This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  I am not a man like the Mullah, thought Umar. But I can strive to be. I can live my life as an example to others and help to build something here that is greater than what we already have. Much greater than what anyone has. This village could be just the start. He could feel it — this was where he was meant to be. He had found his home.

  Umar realized that he didn’t need to travel anymore, looking for a place to learn Islam. He could simply stay here and live it.

  CHAPTER 5

  The chai khana was mostly empty, the samovar bubbling and belching noisily in the centre of the room. The Mullah sat rigidly in the middle of the others, patu pulled over his shoulders, listening in silence as the heated discussion swirled around him. At the back of the room, Faizal and Pahzman squatted anxiously, listening. Faizal rose regularly to fill cups of tea before going back to his position on the outside of the circle.

  Isa, sweaty and agitated, spoke with anger. “It’s his daughter, but it’s our necks if we try to stop this wedding.”

  Pahzman interrupted the discussion to plead with them. “Please, Mullah. There is no other way for me to save her.”

  The Mullah sat impassively, still listening. Looking to him for approval, Wasif spoke next. “This is not just about his daughter. It is about the dignity of all the women in this valley.”

  Amin snorted. “What do you know about the ‘women of this valley’?”

  Wasif snapped back. “I know everything I need to know from the Hadith.”

  “Then I know as much as you do, if not more.”

  With one hand, the Mullah gestured for the boys to be quiet.

  “It’s suicide to try to fight Tarak directly,” Rashid muttered. “He has two or three dozen men.”

  Isa stood up, frustrated, and began pacing around the room. “We’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

  The Mullah looked to Umar for his thoughts, as when the discussion began it was he who had first argued in favour of getting involved. Umar spoke with confidence. “We need to help this man, or the rest of the community will lose faith in us.”

  Standing, the Mullah held up his hands for silence. His voice rang clear when he spoke, causing even the samovar to resonate subtly. “I have a solution. If we all agree, I will go and speak to Tarak Sagwan myself. I will ask him to leave this girl alone.”

  The men sat in silence. Wasif and Amin looked at each other in alarm. Not one of them could formulate a reply before Rashid managed to say what they all were thinking. “Forget the girl for a moment, Ma’alim. He’ll kill you just for having chased away his men from the checkpoint.” Rashid looked around at the others, who nodded in agreement. “I’m surprised it took him this long to send that box.”

  “And we still need you at the madrassa,” pleaded Amin.

  Wasif looked around at the others, looking to see if one of the other men would try to dissuade the Mullah from his plan. When they did not speak, he said, “Let me come with you, Ma’alim. Let us all come, to protect you.”

  The Mullah shook his head. “A man only needs to be surrounded by guns if he has something to fear. I trust myself to God, and so fear nothing.” The Mullah looked around at the others, who stared in surprise at what they had just heard. “And if he refuses to listen to reason, we will call a jirga.”

  “If talking fails, then we talk more?” Isa scoffed.

  The Mullah looked at him in silence. Isa met his gaze, defiant. As the moment lengthened, Isa began to twirl his glass of tea in one hand on the floor, until he finally lowered his eyes.

  “Justice stems directly from God Himself,” said the Mullah. “The universe strives toward it. Should we doubt its existence so quickly? Even Tarak Sagwan has a family, a clan, a tribe. If he won’t listen to reason, then a jirga with the elders of his tribe will make him do so.”

  “How are you so sure that he won’t just kill you?” asked Rashid.

  The Mullah gave a rare smile, cupping his hands together. “Faith, brother. I rest in the hands of God.”

  “He’s right,” said Umar. “But let’s also have Pahzman bring his daughter and the rest of his family here for safekeeping.”

  The Mullah looked around and saw that no one had any further objections. He raised his hands, as if in prayer. “Bismillah. Then we are agreed.”

  The road between the village and Kandahar was a potholed ribbon of asphalt cutting through the desolate landscape. By midday the earth would be scorched by the sun, though now it was merely warm. Tiny villages and dry fields the colour of milky tea dotted the countryside on either side of the highway, filling every habitable niche in the rocks and sand.

