by Phil Halton
The men found seats under the shade of the tent, whose sides had been lifted to invite a cool breeze. The mood was no brighter than the day before, but the shouting had subsided, and instead earnest discussion passed back and forth between the two sides. Both Jan Farooq and Gol Kochi were silent, listening to the others speak. The arguments made were repetitious, but every man sought to be heard giving his opinion.
As the day wore on, Jan Farooq nodded to Pahzman, who had not yet spoken. Pahzman cleared his throat and began. “Much of this dispute could be settled by the payment of money, to the Kochi for their sheep, and to this village for the loss of the child.” Men from both sides began to speak over him, neither group wishing to admit any guilt. Pahzman waved his hands to quiet the group enough for him to speak again. “And while this would end the conflict, it brings no benefit to our communities.” Pahzman tried to continue, but he was quickly drowned out by the voices of others who disagreed.
Jan Farooq stood and raised his hands for silence, waiting for a moment as the men in the tent began to settle down. He gestured to Pahzman. “Finish what you began to say.” Jan Farooq remained standing, still in control of the crowd.
Pahzman looked uncomfortable, but continued. “And so, instead, I propose something else: That we accept the rights of the Kochi to graze on the pastures by the river twice a year. And that neither side pay any compensation to the other. But that we pay the Kochi to help us bring in the harvest when they return in the fall, and that they bring our … our harvest to market when they return to Pakistan. And to bind our peoples together, that there be two marriages, to mingle our blood.”
With Jan Farooq gazing over them, no one spoke out immediately against these ideas. Muttered conversations arose between the men as they considered this solution. Before any other man took the opportunity to speak, Gol Kochi stood. “Our lives are a stream of conflict. When we arrive in our summer pastures in the Hazarajat, the conflict will be one hundred times more than we have experienced here. But there, against the Hazara, we will fight. Here, among other Pashtun, there is no need.” There was grumbled agreement with this logic. “I have a daughter,” said Gol Kochi, “a maiden, who is in need of a suitable husband. Mullah, have you a son?”
The Mullah looked at him, startled. “You know I do not.”
“But your boys?”
Asadullah Amin and Wasif, seated in the back of the crowd, sat up straighter. Gol Kochi saw them and pointed. “Is it true what they say of your one boy? That he killed Tarak Sagwan himself?”
“It is true,” said the Mullah. “Asadullah Amin earned his name by killing the bandit king. But his brother, Wasif, is older.”
“The young lion would be a better match for my daughter, I think, and my heart is glad to join my family to your own,” said Gol Kochi.
Both Wasif and Asadullah Amin turned red as the village men stared at them. Asadullah Amin kept his gaze low, seemingly fascinated by a stain on the carpet, but Wasif quickly stood and left the tent without a word. The Mullah did not argue against the suggestion and remained seated, so Gol Kochi continued. “Although I do not have a son, my nephew is dear to me and also needs a wife.”
No one from the village offered his daughter. Jan Farooq craned his neck, looking around at the men, trying to find one who would meet his eye. Finally, he gave up and spoke to Pahzman. “I know that you have a daughter ready for marriage. Is she promised to anyone?”
Pahzman stuttered. “I have spoken to the Mullah.”
Jan Farooq stopped him. “Spoken to is not promised to. I am sure that your daughter will be happy.” Pahzman looked pained, but said nothing. Jan Farooq stood and raised Gol Kochi by both elbows to stand with him. The two men towered over the seated Mullah, hiding him from the view of the other men. “This agreement will end this conflict,” said Jan Farooq, “and will make us all rich through trade. It will bind our communities together to make them both stronger. There is no better way.”
Gol Kochi took Jan Farooq’s hand and looked at his own people. “This valley will become a welcome rest on our journey between summer and winter pastures, and a source of strength to us. We must save our strength for the journey to come, and plan ahead for our own prosperity.”
Both groups sensed that a deal had been struck; no one raised his voice in opposition. Both Jan Farooq and Gol Kochi looked at the faces of the men in each of their communities, their expressions making it clear that dissent was not welcome. After a few moments of silence, the two men embraced.
“It is agreed,” said Jan Farooq.
