by Phil Halton
The Mullah shook his head. “I am not sure that I agree with him.”
Jan Farooq smiled. “And so perhaps we need to have a different conversation.”
The Mullah looked at him, waiting.
“Many of my men from the Russian times still follow me,” said Jan Farooq. “We control this road from here to Maiwand. Everywhere except for your village. Nasir Khan’s other commanders control the road all the way from there to the outskirts of Kandahar City, where we butt against Ustaz Abdul Haleem’s men.”
The Mullah said nothing, watching Jan Farooq closely.
“Working together, we could defeat both Nasir Khan and Ustaz Abdul, tax all the trade from here to Quetta, and become rich men, both of us. And why not? Are we not the mujahideen who defeated the Russians? Do we not deserve the sweet fruits of this life?”
The Mullah looked out the window, seemingly deep in thought. Jan Farooq pressed onward.
“If you don’t believe in Nasir Khan, believe in yourself. Why not ally with me instead? We have known each other for many years, spilt blood together. It is only right that we be partners in this.”
Wasif and Asadullah Amin listened with disbelief. “Go on,” said the Mullah, causing the boys to look sharply at him.
Jan Farooq turned farther in his seat to face the Mullah, and used his hands for emphasis. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. “Together, we can carve up the district without him. Perhaps I can even lure him out from his home, and then you can do what you wish with him.”
The Mullah’s face was impassive. “You would do that for me?”
Jan Farooq laughed, glancing at his driver for support. “Of course! For my tribe, for my cousins, for my brothers, and for myself. Nasir Khan lives in a fortress. Why fight him head-on if we don’t have to?”
The Mullah let out a long breath. “You are right, Jan Farooq.”
Jan Farooq smiled and clapped the Mullah on the knee. “I knew you would see it my way. And so — you and I as brothers against Nasir Khan?”
The Mullah spoke in an even tone, but his eyes shone brightly as he did. “You are right that he has a strong fortress. But it is like a castle made of butter. In a cold, dark night, the castle stands, imposing and strong. But in the light of day, in the light of Islam, it melts in the sun and is no more powerful than a puddle of ghee.”
Jan Farooq scowled and turned around to face forward again. “Would that life were as simple as you make it,” he said.
They drove the rest of the journey in silence.
When they reached the village again, the SUV drove through the market and turned off the road, slowly picking its way up the track to the madrassa. The day was fading into evening and there was no one moving about outside of their homes. The SUV pulled up by the water pump and they all clambered out. Jan Farooq embraced the Mullah swiftly, though without much enthusiasm. The driver brought the bag of dead birds around from the back of the truck. He handed it to the Mullah.
Jan Farooq waved his hand at him. “You can keep them all. To feed the orphans.”
“Your generosity is appreciated,” said the Mullah. He handed the bag to Asadullah Amin, who could barely lift it. “Take this inside the madrassa,” he said, “and then return to your wife.”
Jan Farooq gave Asadullah Amin an embrace, as well. “Don’t forget, Asadullah, that now you are a man. You have killed a bandit king. You are married. Soon you will have children of your own, and you will be the father of a dozen sons.”
“Yes, Jan Farooq,” said Asadullah Amin.
The Mullah spoke to Wasif. “Go down to the checkpoint and send Umar up to the madrassa. He should know how to dress these birds.”
Jan Farooq gestured to the SUV. “Get in, Wasif. I will take you there, as I am driving back down to the highway.”
Wasif looked to the Mullah for assurance, who merely nodded at him. After he had clambered into the back of the truck, he realized that he was still holding the last dead pigeon. He put it on the floor by his feet, trying to ignore it.
Jan Farooq reached out the window to take the Mullah’s hand. “Think about Nasir Khan’s offer,” he said. “And about what refusing it might mean for you. Think also of my offer.” He looked around at the houses surrounding the madrassa. “Your quiet life here cannot continue uninterrupted forever.”
The Mullah’s face was impassive as he watched them leave. Wasif sat quietly in the back of the SUV, ignored by Jan Farooq. When they reached the highway, the SUV stopped in front of the checkpoint. Jan Farooq snapped at the driver. “Wait here. I am going to speak to a man in the chai khana.”
