by Phil Halton
He tightened the chain and tied it back in place on the short post. Then he picked up one of the rifles, huge and heavy in his hands, and held it in the same manner that the Mullah did. Looking down the highway, he waited.
The distant shapes resolved into two vehicles, travelling one behind the other. A battered minibus piled high with bundled luggage was followed by a taxi so dirty that Wasif could not make out its colour. Wasif waited until he could clearly see the driver of the bus through the windshield, and then he waved for the vehicles to stop. He clutched the kalash across his chest, his arm aching with the effort of holding it.
The minibus slowed and came to a stop just before reaching the chain. It was packed with people sitting and standing, and Wasif could see them passing money hand to hand toward the driver. The man behind the wheel hastily rolled down his window and held out a small wad of the bills in Wasif’s direction without looking him in the eye.
Wasif’s voice cracked as he barked at the driver. “Cousin, keep your money. I am only stopping you to wish you safe travels. And to tell you to be careful! There are bandits around here.”
The driver looked at him for the first time, and only then realized how young he was. He looked around for other bandits, but seeing none, spoke to Wasif. “Is this a joke?”
Wasif shook his head. “No joke, cousin. No taxes here. Do you see that little village up above? Our madrassa is there. We’re students, not thieves. I am here to keep you safe, not to rob you.”
The driver hung partway out of his window to gesture with both arms. “This is a joke. There are twelve checkpoints on the highway from here to Kandahar City. This road costs more in bribes than it does in gasoline.”
Wasif untied the chain and let it fall, and waved the minibus through. “Go in peace, cousin,” he said as the minibus pulled away.
The taxi, playing loud Bollywood music on a tinny radio, pulled to a stop in front of Wasif. The driver wore Russian sunglasses and was smoking a cigarette. “I heard all that,” he said. “If there are no taxes, let me pay zakat instead. For the school.” The driver put a few bills into Wasif’s pocket.
“Thank you, cousin,” said Wasif, beaming with pleasure. “But why pay zakat like a pious man while listening to that sexy music? If you’re going to be pious, be pious in all things.” He pulled the bills from his pocket and shook them at the driver and his radio. “This little bit won’t make up for all that.” Wasif was serious, but the taxi driver laughed and pulled away with a honk and a wave.
Wasif stood in the middle of the road alone again, looking toward Kandahar in hopes of catching a glimpse of another car. He squinted and shaded his eyes, positive that through the swirls of distant dust and heat shimmer from the road he could see all the way to the outskirts of the city. He was not certain what the city would be like, but imagined great mosques and madrassas full of students in perfectly white clothing.
The Mullah’s voice behind him brought him back into the present. “What are you doing, boy?”
Wasif turned around quickly, and blushed. “Nothing, Ma’alim. Just warning the cars about the bandits.”
The Mullah didn’t speak, but snatched the kalash from Wasif and tucked it under his own arm. He spotted the money peeking out of Wasif’s pocket and drove a finger toward it as he questioned the boy. “And this? What is this?” The Mullah’s voice rose a little. “Are you now a bandit?”
Wasif’s eyes welled up, but he tightened his face and held back the tears. He could feel the Mullah’s disappointment washing over him. He stammered out an answer, holding the money in his fingertips and offering it to the Mullah. “No, Ma’alim. Never. It was given to me. Zakat, for the madrassa.”
The Mullah pulled the money from Wasif’s fingers and tucked it in his pocket with the cigarette tin. He chewed on his words for a moment before speaking. “Wasif.” He was unsure how to say what he was thinking. Instead, he scolded the boy. “What did I tell you about an unloaded gun?”
Wasif didn’t look up. “I wasn’t afraid, Ma’alim.”
“Then you are a fool,” said the Mullah.
Wasif deflated. “Ma’alim, if I was taught how to use a kalash —”
The Mullah’s voice was hard. “Enough!” he snapped. “This is not a game.”
