a hand grenade that had lost so much of its olive drab paint it was now nearly silver; his thumb was hooked around the jug of cooking oil. In his other hand was a small tin cigarette box stuffed with so many bills the lid would not close.
The Mullah set the pistol and grenade down beside the rifles and handed the oil to Amin, who held it gingerly. He looked at the boys, who had now moved back into an approximation of two lines. “Amin, you will take the boys back to the madrassa. I will join you shortly. Wasif, you will wait here with me.”
Amin thought to complain and be the one to stay with the Mullah, but he saw from the Mullah’s expression that he should simply obey. The boys began to stream back up the mountainside, and Amin left his place at the rear of the line to lead them, setting a slow pace up the steep track. Silent at first, they became more excited the farther they left the highway behind. Their chattering reached Wasif and the Mullah back at the checkpoint.
“Wasif, watch these weapons until I return. I will only be a moment.”
Wasif answered as he’d been taught. “Yes, Ma’alim.”
The Mullah nodded, and taking the cigarette tin in his hand, approached the shopkeeper in the stall beside the chai khana. Wasif positioned himself close enough to hear them speak. The shopkeeper seemed nervous but greeted the Mullah politely enough. The Mullah skipped over the usual pleasantries in his irritation at this day spent in the unwanted company of others.
“How much did they take from you?”
The shopkeeper’s hands rested possessively on his few wares. “They always left enough so that I would survive.”
The Mullah shook his head. “Survive to be robbed again, that is.” He pulled a fraction of the dirty bills from the tin and gave them to him. “T
ake this, then. Some of it was probably yours to begin with.”
The shopkeeper stuffed the bills into a deep pocket hidden under his kamiz. “And what do you expect from me in return?”
The Mullah’s next words came easily to his lips. “Only that you honour God, pray daily, fast during Ramadan, strive to make the hajj in your lifetime, and give zakat to the poor.”
The shopkeeper sat up straighter and leaned out toward the Mullah, straining against the confines of his tiny stall. “Jazak’allah! May God reward you!” He thought for a moment and then rummaged around in a jumble of stock behind him and pulled out a small waxed-paper package, wrapped and tied tightly, which he handed to the Mullah. “A gift for a gift. You’ll need these more than I will.”
The Mullah weighed the package in his hand without opening it and grunted his thanks. After a short glance at Wasif, he walked around the front of the chai khana.
Wasif called out to the Mullah. “Ma’alim, should I come with you?”
“This is no business for children,” replied the Mullah. “You will wait there.” Pulling the blanket that covered the doorway aside, the Mullah disappeared inside.
Wasif watched him go. The shopkeeper climbed out of his stall and lowered the swing door over it, sealing it shut with an ancient iron padlock. He did not look at Wasif as he walked to his home. Wasif looked around, alone in the landscape. He could hear muffled voices in the chai khana but could not make out what was being said. He walked out to the middle of the highway, straining to see as far as he could in each direction. He thought he could perhaps see the minarets of Kandahar in the distance. But he was not entirely sure what they might look like even if he could see them.
The afternoon wore on as Wasif waited by the road, gazing anxiously in each direction. He had nearly given up looking when an indistinct bump appeared at the distant end of the highway. As he squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand, he could just make out two hazy shapes travelling along the highway toward him, sunlight flashing off their windshields. As they began to close on the checkpoint, Wasif turned toward the chai khana to warn the Mullah, but stopped himself. The two kalashes lay nearby, and the slack chain still stretched across the road. He did not stop to reconsider the idea that had come to him, but instead did as the Mullah did and acted with conviction.