The driver lit a cigarette, blowing smoke at Wasif. “Off with you, boy,” he said.
Wasif fumbled with the door handle until it opened, stepping out into the road. He looked down at the dead pigeon on the floor of the truck, but left it there and closed the door. When he turned to walk toward the checkpoint, he saw Umar, who greeted him warmly.
“The great hunter returns!”
Umar looked at him curiously, holding him by the shoulders, but Wasif simply looked away and said nothing.
“Are you sick?” asked Umar.
Wasif shook his head.
“I have had my doubts about Jan Farooq all along,” said Umar. “Your face says much of what must have been discussed.”
Wasif didn’t look at Umar, but simply passed on his message. “The Mullah wishes to speak to you. He is at the madrassa.”
Umar looked as if he wanted to say something more, but did not. He handed his rifle to Wasif, briefly pulling back the cocking handle to show him that a round was chambered.
“Rashid and Isa are eating in the chai khana,” he said. “Stay here for now, and go eat when they come back.”
Wasif took the rifle and sat on the low stone wall, looking down the road. Umar watched him for a moment, but knowing how impatient the Mullah could be, he hurried up the well-worn path to the madrassa.
Wasif sat alone, with tears in his eyes. His hands gripped the rifle tightly, twisting and wearing the wooden grips.
CHAPTER 20
Jan Farooq walked back from the chai khana to his SUV without glancing at Wasif. The sun was low in the sky, leaving much of the village and market in the darkness of shadows. The tail lights of Jan Farooq’s truck lit up as the driver, seeing him approach, started the engine.
Wasif called out, his voice cracking as he did. “Haji, have you started your journey home? Do you no longer wish to enjoy our hospitality?”
Jan Farooq merely waved a hand at the boy without looking and climbed into the SUV. He rolled the window down and lit a cigarette.
Wasif set his kalash down on the rocks that had been stacked around their position on the road and stood behind the dushka. He pulled on the cocking lever, but the bolt was already to the rear — the gun was ready. Wasif tried not to think too much about the details of what he knew he must do. The most dangerous of evil men were the tempters, who led good men astray.
He slipped the index fingers of both hands around the gun’s large trigger and pulled. The dushka shuddered in its mount, the vibration passing up Wasif’s arms and into his chest. The deep thump of the gun was entirely unlike the sharp crack of a kalash.
The noise of the gun startled Wasif enough that he gripped it more tightly, firing a longer burst than he had intended. The empty casings that the gun spewed out were the size of fat pencils and soon a small pile of them lay smoking on the ground beside him. The SUV had started to drive away before he fired, but it had quickly rolled to a stop in the middle of the road, smoke rising from its shattered engine block. Nothing moved inside the truck. Its tail lights burned red in the grey of the evening light.
Men were running out of the chai khana and looking up the street toward the dushka from stalls all along the roadway ahead. Before anyone could stop him, Wasif took his kalash and approached the SUV, peering through the shattered back window.
Inside the truck, both the driver and Jan Farooq were a broken mess. The fron
t windshield was blown out and the inside of the truck dripped with gore. Wasif was still staring at his handiwork when Isa and Rashid grabbed him by the elbows.
“What have you done?” demanded Rashid.
Wasif smiled and pushed out his chest. “Only the will of God, brother.”
Rashid hit him with an open hand, hard across the face. The blow staggered Wasif, leaving a drop of blood hanging from the corner of his lip. Rashid’s voice was tight. “You fool. Do you think that this will go unpunished?”
Wasif was in tears but he managed to choke out his words: “As my brother was punished for killing Tarak Sagwan?”
Rashid shook his head. A crowd had gathered around the SUV, bodies pressing against each other to look inside. Pahzman stood at the edge of the crowd, his eyes riveted on Wasif. Rashid pulled the boy by the arm, dragging him away from the crowd and back toward the dushka. He quickly grabbed the essential things that couldn’t be left unattended, a few cardboard boxes of ammunition and three hand grenades, stuffing them into the fold of his patu.