  The Mullah walked along the side of the road. He carried little: just a thin plastic bag with two pieces of naan and a scented stick he used as a toothbrush. No cars could be seen in any direction.

  By now the heat was beginning to distort the air, obscuring his view of the road as it led off into the distance. The Mullah squinted at the horizon. The distant shimmer was broken by a heavily laden motorcycle swerving toward him, dodging holes in the road almost lazily as it approached. He could see that it carried two riders, one behind the other. The Mullah ignored it, and continued walking.

  As the motorcycle drew closer, the passenger slid backwards off the seat, running to stay on his feet. He unslung a kalash from across his back as he gained his footing, and began to swagger toward the Mullah. The motorcycle, free of its extra burden, raced past and circled back at him from behind.

  The two bandits wore filthy old police uniforms hanging like rags from their skinny bodies. Their hair hung long and loose about their faces. The Mullah ignored them both and kept walking at a steady pace. The man with the kalash in his hands spoke first.

  “Where are you going?”

  The Mullah gestured with his hand in the direction that he was walking. “This way.”

  The man planted his feet and fired a few shots into the road beside the Mullah. The loud cracks of the shots were followed by the sound of the bullets ricocheting off the asphalt and into the distance. “Don’t toy with me, you fool! Answer the question.”

  The motorcycle came to a stop behind the Mullah, and the rider leaned forward wearily on the handlebars, already tired of this encounter. “If he’s going to be trouble, let’s kill him before we rob him.”

  The Mullah stopped walking. “I have nothing of any value that can be stolen.” He held up the plastic bag for them to see.

  “He’s probably right,” said the man on the motorcycle. “So just shoot him and let’s get back.”

  The Mullah pointed up the road. “I am walking this way to meet with Tarak Sagwan.” Upon hearing this, the two bandits sized him up more closely. This new information made the encounter more interesting.

  “And why would you do that?” asked the man on the motorcycle.

  The Mullah said nothing in response.

  “And what makes you think that he wants to meet with you?” asked the other.

  The Mullah stood still, waiting.

  “I say let’s take him.”

  “Why not just shoot him?”

  “What if Tarak does want to see him? Are you going to tell Tarak that you shot him?”

  “You’re right, you’re right.” The bandit on the motorcycle looked the Mullah up and down again. “We can always shoot him later.” He laughed at his own joke, looking around as if for someone else to join in. When no one did, he stopped.

  The rider pulled the motorcycle up beside the Mullah. “You’re lucky that we’re not interested in you,” he said. The Mullah climbed onto the seat behind the driver, while the other bandit slung his rifle across his back and sat behind him. Once they were all aboard, the motorcycle began to weave slowly back up the road from where it came.

  The sun was not yet at its hottest as Pahzman led two women along behind him. His wife was dressed in a tattered blue chador, while his daughter merely had a large scarf draped completely over herself to conceal her face and hair. The girl could not see where she
was going and held onto her mother’s hand as they walked.

  Pahzman stopped just outside of the door of the madrassa. They set down their burdens, dirty bundles of cloth tied with string that held all their portable belongings. Inside the bundles were a few pots and pans, a teapot and metal cups, some moth-eaten wool blankets, and a cheap Chinese alarm clock. Pahzman knocked on the madrassa’s wooden door. After a short pause, it opened a crack and Umar’s face appeared.

  “I spent my last rupees on this chador to cover my wife,” said Pahzman, pointing at the older of the women. “We have brought everything we could carry.”

  “All of these houses are abandoned,” said Umar, stepping through the doorway. “You can take your pick.”

  “Where are the owners?”

  “There aren’t any left,” Umar smiled ruefully. When he saw Pahzman’s panicked look, he reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, you are safe here now.”

