This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  The quiet man who had volunteered still sat alone at the back of the chai khana. The Mullah threaded through the remaining men to the other side of the room to speak to him. “Rashid, did you say your name was?” The man merely nodded. “Tell me, why have you volunteered to help?”

  Umar joined them to hear what the man would say. Rashid looked at the Mullah for a moment, thinking. “The world is a place of inequality and hardships that need not be. You are taking steps to address this. That is why.”

  Umar shook Rashid’s hand and embraced him, as was the custom. Rashid turned and embraced the Mullah, as well, who merely stood stiffly until he was released.

  Umar called back over his shoulder, “And now, chaiwallah, show us your volunteer.”

  Faizal led the men out the back entrance to a small, cluttered yard filled with garbage and broken things. It was enclosed by sheets of plastic strung from spindly branches stuck in the ground. Stacked up against the back wall of the building was a pile of small pieces of scrap wood, cut very short to fit in the hibachi and the samovar.

  A scrawny, long-haired man was chopping up odd pieces of wood with a hatchet. He held it awkwardly, like a man unaccustomed to manual labour. His light blue shalwar kamiz, once fancy, was now soiled and stained. The collar was ripped and had been badly mended, leaving a lump of cloth on his shoulder that pulled awkwardly as he moved. The long-haired man glanced at them briefly, and then ignored them as he continued his work. The men observed him for a few minutes, during which time he split only one piece of wood into usable fragments. Umar spoke under his breath. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t chopped off his hand. This is the volunteer?”

  Faizal smiled and called the man over. “This is the one. Isa, these men would like to speak with you.”

  Isa made no sign that he noticed, carrying on with his work.

  The Mullah glanced at Umar, who took this as his signal to deal with the stranger. When he spoke, he did so formally. “Asalaam aleikum. I hope you are well. May you not be tired. May you …” Umar’s greeting faded into silence as the scrawny man failed to take notice. He finally addressed the man directly. “The chaiwallah tells me that you need employment.”

  Isa took another wild swing at the wood, barely missing his other hand. “No, I do this because I’m a mad sheikh. As soon as I have finished chopping this pile, I’ll be going back to my palace in Dubai.”

  Umar’s voice was severe. “He also tells me you owe him money and never admitted you could not pay for your purchases.”

  Isa stopped what he was doing, letting the hatchet dangle loosely in one hand. He had the dangerous look of a man at rock bottom. “And what is all of this to you?”

  Faizal stepped forward, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. “What if I offered to forgive your debts and provide free room and board from now on?”

  “I’d tell you that you were trying to trick me,” replied Isa.

  Umar interceded again. “No trick. We’re offering work.”

  “What does it pay?” asked Isa.

  “A clean slate. Plus room and board. That’s all.”

  Isa looked at each man’s face, trying to find the angle. The grim-faced Mullah stared back at him. With a sudden move, he tossed the hatchet to the ground.

  “I’ll take it,” said Isa.

  Faizal seemed confused. “But aren’t you going to finish chopping?”

  Isa sneered. “No, I have an important job now, remember?”

  “But you haven’t even asked what it is.”

  Isa brushed past the three men to walk back into the chai khana. “I’m not planning to excel at it in any case,” he said. He stopped in the doorway long enough to shout back over his shoulder. “And chaiwallah! Bring me tea!”

  The sun set over the distant hills as the day came to a close. A reddish glow seeped across the land toward the checkpoint.

  Umar and Rashid stood guard, each carrying one of the rifles captured from the bandits. Umar cradled his rifle with both arms, shifting its position often. Rashid held his loosely in one hand, grasping it at the forestock where it balanced naturally, resting against his body. He limped as he walked over to the ZIL, moving one leg stiffly, his pace slow.

  Isa stood a little distance away. He carried Amin’s cricket bat instead of a rifle and used it to hit stones out into the distance. With nighttime approaching, there were no more cars on the road.

