This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  Finally, the Mullah broke the silence. “You’ve brought me to see sheep?” The shepherd looked up nervously, but his expression was vacant. The Mullah realized that the shepherd was simple, and would not be able to give him the explanation he was waiting for. He turned to Faizal. “Out with it, chaiwallah.”

  Faizal adjusted his turban with both hands, pulling it down on his head as he spoke. “This boy visits me when he brings sheep down to the village to sell. He came down the mountain earlier tonight and insisted that I follow him. It was so unusual for him to come to me like this. … He brought me here to show me something.”

  Faizal made the boy understand what he wanted with gestures and looks, and the shepherd led them over to a run of rocks and debris. It spilled down from the edge of a narrow path leading far below to the populated part of the valley, the chai khana just visible in the moonlight.

  The boy pointed down the hill to where the loose rocks had spread out in the shape of a fan. The Mullah lit his lantern, turning the wick up until the lantern shone brightly. He held it high above his head and aimed it down the tumble of rocks. At the bottom, half covered in brush and dirt, were two bodies. An old man lay on his back, hands thrown over his head as if in surrender. Beside him lay a young girl, her dress and chador pulled up and askew, covering her face and torso. The pool of blood stretching between them made the gravel look black outside the light of the lamp.

  The Mullah glanced over at Wasif, who was transfixed by the sight of the bodies. He gestured at the shepherd. “He did this?”

  Faizal raised his hands defensively. “I don’t think so. I saw this old man at the checkpoint, pleading with the bandits, perhaps three days ago. I suspect that they had a hand in this.”

  “Pleading about what?” asked the Mullah.

  “It often pays to mind one’s business,” Faizal tutted. “So I don’t know, but I’d never seen him before, nor have I since, until tonight.”

  Wasif turned away from the bodies and watched the Mullah instead. He followed the light as the Mullah panned the lantern across the scrub around them, searching for something. He angled the light to shine down the rough dirt path that led from the plateau to the highway. A single motorcycle track cut across the dust and dirt, obscured in places by the footsteps of the shepherd.

  As there was nothing more to see, the Mullah extinguished his lamp, leaving them bathed in grey moonlight again. “Chaiwallah, why bring me into this?”

  “Mullah, I didn’t know what to do,” pleaded Faizal. “They can’t be left here.” Faizal looked around, as if unseen threats lurked over his shoulder. The Mullah felt the man’s fear. “There are wild dogs. And worse. No one is going to come up here to bring a dead old man and a raped girl down to be buried.”

  The Mullah grunted in reply, but said nothing. He looked past the two bodies to the village behind the chai khana. Faizal did not let him brood for long before speaking again. “You said before that you did the things that you do because they are right.”

  “Do you have a donkey?” asked the Mullah.

  Faizal exhaled in relief. “Praise be! I do not, but I can get one.”

  The sun’s light burned through the morning haze, heating the ground, the chill night air a fading memory.

  The Mullah, Wasif, and Faizal were weary after their night’s work. They now stood in silence at the edge of the village; the donkey Faizal had brought was laden with two bodies bundled in coarse sacking.

  As he tied the donkey’s lead to a post outside the chai khana, the Mullah spoke. “Chaiwallah, I need water, some clean cloth, and a shovel.”

  “As you wish,” said Faizal, hurrying off.

  Wasif wiped his dusty hands on his patu and stood wearily beside the Mullah. A small crowd of men spilled out through the doorway of the chai khana. Most of them were villagers who had gathered in the early morning to swap gossip with any travellers who had spent the night. Their mood was already ugly: the stove was cold, there was no tea, and Faizal was nowhere to be found.

  The men stood in a tight knot facing the Mullah and Wasif. The donkey pulled at the rope tied to his halter as he tried to back away, but the Mullah held him fast. A rough-looking man stood at the front of the crowd, his clothes dishevelled. Dark hair peeked out under a filthy prayer cap. He pointed at the donkey. “What have you there, cousin?”