  The derelict garden of Tarak Sagwan’s compound was filled with shouting men. Carpets that had been dragged out of the buildings formed a rough semicircle in the centre of the open space. Three dozen men sat on the carpets drinking tea and arguing. Tarak himself, a short, young man with broad shoulders and an impressive girth, sat alone on a carpet in the centre of the group. His hands were rough, his face pinched in an endless scowl, and his shalwar kamiz, finely made, strained across his belly. He was watching the spectacle in front of him intently.

  Two dog handlers strained with heavy leashes to keep their animals apart, their feet digging into the ground as they tried to hold their position. The fighting dogs leaned toward each other, their snarling muzzles only inches apart, the veins in their necks like steel cables. Tarak gestured at the larger of the two dogs, indicating his approval. “One lakh rupees on this one.”

  The dogs continued to strain against their handlers, pulling up onto their hind legs. They frothed and made strangled noises deep in their throats, straining to reach each other. With Tarak’s decision finalized, a small flurry of final wagers concluded the general betting on the dogs. Tarak raised his hand and then dropped it violently. The handlers loosened the leashes just enough that the dogs could finally get at each other.

  The dogs closed the last few inches that separated them in a snarling frenzy. They spun around in a swirl of matted fur and teeth, trying to gain advantage, each seeking the other’s throat. Time and again the larger dog would try to push the other one to the ground, using its size and strength. But every time it spun into position to put its weight on the other’s shoulders, the smaller dog would slide out from under it, snapping at the larger dog’s face. The standoff continued for several minutes, the baying from the nearby kennels nearly drowning out the sound of the men shouting encouragement.

  The larger dog soon learned to anticipate the other’s strategy, feinting at it and then diving to one side to snap its jaws in place on the other dog’s shoulder. The smaller dog pulled away with a yelp, spinning out of the way again, injured but not out. Blood and gristle filled the mouth of the larger dog, whose yellow eyes shone brightly. It sensed that victory was near.

  The smaller dog had begun to tire, its back slick with its own blood. Its head hung low on its short, powerful neck as it growled a low warning. The larger dog hung back for a moment. The men in the crowd were on their feet, screaming. Tarak was beating the ground with his hand, yelling at the dog he had selected as the winner to finish the fight. The bigger dog coiled back on its hind legs and launched itself at its fading opponent, its jaws spread wide, its eyes slitted and shining.

  It realized that something was wrong only as it landed on the other dog.

  The smaller dog, its stance low, had locked its jaws around the larger dog’s neck from below. The weight and momentum of the larger dog carried it over, pivoting on the smaller dog, whose jaws remained clamped on its neck, until the larger dog found itself on its back. Tarak’s pick wriggled and tossed and tried to break free, but to no avail. The more the larger dog struggled, the more blood drenched the ground.

  The larger dog went limp in submission, yelping in pain. The match was over. The two handlers pulled the dogs apart, heaving on the leashes with all of their strength. Each handler carefully examined his dog’s wounds, washing away the blood with cups of water, searching for cuts that would need stitches. The smaller dog had lost half an ear. Its handler carefully opened its mouth and noticed a missing tooth that was probably still lodged in the coat of its opponent. The larger dog was mostly unhurt, despite all the blood it had shed, with just superficial punctures and cuts on the loose skin around its throat.

  Winners and losers exchanged money. Tarak threw the thick stack of rupees he had lost into the dirt in disgust, where it was gingerly picked up by the man who kept the book. Tarak stood up and looked around as if seeking an object to kick.

  A sound came from just outside the compound. The men stopped talking and one by one turned to face the entrance, where they saw one of the motorcycle riders push the Mullah through the doorway.

  “We found him walking on the road,” the bandit said.

  The Mullah stumbled as he was pushed, but quickly regained his footing. He looked closely at the men gathered in the courtyard. Ripples of fear rolled across the crowd, but one man stood seething and furious at its centre. That man must be Tarak, the Mullah thought. The Mullah walked toward him and began to greet him in the formal way of their people. “Asalaam aleikum. How is your family? Is your house strong? How is your health? May you never be tired …”

  Tarak glanced at him briefly, his face full of contempt for this dusty stranger. When he did not reply, the Mullah stopped speaking and stared at Tarak, silent, waiting.