  A noise came from the loose gravel behind them. Rashid swung his rifle up parallel with the ground as he turned, no trace of his limp in this fluid motion. The young thief from the chai khana stepped out of the scrub brush that covered the bottom slope of the valley, where he had been watching from a safe distance.

  “He’s been circling us all day,” said Rashid, as he lowered his rifle.

  “He’s like a jackal,” said Umar. “It’s as if he is waiting to pick the flesh from our bones.”

  Rashid smiled. “He can no longer taste the kebabs he stole.” He walked slowly toward the scruffy boy, speaking as one might to a wild animal. “What is it you want? We have nothing for you.”

  The boy’s eyes flashed as he held a stick up in the air like a rifle. He yelled, “I am as tough as any of you. Just give me a kalash and I will show you!” The boy’s expression was dead serious, but the sight of him made the men smile. He looked to be no more than ten years old, and he was filthy. He had tied a rag around his head in an attempt at a turban.

  Umar spoke to him in reasonable tones. “Go back home before it is nighttime.”

  “My home is wherever I am,” shouted the boy again. “When my family died, I went to fight the Russians. When I defeated them, I had no home left to go to.”

  Rashid laughed from deep inside his chest. “When you defeated the Russians?”

  The boy’s face hardened. “I fought them.” He beat his chest with a small fist. “And do you see any Russians around here now?”

  Rashid shook his head slowly, laughing even harder. Umar kept a straight face and tried to reason with the boy again. “If you’re an orphan, we’ll take you to the madrassa. You should be in school.”

  “I don’t need any school. I know everything I need to know already.”

  Isa, listening in frustration, batted a rock at the boy, narrowly missing his head. The boy ducked and looked ready to run away. Isa batted a second rock past the boy as he spoke. “I’m tired of this already. If you want to go, go. If you want to stay, stay. If you do, you get fed like the rest of us, you do shifts like the rest of us, and your job is to get tea for the rest of us. And I don’t care what your name is, I’m calling you Lala Chai.”

  The boy approached the men slowly, still clutching his stick. As he drew closer, Isa threw an old copper teapot at the boy, hitting him in the chest. “Go get us some tea before we change our minds.”

  Lala Chai grabbed the teapot off the ground and scrambled off to the chai khana to fill it. As he went, he called over his shoulder at the men. “I’m still better with a kalash than any of you!”

  “The heart of a lion in the body of a mouse,” proclaimed Umar. Rashid chuckled as he lowered himself heavily onto a wooden crate, rubbing his leg. The others sat down nearby to await their tea, the day almost at an end.

  Umar stood again and climbed atop the ZIL. He caught sight of Amin and Wasif, who were descending the hill from the madrassa to the checkpoint. Umar sang out the takbir in a deep and slow voice, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Allah-u akbar!” He paused and took a deep breath before singing louder. “Allah-u akbar!”

  He drew out the words as he repeated them, turning the adhan into sonorous music. People across the village peered over the walls surrounding their homes toward the source of the sound. Rashid stood looking up at him, transfixed, as Umar slowly sang.

  “I bear witness that there is no God but Allah!

  I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah!

  Hasten to worship!

  Hasten to success!

  Allah-u akbar!
>
  There is no God but Allah!”

  Amin and Wasif lengthened their strides and arrived just as Umar was finishing the adhan. A few men from the village came to join them for prayer, as well. Amin went straight to Rashid, hand outstretched to take the rifle from him. “I could hardly study,” said Amin. “I’ve been thinking about nothing but our shift on the checkpoint all day.”

  Rashid handed him the rifle. “Do you remember what we showed you?”

  Amin frowned. “Of course I do.”

  “And what did the Mullah say to you about your duties here?”

  Wasif broke into the conversation, answering for his brother. “When we are not here at the checkpoint, we must study.”

  “Or help the other boys to study,” added Amin.

  “We’re the only ones in the madrassa who are allowed to do this,” said Wasif.

  Umar handed his rifle to Wasif. “Well, you are the oldest. And soon to be men.”

  Wasif smiled at the thought, holding the heavy rifle in both hands.