  The Mullah had his back turned to the men as he adjusted the donkey’s rope halter. The donkey settled and started pulling at some dry grass with his teeth. “Two Muslims, gone to Paradise, insh’allah.”

  “I can see that. Who are they?” asked the man.

  “Their names are known unto God, though not to me,” said the Mullah.

  Faizal reappeared from the back of the chai khana with two old blankets and a shovel. He eyed the impatient crowd nervously.

  “There is water for washing around back, Mullah.”

  The rough man rounded on the chaiwallah as an easier mark. “Faizal, who are these two?”

  Faizal looked at the Mullah before answering. “A young girl and an old man, killed by the bandits.” The mood of the crowd was hard to judge. Faizal lowered his voice. “They dishonoured the girl before they killed her.”

  The rough man’s voice became louder, his tone bolder, when he heard this. “Take that whore away, then. You can’t plant her here.”

  Wasif was shocked, and spoke up. “But why not?” The Mullah gave him a warning glance, and Wasif shut his mouth.

  The rough man ignored Wasif and spoke to the crowd instead. “This cemetery is for our village. Our people — not nameless whores.”

  The Mullah turned to face the village men, one hand still resting on the donkey to keep it settled. He ignored the man who had been speaking and addressed the crowd instead. “This man and this girl must be put to rest. Does this village have no honour? Any Muslim, nameless or otherwise, is owed the decency of a burial.”

  “This whore and this man have nothing to do with us or our honour,” retorted the rough man.

  The crowd of villagers had encircled the Mullah, and were blocking his way in all directions. Wasif began to pull on the rope to lead the donkey through them toward the village cemetery, but the Mullah held fast to the halter and the donkey did not move. He gave Wasif a subtle shake of the head, and the boy stopped pulling.

  The Mullah looked from face to face in the crowd. Wasif heard his voice come out louder than before. “I will not try to force this village to be pious. I will take them up there to be buried.” The Mullah pointed toward the madrassa. Then he took the donkey’s lead from Wasif and turned to lead him away.

  The rough man stepped forward. Smiling, he grabbed the donkey’s halter. “Do what you want with your old man and your whore, but first get them off my donkey.”

  Wasif turned to Faizal. “His donkey?”

  Faizal looked back and forth from the boy to the Mullah. “I’m sorry, Mullah …”

  The rough man loosened the fastenings and tipped the bodies off of the donkey and into the dust. The girl’s face, covered in blood and dirt, appeared through a gap in the sacking. Wasif saw her clearly for the first time and realized that she must have been about his age. Her one open eye stared unseeing up at the men standing around her; the scene was enough to send most of them filing back inside the chai khana.

  The rough man led the donkey away and tied it up by the shopkeeper’s stall, turning defiantly to face the Mullah and make sure he was watching. As he pulled the blanket aside to go back into the chai khana, he shouted back over his shoulder at Faizal: “Chaiwallah, live up to your name and fetch us tea!”

  Faizal stood outside the doorway of his ramshackle business, torn between the Mullah and his customers, uncertain of what to do or say. Only one man from the crowd had remained outside. He was short and slight, with a neatly trimmed beard and fastidiously clean clothes. He watched the Mullah with curiosity. Wasif thought he had noticed the man regarding the others with contempt.

  The Mullah stood in silence for a
moment, looking down at the bodies in the dust. He paused to compose himself, stooping to cover the girl’s face with the sackcloth wrap, his movements sparse and controlled. When he finally addressed Faizal, his voice sounded grim, as if he was using all of his strength to grip something inside of himself. “Chaiwallah, I ask nothing more of you.” Faizal ducked inside the chai khana to return to his post at the hibachi.

  The Mullah set straight to work. He had Wasif help him straighten the two bodies out on the ground, securing their rough shrouds around them again. Looking out toward the eastern horizon, he saw that the dawn had turned to sunrise.

  “Wasif, we will attend to this business after we fulfill our obligations.”

