This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  The Mullah took the jezail from Asadullah Amin and accepted the powder and shot offered him by one of the Kochi. The Mullah gave a rare smile. “I haven’t fired at marks like this since I was a boy.”

  “My people are not tainted by modern ways,” laughed Gol Kochi. “We are Pashtun in the same way as we have always been, generation to generation. Today is an important day, and we celebrate as did our grandfathers.”

  The Mullah knelt and tried to brace his arms on his knees. The jezail was heavy, even for him, and when he fired his shot went wide, as well. The crowd cheered for him regardless.

  One by one the Mullah’s disciples took the jezail and loaded it, taking their turn to fire at the clay pot. Lala Chai pushed his way to the front of the group, digging his fists into his hips as he waited for his chance.

  “Give me that thing and I will show you all how to shoot,” said Lala Chai. The crowd roared with amusement. Lala Chai spun around to face them with an expression of disdain that sent them into further peals of laughter. Lala Chai could barely hold the jezail at all, so Gol Kochi took pity and loaded the musket for him. When it was prepared, the boy lifted the musket into the air with all of his might, but when he fired, the musket jumped out of his hands and bruised his face badly. Even though the clay pot still sat defiantly on the top of the stake, the crowd cheered louder for him than for anyone else. They saw that the boy had spirit.

  None of the others had any more luck than Lala Chai, though Kochi and village men alike clamoured for a chance to try their luck. When it seemed that everyone had tried to shoot the clay pot, leaving Gol Kochi unsure whom to ask to shoot next, Asadullah Amin interrupted him with a request. “Father-in-law, I wish to shoot again. But before I do, I want to borrow a camel from you.”

  Gol Kochi’s face shone with delight at the boy’s odd request. He waved at a Kochi man, who returned shortly leading a small camel from the dozen or so in their herd. He brought it to Asadullah Amin, who took the rope in one hand. The camel pulled away from him, baring its teeth, while the crowd watched, wondering what would happen next.

  Asadullah Amin pulled the camel around in a circle until it stood where he wanted it. The camel sat down, ignoring him to pull at some grass from a nearby clump. Satisfied, Asadullah Amin took the jezail again and carefully loaded it as he had seen the others do before him. He knelt down beside the camel and laid the jezail across the camel’s back. It snorted at him but did not seem to mind, and was soon pulling at the grass again with its brown teeth. Asadullah Amin steadied the weapon, trying to remember everything that the men had told him about shooting in the months since the bandit attack. Holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger.

  The jezail fired and belched smoke, and the camel stood up suddenly, upending both the boy and the musket. Asadullah Amin could not see the target, but the sound of the crowd told him that he had struck it. Peering around the camel’s legs, he saw that the pot was gone.

  Gol Kochi led the camel out of the way and helped Asadullah Amin to his feet. Folded in his hands was a turban made of fine, dark blue cloth. “Asadullah Amin, here is your prize.” He handed the turban to the boy, who took it gratefully in his hands. “And now let us bring you a second prize,” said Gol Kochi. “My daughter.”

  He then waded carefully into the crowd of women and returned leading the tall girl forward to stand beside Asadullah Amin. She didn’t look at him, focusing her eyes entirely on a small spot on the ground in front of her. The Kochi women remained separate from the men, looking on from the side. All of the men gathered in behind the bride and groom, Nasir Khan standing closest to Asadullah Amin.

  The Mullah looked around at the crowd of men, his back to the women, and raised his hands and spoke. His speech, sometimes stiff and halting, on this occasion flowed across his lips melodiously.

  “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Master of the Day of Judgment, Thee alone we worship; Thee alone we ask for help. Show us the straight path, the path of those whom Thou hast favoured, not the path of those who earn Thine anger nor of those who go astray.”

  He then nodded toward Gol Kochi, who turned to Asadullah Amin. “I give you my daughter in marriage, in accordance with Islam, for the dowry agreed upon, with Allah as our best witness.”

  Asadullah Amin stumbled over his words, not looking at his bride. “I accept this girl in marriage, in accordance with Islam, with Allah as our best witness.”