  As the last sliver of red sun disappeared along the distant skyline, Umar climbed down from his perch and picked up one of the prayer rugs that were now kept at the checkpoint. He touched Amin on the shoulder gently. “Prayer first. Your other duties after that.”

  As the men and boys lined up to pray, Isa stole away from the gathering toward the chai khana. Amin and Wasif watched him in surprise.

  “What is he doing?” asked Wasif.

  “His stomach has not been well,” said Rashid. “He’ll pray in a moment, I’m sure.”

  Wasif didn’t understand. “Is he some kind of …” He struggled for the word. “Apostate?”

  Rashid glanced in the direction where Isa had gone. “For now, judge him by his heart’s intentions rather than his words or deeds.”

  They turned away from where Isa had disappeared and shuffled into line in order to begin their prayer.

  The next morning, the landscape was hidden by a haze of dust, the dry earth lifted into the air by the wind. The abandoned village was still, covered in a thick, brown, swirling shroud. Inside the madrassa it was calm, the air clear. The Mullah stood in front of his students, as solid and unmoving as ever, while the boys sat in ragged rows, their voices reciting a passage from the Quran in unison. Wasif and Amin, bleary eyed, were at the head of the class. They mumbled the half-remembered words, their minds foggy after a long night at the checkpoint. The Mullah frowned at their performance.

  As the boys’ voices continued reciting, Faizal appeared in the doorway. Standing behind him was a worried-looking man, dressed in the dirt-stained clothes of a farmer. When the Mullah noticed them, he spoke sharply. “Wasif!”

  The boy’s head snapped up with a start. He looked around to try to intuit what the Mullah wanted of him. The Mullah gestured to where he stood at the front of the class, and Wasif scrambled to his feet and took the teacher’s place. The Mullah stepped out of the classroom into the bright sun of the courtyard where Faizal and the other man stood waiting for him.

  The compound was empty except for the three men. The ever-present dust swirled around them, causing Faizal and the farmer to pull the tails of their turbans around their mouths and noses. The Mullah stood unmoved.

  “We’ve had quite enough interruption lately,” said the Mullah.

  Faizal looked down at the ground. “Mullah, this man was looking for you.”

  The man kept his eyes low and spoke softly. “My name is Pahzman, as is my father’s. When I heard what you had done here to help the village and to aid strangers, I hoped that you would help me, as well.”

  Faizal interjected. “And I said that you almost certainly would.”

  Pahzman continued. “It is Tarak Sagwan. He is marrying my daughter.”

  The Mullah gave a dismissive nod. “Blessings upon them. I have no time to conduct weddings.” He began to turn to leave.

  The two supplicants interrupted him, talking over each other.

  “Not willingly,” said Faizal. “You know that Tarak is an animal.”

  “I did not agree to give my daughter to him,” said Pahzman. “He will force me to pay a dowry, and then he will do what he has done to others. He will keep her for a week, and then he will divorce her and throw her out.”

  Faizal continued. “He has done this a dozen times already. People fear to even speak of their daughters in case he overhears and comes for them.”

  The Mullah turned back to face the two men. “And how does Tarak even know of your daughter? Do you not keep purdah in your home?”

  Pahzman pulled his scarf tighter over his face. “Of course! But she must leave it sometimes, to do the washing, to work in the fields at harvest time.”

  “But if she is so precious to you, do you not keep her covered? Away from jealous eyes?”

  Pahzman’s eyes were red and wet. “Please, Haji. I am a good man. A pious man. But I am poor, and cannot afford for her to stay within my house and not work.”

  The Mullah appraised the man with his eyes for a long time. The silence grew around them.

  He finally spoke. “What would you have me do?”

  “When I heard that you have stood up to his thugs already, I thought —”

  Faizal interceded again. “Haji, you can’t blame this man for having hope, or for having faith in you.”

  The Mullah shook his head. “I doubt that there is much that we can do.”

  Pahzman took the Mullah’s hands in his own, looking up at him. “Please, Haji. I beg of you. I have no sons left, only a daughter. He will come for her in a few days. And if she is not there, he will kill us.”