  He snapped the patu off of his shoulders and laid it out on the ground with the sun behind him, his shadow stretching out toward Mecca. Wasif went to do the same behind him, but the Mullah gestured him forward so that they were shoulder to shoulder. The Mullah knelt down on the blanket and began to ritually wash himself, using nothing more than sand. Wasif followed suit, his small hands caked in dust and stained with blood.

  The small man watched the Mullah as he began his prayers. Wasif looked up at him, realizing from his manner that he was a stranger even to the villagers. Unlike all the other men here, he wore no turban, only a clean but greying prayer cap that fit tightly over his shaved head. Throughout the altercation between the Mullah and the village men, Wasif recalled, the stranger had stood apart from the others.

  The stranger disappeared through the doorway of the chai khana, returning after several minutes with a few things borrowed from Faizal — a small prayer rug for himself, a large plastic bowl, and an ewer of water. He lay the carpet down beside the Mullah and offered him the bowl. The Mullah ignored him, continuing with his spartan preparations for prayer. The man cleared his throat and spoke words that he knew the Mullah could not ignore. “Asalaam aleikum.”

  The Mullah merely glanced up at him for a moment as he replied, but his words were sincere. “Wa aleikum salaam.”

  The stranger did not relent, continuing to speak the words used in greeting between men who meet as equals. “I hope that you are well. I hope that your house is strong. May you not be tired. I hope that your family is well. May you be strong. I hope that your livestock are well. May your health be ever good.” He continued with the steady stream of questions and statements that run in a seemingly endless flow whenever village men meet.

  The Mullah listened for a moment in silence and then relented, standing to face the stranger and raising Wasif to his feet with a gesture, as well. He began to speak his own litany of questions and statements. “And I hope that you, too, are well. May your house be strong. May you not be tired.” He continued, speaking over the stranger — neither really heard the other nor replied to the other as they both recited the greeting. As their questions came to an end, the Mullah gave Wasif a nod and turned to begin his prayers again, but the man reached out to gently grasp his hand.

  “Mullah, my name is Umar, son of Umar.” He gestured at the bodies lying on the ground nearby. “I am not like these others who are blind to what is right. I will help you carry these fellow Muslims up to the cemetery. Once we finish praying.”

  The Mullah did not introduce himself in return. Instead he looked at Umar, his eyes searching the man for longer than was polite or comfortable. Umar grew nervous, imagining that the Mullah was reading the ledger of his life, outlining all of his deeds for good and evil. Umar felt naked and uneasy. The Mullah stopped his examination as abruptly as it had begun. He said nothing, but simply knelt down and positioned the washbowl between them. Without needing to be asked, Wasif lifted the ewer to pour its water for the Mullah, but the Mullah gestured toward Umar. Wasif poured it for him instead. The two men did not hurry, methodically purifying themselves with the water, finding comfort in the routine of washing. Once they were done, the Mullah poured the ewer for Wasif, who washed quickly and self-consciously. The three then adjusted the prayer rug and their blankets, standing with their backs to the sun, and began to pray, their shadows stretching out in front of them into the fields surrounding the village.

  The sun was a quarter of the way across the sky by the time the Mullah, Wasif, and Umar had struggled up the rugged path to the madrassa. Wasif led the way, his patu draped low across his back. Umar carried the old man bundled over his shoulder while the Mullah carried the girl.

  As they approached the top of the hill, Amin came limping down to meet them, shouting as he came. In his arms he cradled the kalash. The Mullah eyed the rifle, but said nothing.

  “Mullah, the others woke up and you hadn’t come back yet! I didn’t know what to do!”

  “Did you pray with the boys and then feed them?”

  Amin stopped in his tracks. “Of course, Ma’alim.”

  “Then you knew exactly what to do.”

  Umar smiled, and Amin had nothing else to say. He was very curious about the stranger and the bundles that the two men carried, but knew not to ask the Mullah too many questions. As Wasif approached him, he whispered to his brother instead. “Wasif, what is this?”