Wasif stood still and did not speak as the Mullah gathered everything of interest at the checkpoint into a pile at his feet. Their silence was broken by the approach of Faizal, who showered them with greetings as he walked the short distance from the chai khana. He carried two pieces of naan bread wrapped around bits of kebab. He handed the food first to Wasif, with a flourish. He then extended his hand with the second kebab to the Mullah. “As promised, and with my gratitude,” said Faizal.
The smell of the spicy lamb and the fresh bread filled Wasif’s nostrils and made his stomach groan. He began to devour his kebab without thinking, grease running down one of his hands and onto his sleeve, not noticing that the Mullah had raised his hands to refuse the offered gift. He stopped, the dripping remains of his kebab in his hands.
A quick scowl crossed the Mullah’s face, gone again in an instant as he saw that Wasif had lost his composure. He spoke to Faizal in measured tones. “Your thanks are appreciated. But they are not necessary. We have only done what is right. We do not seek or deserve a reward.”
Faizal stood awkwardly holding the greasy kebab half-extended toward the Mullah. “And if they come back?”
“Insh’allah, they will not. If they do, God will provide.”
Faizal backed away, unsure of what to say. “In any case, you have my thanks.”
Wasif set his kebab down on a stone by the side of the road. The Mullah bent down to put the grenade in a pocket and sling the pistol belt over one shoulder before picking up the rifles. He cradled them in the crook of his arm, resting much of the weight against his chest. He did not look at Wasif as he turned in the direction of the madrassa, but simply began to trek back up the mountainside, glancing down at the kebab as he passed. “Now that you’ve begun, it is haram to waste it,” he snapped at the boy. Wasif scooped it up off the ground and shoved it in his mouth, trying to dispose of the evidence of his sin. His mouth full, he took a few steps and stopped to snatch up his brother’s cricket bat, which he saw lying on the roadside. Then he ran until he caught up to his teacher. Once he was close behind him he slowed his pace, carrying the bat in his arms just as the Mullah carried the kalashes.
The setting sun, low against the horizon, cast a pair of long shadows across the valley, obliterating the distinction between the grown man and the mere boy. Both shadows looked like giants striding across the land.
Wasif lay wrapped in a patu, a candle stub burning down beside him. Amin lay at his side, the cricket bat between them. All around them, filling the madrassa, they could hear the breathing of sleeping boys. Wasif lifted his head, careful not to make any noise, and surveyed the room to see if any of the boys were still awake. Once he was convinced that they were all sleeping soundly, he put his head down again and rubbed his forehead furiously on the rough wool of his patu. He rubbed it back and forth until it burned. His fingers touched the skin an inch above the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t certain, but he thought that it was beginning to toughen into a zebiba, like the Mullah’s.
He lay down and rolled onto his back, thumbing through a well-worn notebook into which he’d copied poetry, songs, and passages from the Hadith. He had yet to write anything of his own. He went to one of his favourite poems, one that he’d heard the Mullah reciting one evening not long ago. The Mullah had said that it was by an ancient poet called Mawlana.
Consider the difference
in our actions and God’s actions.
We do act, and yet everything we do
is God’s creative action.
Ignorance is God’s prison.
Knowing is God’s palace.
We sleep in God’s unconsciousness.
We wake in God’s open hand.
Fighting and pe
acefulness
both take place within God.
Who are we then
in this complicated world-tangle,
that is really just the single, straight
line down at the beginning of the name of Allah?
Nothing.
We are
emptiness.
Wasif read the poem to himself, again and again, filling his mind with its words to block out the day’s events. Looking over at his brother’s swollen back and scarred head, he knew that he had failed Amin. If he had been better at his studies he would not have needed the tutoring from the Mullah, and then he would have been the one to go to the market instead. Wasif doubted that he would have fared any better against the bandits, but at least he would have taken his younger brother’s place. He knew that he had failed Amin. And the Mullah. And himself.
But Wasif also remembered how it felt to see the bandits retreating on their motorcycle, their faces bloody from the boys’ stones. The Mullah had talked before about the temptation caused by the sin of pride, but Wasif had not really understood what he had meant. Until perhaps today. Wasif felt pride well up in himself each time one of their stones struck a bandit. Each time a bandit flinched. Each time he saw blood.