  The Mullah hesitated.

  “You’ve sworn to protect us,” said Faizal.

  The Mullah dropped Pahzman’s hands and pointed at Faizal. “And if we are off threatening bandit leaders then we will not be able to do so.”

  Pahzman began to cry. He let his scarf fall loose. His mouth trembled. Streaks appeared in the dust caking his cheeks. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  The Mullah sighed heavily. “I promise …”

  Pahzman looked up hopefully.

  “… to discuss this with the others. We will decide what to do as a group.”

  At the checkpoint below, the mid-morning sun burned through the dusty haze. Umar and Rashid had stopped a few cars, and they had waved each one through, most voluntarily paying a small amount of money as zakat. Isa wandered up to the checkpoint, swinging the cricket bat through the air as he walked, singing to himself.

  “He was dirty and lousy, his head full of fleas

  But he had his women by twos and by threes …”

  Rashid snickered at the song, but Umar shook his head. “Isa, are you ever serious?”

  Isa’s face broke into a wide smile, his eyes shining. “I am serious about making you laugh one day, brother.” He was about to say something more, when he turned his head and squinted down the road. Rashid followed his gaze. A taxi had stopped short and was trying to turn around on the narrow strip of asphalt. Isa shouted. “Don’t worry, cousin, we are not going to rob you!”

  The taxi driver ignored the shout. He got out of the taxi and went to the trunk. He hefted a large wooden ammunition box down to the road and waved to the men at the checkpoint. When he knew that he had their attention he cupped his hands to his mouth. “I had no choice!”

  He quickly got back into the taxi and drove off in a belch of black smoke. Rashid and the others approached the box cautiously. There was a letter affixed to the lid with a nail, which Rashid pulled off. He stared at it blankly until Umar became impatient.

  “Well, what does it say?” asked Umar.

  Rashid looked away. “There is dust in my eyes, I can’t quite make it out.”

  Umar took the note from him and examined it. “This is a shabnamah. Threats from Tarak.” He read aloud. “‘Eject those men who have wronged me, and when I arrive at your village again I may be moved to show mercy.’”

  Umar flipped open the lid o
f the box. The shorter of the two bandits who had fled from the checkpoint looked up at him. Inside the box were his head, hands, and feet, and nailed to the bandit’s forehead was another note. Umar turned and retched on the ground. Regaining control over his stomach, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and read the second note aloud to the others. “‘These hands failed to grip their weapon. These feet ran from my enemies. This tongue lied to me.’”

  Rashid looked for a moment at the dead bandit and began to walk up to the madrassa. “I’ll get the Mullah.”

  Umar stood alone at the checkpoint, mostly looking off into the distant darkness, deep in thought. He had remained at his post throughout the day. When Rashid had returned with the Mullah shortly before noon, the Mullah looked briefly inside the box before taking it away to bury it in the cemetery — one more fresh grave. The boys were due to relieve Umar soon. He didn’t mind his time spent alone, as it gave him time to think.

  Umar took in a long breath of the cool night air through his nose. Despite the dust and smoke from the chai khana, the air smelled clean. Cleaner than he could remember it smelling for a long time.

  Umar had travelled over much of the country, had lived in Iran, and had been planning to go to Pakistan. He had studied in famous madrassas, and in simple ones, but not one had ever held his attention for more than a few months. None of them had ever felt like home.

  But it was more than that — it was that none of the teachers had ever seemed wholly worthy. Each teacher had his flaws, some large, some small. But once Umar saw the flaws, he could hardly focus on anything else. Umar knew that he had flaws himself — maybe even more so than others — and so he did not despise his teachers for their failings. But even still, he kept moving, kept seeking something … greater. Something unlike what one often found in the everyday world.

  Like this Mullah. He was different. He lived almost apart from the world that everyone else inhabited, living a life like the Prophet himself, peace be upon him. He lived a simple life, unconcerned with anything but the word of God, and like the Prophet, he had begun to attract followers worthy of the teacher.