  Wasif walked past Amin, his shoulders held high. “Righteous work. Men’s work.” Amin fell in behind him and followed, hoping the Mullah would explain everything in time. The little group trudged up the remainder of the hill in silence.

  In between the derelict houses that surrounded the madrassa was an open space where a common well had been dug by hand. A large, flattish rock dominated the patch of common ground. The Mullah laid the girl down beside it. Umar laid his bundle directly on the rock. Amin squatted off to one side in a patch of shade formed by one of the compound walls, but Wasif stood by the bundles in hope of being asked to do something useful. Amin stayed silent so that he would not be noticed and sent away. He clutched the rifle awkwardly in both hands, balancing it on his knees.

  The Mullah first unwrapped the cloth from around the old man, revealing his thin frame and filthy clothes. He carefully undressed him, pausing only to protect his modesty with a small piece of the sacking. The back of the man’s head was a tangle of matted hair, mixed with blood and dirt. Wasif saw that his arms and legs were like skinny, gnarled branches from an old fruit tree.

  Umar pulled the wooden cover off the simple well, lifting water from it using a battered bucket and rope. He brought the bucket to the Mullah, and together they washed the man’s body. The Mullah took his time, carefully washing every inch until the old man’s skin was clean. Umar helped roll the man onto his side, and the Mullah washed his back, as well.

  Wasif held the bucket for the two men, trying not to look too closely at the dead man. His skin was mottled and grey. Wasif thought that he looked more like a rock or a dried stick than a man. Although he had often watched the Mullah perform mundane chores, he did not think that he had ever seen the Mullah work as methodically as this before. Once the Mullah was satisfied that his work was done, he and Umar wrapped the man in the threadbare blanket that Faizal had given them. Umar knotted it securely at the head and feet.

  The Mullah turned to Wasif. “Leave the bucket here, then take your brother and bring us shovels from the yard.” He glanced over at Amin. “And you put that rifle back where you found it.”

  Amin stood, trying to hold the rifle in the same way that he had seen the Mullah carry it. “Yes, Ma’alim.”

  “And when that is done, you are to both go back and watch over the other boys.”

  Wasif gripped the bucket tightly as he spoke. “But, Ma’alim, I want to help you. I’m old enough to be a man, not a boy.”

  The Mullah’s voice was cold. “Which is why you are to watch over them, and not the other way around. Now go. I will not ask again.”

  Wasif was crestfallen, but he obeyed. Amin followed his brother, still struggling to mimic the way that the Mullah moved with a rifle in his hands.

  Umar gestured at the girl, still bundled tightly in the sackcloth. “What about her?”

  “There is no one h
ere to wash her. She will go to God as she is.”

  Umar was surprised. “There are no women in any of these houses?”

  “There is no one in these houses at all.”

  “Did they run from the bandits?”

  The Mullah shook his head. “It has been like this for several years. Because of the war, and also the drought. When I returned here, after the Russians had left, there was no one.”

  The Mullah ended the conversation by hoisting the old man over his shoulder with a grunt. He carried him out of the deserted village to a small graveyard on the edge of the hilltop, squeezed in between the empty fields. Umar followed with the girl slung over his shoulder.

  Tattered prayer flags, looking more like rags, fluttered listlessly above the cemetery. Two dozen grave mounds sat inside a low, circular wall of dry-fitted stones. The Mullah and Umar set down the old man and the girl by the wall and waited for the boys to bring them shovels. The Mullah did not speak, but instead looked off into the distance around them. Umar followed his gaze, but could see nothing that the Mullah might be looking at other than the point at each horizon where the asphalt road disappeared.

  Wasif and Amin arrived with the shovels. A crowd of students had followed them from the madrassa, buzzing with questions. Wasif waved his arm at them and tried in vain to keep them quiet. When he caught sight of the Mullah watching him, he turned around abruptly, shaking the head of the shovel at the boys. “Enough! This is no time for chatter.” The boys finally quieted down, hanging back from entering the cemetery, their thin necks stretching to see what was going on.