Isa watched the crowd growing around the SUV nervously. “We need to leave,” he said.
Rashid, lost in thought, didn’t answer, instead finishing what he was doing with a methodical slowness. He took Wasif by the hand and led him up the path toward the madrassa.
Partway up the hill they were met by Umar and the Mullah, who were hurrying down to the highway. “What was that shooting?” asked Umar.
Wasif answered before Rashid. “I killed Jan Farooq,” he said proudly. “He was nothing but a bandit in disguise.”
Umar’s mouth hung open in surprise, but the Mullah regarded Wasif coolly. “Did he attack you? Threaten you?”
“No, Mullah,” said Wasif. “But he threatened all of us. He could not be trusted! I only did what had to be done. What any righteous man would do.”
The Mullah looked down toward the roadway. There was still a crowd around the SUV, but no one had yet pursued them up the hill. “There will have to be a reckoning,” said the Mullah.
“Perhaps a blood price could be paid,” offered Umar.
Wasif was shaking with frustration. “But this was not murder,” he said. “Are we not opposed to evil men?”
The Mullah put a hand on Wasif’s shoulder. “It is not always so simple.”
“It is simple when you say it, Ma’alim.”
The Mullah sighed deeply, in a way that Wasif had never heard before. He began to walk back up the hill, his stride weary.
“Isa, go back down to the chai khana and have Faizal bring up food and tea for all of us,” said Umar. He looked to the Mullah. “In the morning we will call for a jirga. We can resolve this.”
The Mullah kept walking. “We will reap what has been sown,” he said.
Isa led Faizal and his helper back to the top of the hill, each carrying some of the meal of bread, clear soup, and tea. The village surrounding the madrassa was dark and quiet, as the people remained shuttered in their homes. The madrassa was dark, as well.
Umar met them as they began to walk through the village, speaking in a low tone. “The Mullah has told us all to gather in the ruined garden rather than the madrassa.”
Isa hesitated. “Why there?” he asked.
Umar shrugged. “It is his wish. He has moved all the boys from the madrassa, as well. Only Asadullah Amin and his bride remain locked in their side of the compound.”
Faizal looked up at the sky. “It is a warm night to be outside, at least.”
As the men stood together, Lala Chai took the copper pot from Faizal’s helper and poured out short glasses of tea and handed one to each of them. None of the men spoke as they drank the tea, each privately wondering what would happen next. Umar looked up to judge the weather, but clouds obscured the stars and sky completely. The night around him was pitch-black.
Umar quickly tipped the last of the tea into his mouth and handed the empty glass back to the young boy who had come with Faizal. “Go to the madrassa with this tea,” said Umar. “The Mullah is still there. Offer him a glass, and tell him that we are all gathering together here.”
The boy hesitated, uncertain. Lala Chai snatched the glass from him imperiously. “This idiot doesn’t even know where that is,” he said. With a stack of glasses in one hand and the tea in the other, he moved off through the houses toward the madrassa, swinging the teapot as he went.
When he arrived at the madrassa, he found it was empty, save for the Mullah, who sat alone in the classroom, his patu wrapped around his shoulders. A candle stub burned low beside him and the Quran rested lightly in his hands. He did not look up as Lala Chai entered the room, nor when a glass of hot tea was held in front of him.
“I have been asked to bring you tea,” said Lala Chai. “This is almost the last of it. Do you want me to make another pot?”
“No, I am fine,” said the Mullah, looking up. “I simply needed some time alone.”
“I will leave you then, Ma’alim. Everyone is gathered in the garden, as you asked.”
When the Mullah didn’t respond, Lala Chai hesitated. “Ma’alim, everyone is frightened, though none will say it to you.”
The Mullah looked up at him, blinking in the half-light, and smiled. “I shall join them, then,” he said. He stood and led the boy out of the madrassa and into the night. The Mullah and Lala Chai clasped hands as they walked across the village to the ruined garden. Perched on the edge of the village, it was nothing more than low stone walls and the stumps of trees and bushes. In the centre was a large round stone that had once been the base of an olive press. Gathered in the remains of the garden were all the boys from the madrassa, as well as the Mullah’s followers.