  The Mullah looked into the crowd for Rashid. He and Umar came forward, each holding a kalash that had been carefully cleaned and polished. They handed the weapons one at a time to Asadullah Amin, who laid them at the girl’s feet. The Mullah’s voice was strong and clear. “The agreed-upon mahr has been paid.” He looked at Gol Kochi. “Who does she name as her protector?”

  Gol Kochi cleared his throat. “She names Haji Jan Farooq.” The Mullah looked back at him sharply, his face clearly showing surprise.

  Jan Farooq stepped forward from within the crowd to stand beside Nasir Khan. “Bismillah. I accept.”

  The Mullah raised his hands as if in prayer and said the names of the bride and groom three times. “Asadullah Amin. Mahtab Kochi. Asadullah Amin. Mahtab Kochi. Asadullah Amin. Mahtab Kochi. Allah bless you, and may He unite you in good.”

  As the Mullah finished, the ceremony ended and the crowd of men cheered again. The Kochi women ululated loudly behind the Mullah, their voices overpowering those of the men. Gol Kochi gestured toward a low pile of cushions and rugs set between two tents, and Asadullah Amin and Mahtab took their seats on the pillows while the crowd gathered to sit on long rows of carpets laid out in front of them. Village men hastened back across the river to collect food from their wives, who had remained behind the walls of their homes. The men carried large pots of qabuli pilau and stacks of naan back across the river and set them down at the end of each of the long carpets. The naan was passed hand to hand along the rows of men. The rice was spooned onto large platters, the first of which were set down in front of the bride and groom and the most senior of the guests. Once their food was in place, the simple wedding feast began.

  The Kochi women sat a short distance away in a tight circle, with Mahtab’s mother and her relatives in the middle of the group. All of the men, both villagers and Kochi, sat mixed together, though the most senior of both groups sat closest to Asadullah Amin. Neither he nor Mahtab looked at or spoke to each other. Asadullah Amin tried to ignore the ribald comments made by the men, while Mahtab kept her gaze fixed on a point in the far distance.

  Gol Kochi squeezed in beside the Mullah, squaring himself off with the largest of the platters of food. He picked through the rice to find a piece of boiled meat buried inside, which he popped in his mouth with a satisfied sound. As he slowly chewed the tough chunk of mutton, he scooped up a handful of rice in the fingers of his right hand, pressing it with his thumb before sticking it in his mouth. He looked around to satisfy himself that all was as it should be before fixing his eyes on the Mullah. “Our thanks to you for this feast, my friend. It is not easy to feed so many in times like these.”

  “The thanks belong to Jan Farooq,” said the Mullah. “He is the one who has paid for it.”

  Gol Kochi searched the Mullah’s face. “Mash’allah. Jan Farooq is a generous man.” The Mullah grunted in agreement, but seemed focused on the communal plate of rice in front of him. Gol Kochi’s eyes wandered through the crowd to find Jan Farooq. He was at the far end of the group of seated men, speaking earnestly with some of the farmers who had become his tenants. Jan Farooq’s face appeared very serious until he broke abruptly into a wide smile, quickly mirrored by the others. He left the farmers at the far end of the carpets and took his place again at the head of the feast. He nodded to Gol Kochi and the Mullah as he sat down in front of Asadullah Amin, reaching for a handful of rice as he did so.

  The eldest men ate in silence while those farther down the lines of carpets watched. W
hen they had eaten their fill, the platters were passed down to the next most senior men, who ate from what was left. In this manner, the food slowly made its way down to the youngest, poorest, and weakest members of the community.

  Gol Kochi belched and drew himself up on his haunches. “We have prepared something special for today,” he said to the Mullah before jumping to his feet. He disappeared behind the tents for a few minutes, out of sight of the crowd. The Mullah sat nervously, picking at his food, until Gol Kochi reappeared followed by two men, far apart, each leading a camel.

  The camels were not saddled, but had fine blankets over their backs and bridles covered in heavy brocade. Bells tied along the edges of their blankets tinkled as they swayed forward. The two men led them by short, heavy ropes, the camels’ heads tossing angrily as they were pulled into a clear area near the wedding party.