The Mullah muttered to himself, within earshot of the two leaders. “This is not justice.”
Jan Farooq ignored him. “Mullah, would you give a blessing on this agreement?”
The Mullah stood and looked between Jan Farooq and Gol Kochi. Both stared back, neither betraying any misgivings that they might have. The Mullah looked out at the crowd, reading the faces of the men gathered there, and seeing acceptance, he grudgingly began. “If we are all in agreement …” He let the words hang in the air, but no one dared challenge the deal that had been made. The Mullah waited a moment longer, then moved forward to stand between Jan Farooq and Gol Kochi. He raised his hands as if in prayer, and spoke loudly, so that all could hear him.
“This dispute is now finished. Woe upon anyone who would seek to reopen it. Forgiveness is the crown of greatness. Now let us pray.”
Jan Farooq and Gol Kochi nodded their assent. The men gathered together outside the tent to pray.
Pahzman sat stoically in front of the meagre food that had been laid out for his family’s evening meal: naan, tea, and a small dish of pickled vegetables. Both his wife and his daughter were crying, but he tried his best to ignore them. He broke off a small piece of bread in his hand and wrapped it around a pickled carrot, chewing slowly to make the meal seem larger than it was.
“Why did you agree to this?” muttered his wife. “We will never see our only child again.”
Pahzman turned angrily toward her. “What was I to do? Speak against Jan Farooq in front of the whole community?”
His wife took her hand off her daughter’s shoulder and waved it at Pahzman. “What was the point of leaving our home? Abandoning everything we could not carry? Following this Mullah? All of this suffering was wasted, if now we give our daughter away to a pack of savages!”
Pahzman drew back his hand and held it up as if to strike her. “Enough, woman, enough!”
She ducked under his hand and scooped up the bowl of pickles, throwing it at Pahzman’s face. The brine stung his eyes as he fell backwards to avoid her next attack.
“Your job is to protect us, not to sell us to the highest bidder,” she said.
Pahzman didn’t look at her or answer. He heard a glass smash against the wall near him, but still he didn’t look up. When he spoke, his voice caught in his throat and he could barely force out the words. “I have tried,” he said. “I have tried.”
He heard his wife go back to comfort his daughter on the other side of the room. Pahzman wiped his eyes, which were filled with tears. “I will try.”
CHAPTER 16
Umar and Rashid stood back, looking at the rough hole that they had just made in the wall surrounding the madrassa. They had emptied a room in one corner of the compound that had been used for storage, and had built two rough walls to isolate it from the rest of the madrassa. Rashid took an adze and began to smooth the edges of the hole.
“I’m not sure if we will find anyone who can make a door in time,” said Umar.
“There is still one house nearby that has not been rented out by Jan Farooq,” said Rashid. “We can borrow a door from there.” He paused to run one hand over the mud wall that he was scraping.
Isa appeared in the rough doorway, holding a bucket. “I’ve cleaned it as best I can, but there is only so much I can do.”
“We’ll have to paint it all eventually,” said Rashid, “though it’s more important that it is private and secure.”
“Do you think he will be surprised?” asked Isa.
“I doubt he has even thought far enough ahead to realize that he will need somewhere else to live,” said Umar.
The two men continued their work, happily preparing a living space for Asadullah Amin and his bride.
The chai khana had been cleared out to host a small meeting. Jan Farooq, Pahzman, and the Mullah sat along one side of the carpeted platform while Gol Kochi and two other Kochi elders sat along the other. A simple meal of tea, naan, and kebabs sat half-eaten between them. Faizal and Lala Chai both refilled glasses of tea from their copper pots.
Jan Farooq picked at a piece of gristle caught between his teeth, his words mumbled through his fingers. “If the walwar and the jehez are of equal value, no money need change hands at all.”
Gol Kochi nodded. “That is acceptable.”
The Mullah shook his head. “That is true. But it is written in the Hadith that there must be a mahr. The groom must pay this to the bride herself.”
“And so you will provide this money, Mullah?”
“Truthfully, I have no money other than that collected for zakat, which I will not use.”
Gol Kochi patted the Mullah’s arm. “When I married my first wife, I paid the mahr in goods. Tea, sugar, and cloth.”