He pushed these prideful thoughts from his mind and instead repeated the poem silently, until he eventually fell asleep.
CHAPTER 3
The bandit leader Tarak’s ancient compound sat atop a low hill that dominated the flat terrain all around it. Once a large and magnificent garden of the Amir’s court, it was now overgrown and neglected. The surrounding landscape was a patchwork of farms and villages; nothing moved among them except under the watchful eyes of those who lived in the garden.
A few of the buildings inside the compound were originally part of the royal garden, but more had been added in recent years. Unlike the ancient ones, the new buildings were roughly made and laid out haphazardly in what had been the symmetrical garden. The newer structures had ill-fitting doors that sat askew on their hinges, letting light stream out into the night. One whole side of the garden had been converted into dog kennels made from wire fencing and scrap wood. Pacing back and forth inside their cages, the dogs bayed and barked, day and night.
The two bandits and the boy from the checkpoint raced up the road leading in to the garden, all three astride the motorcycle. The gates stayed closed as they rolled to a halt in front of them.
“Open up!” shouted the tall bandit. “We have news for Tarak!”
A man peered at them over the compound wall, pushing a dirty turban up his forehead with one hand while scratching himself with another. Satisfied that he knew them, he dropped off of his perch and lifted the locking bar from the metal compound gates. He had barely opened one of the doors when the motorcycle pushed through and into the garden.
The dogs began to bay and howl louder than before. The pack worked itself into a frenzy. The gatekeeper threw a heavy stick at the kennel and it bounced off the fencing. Those dogs closest to where it struck were silent for a moment, but quickly rejoined the barking.
Before the motorcycle had even stopped, the boy leapt off the back. His skinny bare legs dripped with blood under his filthy kamiz. He ran straight through the blanketed door of the central building, yelling: “Tarak! Tarak!”
The two bandits looked nervously after him. Both were hesitant and remained mounted on the motorcycle. The tall bandit spoke first.
“Maybe coming back here was a mistake.”
“If we had kept the boy with us, Tarak would have been sure to track us down.”
“Maybe now that we have delivered the boy, we should just leave.”
“Don’t fool yourself.” The short bandit spat into the dust. “When he hears what the boy tells him, he will come and find us.”
“We should never have sold the bullets. Eventually, we’d have been paid.”
“I have a story. He’ll believe us over a bacha bereesh.”
“I’m not so sure. It would have been better to tell him our story first.”
Neither of the men were eager to face Tarak, but they knew staying on the motorcycle would help nothing. They dismounted and followed the boy, out of the darkness and into the harsh light of the central building.
The moon hung over the madrassa, its whitewashed walls glowing dully in the night. The interior was filled with the soft noises of young boys sleeping soundly on the floor. Their bodies were strewn in messy rows, each wrapped tightly in a patu, which doubled as jackets for them in cold weather. Wasif and Amin slept near each other, almost touching, at the front of the classroom.
Outside the madrassa, the Mullah sat alone in the yard, cross-legged. Beside him was a battered kerosene lamp turned down very low to conserve fuel. There was a chill in the night air, and so he wore a patu loose over his shoulders. Laid out on a second blanket, stretched flat in front of him, were the pistol and the two kalashes taken from the bandits. Each weapon was fieldstripped, the parts laid out in careful order. The Mullah’s expert hands rubbed each piece with an old rag, leaving a very light coating of oil. He applied just enough oil to lubricate the parts, but not enough to attract dust that would gum them up.
Once he finished cleaning and reassembling the weapons, he took out the gift he had received from the shopkeeper. The Mullah untied the knotted string that held the waxed-paper package together. Inside the paper wrapping were a few dozen tarnished rifle and pistol bullets held together with rubber bands. The Mullah separated them and poured them into his upturned turban. His mind wandered while his hands repeated their task like machines. He then plucked each bullet from his turban, one by one, and pressed them firmly into the empty magazines.