  Gol Kochi stood behind the camels and looked out at the crowd. His people all leaned forward in anticipation, knowing what was coming next. Gol Kochi waved his hand, and a third camel, a female, was walked over toward the pair. The men pulled the two camels together, striking them across the chest with wooden switches, still holding tightly to the ropes. As the camels came closer they suddenly charged, colliding with each other, fighting over the female in heat.

  The Kochi began to shout, egging the animals on. The camels grunted and dripped white froth from their mouths as they bit at each other and pushed with their chests. Each tried to put its neck over the other, pushing downward, and they began to turn around in a tight circle, fighting for position. The two men who had been restraining them finally let go of the ropes. Suddenly freed, the camels spun like dervishes.

  Asadullah Amin leaned over and spoke to the old Kochi man seated closest to him whose eyes where fixed on the fight. “How does one animal win?”

  The man replied without looking. “They fight until one runs away or is forced onto its back.”

  Jan Farooq leaned over to the Mullah and spoke into his ear. “They are savages. But they are useful ones.” The Mullah did not reply.

  The camels both pushed hard, their legs straining to keep upright. The Kochi men cheered and shouted, while the villagers simply watched with amazement. White froth was smeared across each camel’s back as they pushed and bit at each other. The camels turned and spun, pressing hard against each other until one stopped suddenly and spun in the opposite direction, moving fast, like a wrestler. Its feint caught the other camel off balance, causing it to stagger, its legs splayed wide with one foot off the ground. The faster of the two camels kept pushing, rolling its neck over the other and using its chest like a ram, until it had pushed its opponent onto the ground. It did not stop there, though, as it quickly dropped down, rolling the other camel over onto its back.

  A loud cheer went up from all the men. With the match decided, the Kochi handlers immediately began to pull the camels apart. Soon there were several men pulling on each rope and pushing the camels to separate them before one injured the other.

  Gol Kochi stood once again in front of the group, his face flushed with excitement from the entertainment. He signalled again with his hands, and called out: “Asadullah Amin! Come here.”

  Asadullah Amin stood up and walked hesitantly to stand beside the older man, aware of the eyes that followed him as he walked past the long lines of seated men. A Kochi had been waiting for the signal to come forward, and when he did he carried a dhol with him and sat on a carpet hastily laid in the centre of the ground that had been churned up by the camels. He was joined by a young Kochi carrying a rebab, who sat next to him. The young nomad plucked a few strings, ensuring that his instrument was tuned. The musicians looked at Gol Kochi for the signal to begin.

  “Everyone, let us watch as our young men dance the atan,” said Gol Kochi. “Asadullah Amin, you too will dance.” They were joined by two more young nomads, and Gol Kochi arranged them and Asadullah Amin with himself into a circle around the musicians. The drummer began a simple beat, using one hand on each end of the double-sided dhol. After the rhythm had been established, the other musician began to play his rebab, plucking quickly at the strings to make a lively melody.

  The dancers began to move in step around the musicians. Asadullah Amin stumbled, following along as best he could, watching the others closely. The dancers continued to circle, arms high in the air, stepping and turning in unison. The dance steps repeated over and over, and Asadullah Amin soon found the rhythm. As the music continued and the drumbeat became louder, he forgot the eyes of the men who were watching him and just danced. He repeated the same steps, his feet moving repeatedly to the rhythm, until he began to dance with abandon, circling the musicians again and again.

  When the music finally ended there was a cheer. Asadullah Amin blinked, realizing again where he was and looking around for his friends. “Rashid! Isa!” he shouted. “Come join us!”

  Gol Kochi once again took a seat heavily beside the Mullah, his face covered in sweat. He smiled at the Mullah, who did not smile back. “A young man’s game,” said Gol Kochi. The Mullah snorted in return.