“Would two kalashes be a suitable payment to your daughter?” asked the Mullah.
“Yes,” laughed Gol Kochi. He looked at the other Kochi sitting with them, who appeared bored by all the talk. “It is settled, then. And in truth, such a payment would suit her temperament, as well.”
Pahzman had been keeping silent. When he spoke, his eyes looked from man to man as if seeking something to grasp onto. “I know why these marriages are important. But she is my only daughter, and the Kochi —”
The Mullah cut off his argument with a chop of his hand. “This is necessary for the community. Did we save her from Tarak Sagwan to become a spinster?”
Pahzman’s eyes were downcast. “I understand. But —”
The Mullah’s eyes flashed brightly. “Enough. It is done. Can you provide a jehez?”
Pahzman shook his head slowly. “Truly, I have nothing to give and no money to pay. And to marry my only daughter out of the bonds of our tribe, and to the Kochi —”
“The only bond worth discussing,” said the Mullah, “and the bond that binds us, is Islam.”
Jan Farooq cleared his throat and looked at Gol Kochi. “Perhaps one wedding is enough for the moment. Pahzman will have money at harvest time, and we can have this wedding when you return. She can remain promised to you until then.”
Gol Kochi scratched at his beard and nodded. “This is acceptable to me. Our ways will be difficult for this girl, and having her join us as we return to winter pastures will be simpler.”
Pahzman took Gol Kochi’s hands in his own. “Thank you, Haji, thank you.”
The Mullah looked between Jan Farooq and Gol Kochi, but could not detect any sign that this result had been preordained. “This is not what was decided at the jirga.”
Jan Farooq waved a hand in the air between them. “This is a minor detail. Nothing more.”
The Mullah sighed. “Then the girl will remain betrothed until the harvest, at which point she will be wed. If this is acceptable to everyone.”
Jan Farooq stood up. “Thank you, Mullah. It is.”
The discussion finished, the men departed. The Mullah sat alone in the empty chai khana, and even with time to think, he was unable to devise a better solution than that just agreed upon.
Faizal and Rashid sat with Asadullah Amin outside the madrassa. Lala Chai brought a pot of tea from the stove and poured a glass for everyone. Wasif sat sullenly nearby, part of the circle of conversation and yet ignoring it. Faizal’s eyes were shining, and he patted Asadullah Amin on the shoulder. “And so, do you know what to expect?”
Asadullah Amin looked uncomfortable. “God will lead me.” Faizal held his laughter, but only barely. “I have already read in the Sunnah and the Hadith what prayers a man must say over his bride on their wedding night.”
Faizal burst out laughing, holding his sides tightly. Asadullah Amin turned red, as did Wasif. Rashid put a hand on Asadullah Amin’s shoulder and spoke in a gentle tone. “My brother, ignore Faizal. In this case his ignorance shows itself. Let me explain what you must know, and that you have probably never heard.” Rashid looked up at Wasif. “And you can listen, as well. You, too, will be a man soon, I am sure.”
Wasif sat with them, but he did not listen to what Rashid had to say. His thoughts were focused on those last words: You, too, will be a man soon.
Every man in the village was gathered outside the madrassa. There was a festive atmosphere, and each wore the best clothes he could muster. Faizal had given Asadullah Amin a black vest with embroidery around the edges, which he wore over his shalwar kamiz. The Mullah had fashioned a turban for him from dark green cloth. The Mullah and his disciples wore the only clothes they owned.
A dark SUV struggled up the path to the madrassa, the dirt track much wider now from the constant wear of feet than it had been only a few weeks ago. The vehicle pulled up beside the well, and Jan Farooq climbed out of the back seat. Sitting in the front seat was Nasir Khan. The Mullah moved to speak with them both. As he approached the vehicle, he saw through the window that Ghulam Zia was sitting behind the wheel.
“This is a surprise,” said the Mullah.
“Mash’allah,” said Nasir Khan, climbing down from the passenger seat.
The men embraced each other, one after the other, each reciting a long greeting. “I hope 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.”
When the greetings were over, Nasir Khan held the Mullah by the shoulders and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Where is the young lion? I wanted to personally give him a wedding gift.”