  Tarak stood and took the leash of the losing dog from the handler and began to speak, mostly to himself. His men watched in silence. “When a dog loses like that, it will never win another fight again, even once it has healed. This dog gave up. And he lived. He’ll always believe that he can give up, and that someone will come and save him.”

  Tarak reach under his shirt and pulled out a pistol. “From now on, he’ll never be any good for anything but losing.” Without any hesitation he fired, driving the dog’s head down into the dirt with a single shot. He threw the leash to the ground and turned to the Mullah. “And so, dear guest, what are you good for? Winning or losing?”

  “I am called —” began the Mullah.

  Tarak cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I don’t care who you are, stranger. What do you want?”

  The Mullah remained composed with great difficulty. “I’ve come to discuss your bride.”

  Men began dragging the dog carcass out of the fighting ring. Fresh dirt was spread over the bloody ground, making it ready for the next fight. Tarak stood by the carnage and spread his arms out wide, encompassing his world. “Which bride do you mean? Standing in my home, can’t you see that I am a rich man, and can have as many brides as I like?”

  His men laughed at this, but the Mullah was undeterred. “The one that you intend to marry next. Against her father’s wishes.”

  “Ah, yes — now I know the one. What? Do you want her for yourself?” Tarak looked around at the others. “She’s only twelve, and they say that already she has tits like fresh melons.” He gestured with his hands, playing to his men.

  The crowd all laughed again. The Mullah stood rigidly, his arms held close to his sides. The fingers of his right hand twitched as they counted his prayer beads. “I have no stake in this,” said the Mullah firmly. “Other than as a Muslim, as a Hotak, and as an honest man. I’ve come simply to speak.”

  The crowd was suddenly still as the men waited to see Tarak’s reaction. His face was inscrutable, his voice tight. “You’ve come to speak, cousin, then speak.”

  “You must find this girl bewitching,” teased the Mullah, “for a rich man to forget his duties and to neglect to offer a glass of tea to a traveller.”

  Tarak stared at the Mullah silently.

  The Mull
ah raised his hands in the customary gesture. “Melmastia, Tarak Sagwan.”

  Tarak spat on the ground. “Keep your Pashtunwali.” He stared at the Mullah. The men around Tarak waited, watching for what Tarak would do next. Soon, all around the bandit king was still, except for the scuffling of the dogs in their kennel. The Mullah stood with the appearance of perfect calm, awaiting Tarak’s reaction.

  Tarak turned his cruel gaze to those around him, looking over the faces of his men, deliberately drawing out the tension. When he finally stepped forward, his face broke into a wide smile. He placed his arms around the Mullah in a gusty embrace, and the men around him laughed along with his clownish expressions. “Melmastia, stranger. Sit, be my guest, and perhaps I can name you a price for me to forget about this girl.” He turned to look at his men again. “Though it will be more than the dowry that was promised.” He pulled his shirt open to bare his chest to the crowd. “Because you’ll have to pay for my broken heart, as well.”

  The bandits laughed at their leader’s humour and began to settle down to listen while Tarak and the Mullah seated themselves on a single rug at the centre of the crowd. The Mullah waved away a small glass of tea, while Tarak took two.

  “This girl —” began the Mullah.

  “My bride,” corrected Tarak.

  “Her family do not approve of this marriage. They say that they have been forced, and that you will …” he paused as he searched for the word, “misuse her.”

  “Then let them come and tell me themselves,” said Tarak. “Are they not free men, with honour?”

  “You know well why they do not,” said the Mullah, gesturing at the pack of rough men who surrounded them. “If this was merely a dispute between you and this one family, perhaps they would be right not to worry. But the number of families who feel wronged is growing.”

  “Then it is their shame that they still do not dare to speak to me themselves,” mocked Tarak. “I am a free man, and I will do as I wish.”