He raised his hands as he entered. “A blessing upon you all.”
Wasif burst from where he was sitting and knelt in front of the Mullah. “I am sorry, so sorry, for what I have done. Please forgive me.”
The Mullah lifted Wasif up, and spoke to everyone. “To forgive you I would first have to blame you. There is but one judge, and I am not He.”
“Even still,” said Rashid, “this is a problem. Others will judge, and will ask for blood.” He gestured toward Wasif. “His blood, and likely ours as well.”
The Mullah put an arm around Wasif protectively. “Do any of you truly blame him for what he has done?”
Rashid shook his head. “It was murder.”
The Mullah interrupted. “It was justice. Jan Farooq was a thief, a liar, and a sinner.” He smiled at Wasif. “It was premature,” he said. “Surprising, even. But justice nonetheless.”
“Mullah, what would you have us do?” asked Umar.
“My friends,” replied the Mullah, “for now I ask only that you watch over me. I will pray for guidance. This is a quiet place, well suited to concentration.”
“But what will we do about Jan Farooq?” asked Rashid.
“Leave tomorrow for tomorrow. For now, we are in the hands of God.”
Rashid looked unsatisfied, but said nothing further. The men and boys slowly dispersed, arranging themselves to sleep in the garden. Each found a comfortable spot among the low walls and rocks that made up the ruins, disappearing from sight as they found places to sleep. The night air was warm, and any other night the setting would be well suited for rest.
Wasif held his kalash in both hands, posturing for the young boys. “I will stand the first watch,” he said. He then strode off to stand at the edge of the garden, looking away from the others and into the night.
The Mullah observed all of this quietly, taking a seat on the round stone in the centre of the garden, his face a mask. Umar came to him and asked quietly, “Are you all right?”
The Mullah sighed. “Truthfully, my soul is heavy with its burden. But having you and the others stand watch over me lightens the load, if only a little.”
Umar nodded and moved a short distance away, laying out his patu on a flat piece of earth. He lay down, turning several times before he was comfortable, and tried to sleep.
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The Mullah sat alone in the centre of the garden, with the Quran on its low stand and a kalash beside him. A candle burned down to a stub flickered nearby. The night was still and quiet, and the others around him all slept. Wasif sat propped up against the wall at the edge of the garden, kalash in his lap, snoring gently.
Eyes half-closed, the Mullah’s face was tight with concentration. “Father of all, the Exceedingly Compassionate, the Controller, the Majestic: I see what You wish me to do. But there are others better suited to the task. If this burden may be lifted, let it be so. Not as I will it, but as Your servant, as You do.”
The Mullah began to repeat a phrase in whispers, over and over again, in meditation.
“He is Allah, Who is One.
Allah, the eternal refuge, absolute.
He neither begets, nor is born.
Nor is there to Him any equivalent.”
Lala Chai crept out of the garden where the others slept, the Mullah’s own patu wrapped around his shoulders. He walked through the upper village, his footsteps breaking the stillness of the air. When he reached the madrassa, he went inside and stood at the front of the classroom. In his hands he held Asadullah Amin’s cricket bat, which had lain forgotten in the courtyard.
The room was devoid of any furniture except carpets, but Lala Chai knew where the Mullah always sat. He positioned himself near that spot, imagining that he was in class. Tired, Lala Chai pulled the patu up around his shoulders, but he stayed upright, sitting facing the door, the bat across his knees. The rough wool rug, worn down by countless feet, seemed to be the most comfortable seat he had ever had. While the others slept in the garden, he would protect the classroom, just as Asadullah Amin had done before him.
Before long he was hunched over, asleep, feeling at home and safe, though alone in the empty madrassa.
CHAPTER 21
A single motorcycle threaded its way quietly up the hill toward the madrassa, leading two pickup trucks whose cargo beds carried a half-dozen armed men. None of the vehicles had turned on their headlights, so they drove slowly, weaving around rocks and dense brush. Driving the motorcycle was Ghulam Zia, a kalash slung across his back. Seated behind him, looking frightened, was Pahzman.