A banging on the compound door brought him to his feet. The Mullah pulled one side of the patu over the guns to conceal them and flipped his turban back onto his head, tightening and adjusting it as he rose. He picked up the lamp by its misshapen handle and went to stand by the thick wooden door. Whoever was on the other side had heard his footsteps as he approached, and called out to him.
“Haji Mullah, I need your help. You must come with me.”
The Mullah recognized the voice of the chai khana owner, and without responding, unlatched the wooden door. Faizal stepped through into the dim light of the lantern. Before the Mullah could speak, Faizal recited a phrase that he had learnt by rote as a child. “Whosoever relieves from a believer some grief pertaining to this world …”
The Mullah finished the quote for him, his voice hardening. “… Allah will relieve from him some grief pertaining to the Hereafter. Chaiwallah, you are not here to quote the Quran to me. What is it you want at this late hour?”
Faizal wrung his hands as he spoke. “It is too terrible to say with words. I do need your help, but pray let me show you rather than tell you.”
The Mullah glanced back at the madrassa and all it contained. “Is it far?”
Faizal’s eyes followed his gaze. “Not far. Perhaps an hour’s walk. And the more hands we have, the better.”
The Mullah bade Faizal to wait with a hand gesture, and went into the building. He stepped over the sleeping boys until he found Wasif and Amin, and shook them awake. “Both of you. Come with me.”
The boys stood up groggily, pulling their patus tightly over their heads and shoulders as they followed the Mullah out of the building. Faizal stood by the door, anxious to leave. The Mullah sat Amin down by the lantern. The boy’s movements were slow and painful, though his cuts had scabbed well and did not seem infected. Lifting one kalash in his hand, the Mullah snapped a magazine into it and cocked the action. Both boys’ eyes opened wide as the Mullah set the kalash down beside Amin.
“Bar the door behind us, and watch over the other boys until I get back. Don’t touch the rifle unless you must. It’s loaded and off safe. If there is any trouble, point it in the air and pull the trigger. I will hear the shots and be back in an instant. Do you understand?”
Amin nodded, his mind still foggy with slee
p, but his back was straight and his hands reached out to touch the rifle before he remembered his instructions and clasped them tightly in his lap instead. The Mullah turned so that Faizal would not see what he was about to do, and reached down to pull the pistol out from under the fold of the blanket. He hesitated for a moment, looking at the weapon. The pistol fit easily but felt heavy in his hand. Changing his mind, he slid it back out of sight. “Wasif, you will come with me.”
The two men and the boy walked together away from the madrassa and out into the night. Faizal’s face was set in a grim mask as he thought about the unmentionable task for which he had enlisted the Mullah. Wasif’s thin body was shaking in the cold, and he pulled the patu over his head to try to stave off the chill night air. The Mullah carried the battered lantern, unlit. The only light came from the moon, casting stark shadows over the grey landscape. Not one of them spoke.
Wasif’s mind was racing, trying to work out what Faizal could possibly want of them in this desolate waste. He kept close on the heels of the two men, despite having to take several steps for every one of the Mullah’s. Faizal’s movements were stilted; his limbs seemed cramped and tight. In contrast, Wasif could see that the Mullah moved with a loose, long gait that made it seem as if he were gliding over the rough ground.
Their path rose above them, rocky and forbidding. They climbed for under an hour, Faizal’s breath coming in short gasps as he struggled up the rocky ground. In time they reached a high plateau, dotted with boulders and covered in tough, scrubby grass. A small herd of sheep slept in heaps all around the pasture. Watching them was a young shepherd who sat by a low fire, wrapped against the night air in two enormous brown patus.
The shepherd raised a hand in greeting and rose from his seat as the three figures approached. He did not speak, but lay his hand across his heart when they reached the fire, a gesture that Faizal and the Mullah repeated back to him. Neither the shepherd nor Faizal looked at the Mullah; instead, both stared at the low fire, at a loss for words. Wasif stood as close to the fire as he could, trying to warm his feet without making it obvious that he was cold. The Mullah looked expectantly at Faizal and the shepherd in turn. He waited. Their breath, visible in the night air, hung like unsaid words between them.