  The drummer now began a heavy beat, cupping one hand to make a different, deeper sound. The crowd began to clap along, and the dancers began to sway to a beat that sounded like dum-taka-dum-taka-dum-taka-dum. Asadullah Amin left the circle and stepped between the rows of men to grab Isa by the hand. “Come, brother. You have always said what a good dancer you are. Show us.” Isa did not move, and cast his eyes downward at the memory. He said nothing, sitting shamefaced and as still and heavy as a stone. Finally, Rashid grabbed him under the elbows and lifted him to his feet. “It will do you good, my friend. Dance just one song.” Rashid pulled him into the circle, where they were joined by another Kochi man, making six dancers in all.

  Isa stared down at his feet, but when the melody began again he started to dance. Stiffly at first, Isa danced with his eyes closed. Soon he was stepping in a lively pattern, turning and moving more fluidly than the others. When they tried to follow his movements, they realized that he wasn’t dancing in any particular pattern, but was moving freely as he felt the music. Isa danced the atan like a man with no future, focused only on the moment. As dancers turned and spun, Isa left the circle to pick up the two kalashes that had been given to the bride as mahr, the only weapons visible at the wedding. He handed one rifle to Asadullah Amin and he held the other in one hand, dancing and spinning with it above his head. From somewhere in the Kochi’s black tents, old swords were produced, with heavy chopping blades and long tassles tied to their grips. These were pushed into the hands of the other dancers, who whirled with the blades as the drum sped up, sounding now like dumtakadumtakadumtakadum.

  The crowd of men was on its feet now and had pulled in closer to the dancers, forming an outer ring around them. Gol Kochi stood and pushed to the front of the crowd. Puffs of dust surrounded the dancers’ feet as they stamped on the ground and spun. The Mullah remained sitting where he was, Umar sitting close behind. Jan Farooq was on his feet at the front of the crowd, leading the spectators in a slow and rhythmic clap. Nasir Khan stood close to him, his eyes bright as he watched.

  Gol Kochi frowned as he walked back to where the Mullah sat. “What is amiss, my friend?” he asked. “Have we Pashtuns not danced the atan for a thousand years, perhaps more?”

  “Music, dancing,” said the Mullah, “perhaps I am simply no longer used to these things. That’s all.”

  Gol Kochi continued to watch the dancing, but spoke to the Mullah. “Our young men live three-day lives. First they are children, then they are men, and then they die. Let them enjoy what they can, when they can.”

  The Mullah considered this as Asadullah Amin spun through his line of sight, dancing and holding the kalash over his head with the zeal of a hero. The Mullah watched, but said nothing more.

  The wedding ended when the dancing was over. The Mullah had left hours before, making a sign for Umar to stay when he stood up to go.

  The bride stood in th
e open space between her new family and her old. Her family carried her dowry chest, a tin box painted gaily in geometric designs, and placed it on the ground in front of her. Isa and Rashid produced a stretcher made from patus and long sticks, which they set down in front of the bride. Folded on it was a light blue cloth, which Rashid handed to Asadullah Amin. He shook it out, revealing its shape. He handed the light blue chador to Mahtab, who reluctantly put it over her uncovered head. Asadullah Amin spoke quietly to her. “This was my mother’s. It will be better if you wear it in the village.”

  Gol Kochi stood mutely looking at his daughter’s covered form for a long moment. He gestured to Asadullah Amin, and then stepped away from the girl. Asadullah Amin took her by the hand and led her to the stretcher, on which she sat. With the chador carefully arranged around her, no part of her could be seen except the edges of her hennaed feet, which her husband quickly covered with the chador. Isa and Rashid took up the front of the stretcher, and Umar and Faizal took the back. They raised the girl up on their shoulders and began to walk back toward the river. The village men lifted the dowry chest, which did not seem heavy, and fell in behind them.

  The Kochi men and women formed a single group again, Gol Kochi watching as his daughter left to join her new family. The Kochi pulled weapons from their tents and fired into the air, shouting wildly as the wedding procession departed.

  They crossed the shallow river with the bride in the lead, but as they approached the village the group began to break up as each man returned to his home. Jan Farooq and Nasir Khan had stayed behind to speak with Gol Kochi. By the time the procession had reached the pathway up to the madrassa, there were few men left to accompany it.