The Mullah gestured to Asadullah Amin, who seemed small in the crowd of grown men. He approached Nasir Khan, the rest of the crowd pressing in behind him to better hear what would be said. Nasir Khan made a show of appraising him, touching his arms and chest.
“A young lion indeed!” he declared. Nasir Khan pressed an envelope into Asadullah Amin’s hand. “This is for you and your bride.” Asadullah Amin accepted the gift wordlessly, unsure what to do as the centre of attention.
The Mullah stepped in to help him. “Many thanks, Haji Nasir. Your reputation for generosity is well founded.”
“Many thanks,” repeated Asadullah Amin.
Other men now took the opportunity to greet both Jan Farooq and Nasir Khan. Soon they became the centre of the knot of men by the madrassa, and Asadullah Amin had been pushed aside to stand quietly with the Mullah.
Two of the village men had fashioned drums from huge pots used for cooking rice, which they hung around their necks using knotted ropes made of colourful rags. They stood in front of Jan Farooq and began to beat a simple rhythm. The men around them started to clap their hands to the beat. Asadullah Amin was both pulled and pushed to the front of the crowd, hands slapping him on the shoulders as he was drawn forward. Once he was in position, flanked by Nasir Khan and the Mullah, the group started walking down to the river. Despite the jostling crowd, Ghulam Zia kept close behind his master.
Nasir Khan reached behind Asadullah Amin and took the Mullah’s hand. “So, my friend, what new adventures have you had since the death of Tarak Sagwan?”
The Mullah’s face was impassive. “Much has been accomplished, thanks to God,” said the Mullah. “The number of religious students has grown, as has the village. And we have once again dug the old water channels to irrigate the fields.”
“Is that all?” asked Nasir Khan with a smile. “No more fighting bandits?”
“I am a teacher,” said the Mullah. “We look to live in peace. Nothing more.”
Nasir Khan looked sideways
at the Mullah, still smiling. “Indeed, peace is what our people need.”
When they reached the river, they could see the Kochi gathered on the other side to greet them. Strung out in a ragged line in front of the tents were both men and women, their clothing bright and colourful. The women wore loose head scarves and stared at the village men, proud and unafraid.
The river was beginning to run faster and deeper, and the water was cool. Umar and Rashid rushed forward, lifting Asadullah Amin onto their shoulders, to the cheers of the men, and carried him across the water. When they set him down on the opposite shore, their faces were flushed with exertion.
Gol Kochi stepped forward to greet him, nodding as well at the Mullah and Jan Farooq as they waded the river. “Asadullah Amin, welcome.” He embraced him, smiling broadly. “Are you and your people ready to prove themselves?”
Asadullah Amin nodded, unsure what the old Kochi meant. He strained his neck to look behind the older man, trying to determine which girl was to be his bride. A few girls were in the crowd, but Asadullah Amin thought that he could see one whose clothes seemed finer than the others. She was tall, her hands and feet covered in henna, and she looked at him fiercely. When he caught her eye, Asadullah Amin quickly looked away.
Gol Kochi pointed off into the pasture behind the tents. Several hundred yards away, a tall stake had been driven into the ground. A clay pot, turned upside down, balanced on top of the stake. “Before we begin, my people propose a test of your shooting prowess!” Another Kochi man handed Asadullah Amin a long-barrelled jezail, heavily decorated with brass and mother-of-pearl. The weapon stood as tall as he did. Asadullah Amin held it awkwardly and uncertainly in both hands as he tried to keep his balance. Gol Kochi led him to the other side of the tents, with the mixed crowd of men following them.
The Kochi women gathered to one side to watch the shooting demonstration. Asadullah Amin stood out in front and held the jezail as tightly as he could. Gol Kochi cocked the hammer for him; it was already loaded. He was not sure how to aim the ancient weapon, and had trouble keeping the barrel from wobbling. When he fired, there was a tremendous crack and a cloud of smoke, but the clay pot still stood at the end of the stake. The round had gone wide of its mark. Gol Kochi smiled at the Mullah, who was watching from nearby. “Will you try it next?” he asked. “We won’t hand my daughter over to a village of men who can’t protect themselves.”