by Phil Halton
Gol Kochi’s eyes were fixed on the Mullah, but he did not move to accept the rifle or raise him up. He ran his fingers pensively through his hennaed beard. “And who do you need protection from?”
“Nasir Khan,” said the Mullah flatly.
“And why not ask Jan Farooq for protection, and stay in your village?”
“One cannot ask an evil man for protection from evil men,” said the Mullah.
Gol Kochi looked surprised. “I would not expect you to call Jan Farooq evil, my friend. What has changed?”
“Jan Farooq is dead.”
Gol Kochi looked surprised for a moment, but then he controlled his expression. “You seem to have much to tell me, then.” Gol Kochi reached out and took the kalash from the Mullah. He brought him to his feet and embraced him again before leading him back to his tent. “You know, Mullah, that we follow the old ways. Our fathers’ ways. You have our protection simply by asking. But come, let us sit and talk. I suspect that there is a long story to be told.”
As he glanced back, Gol Kochi’s eyes caught sight of his daughter, huddled in the back of a truck with Asadullah Amin. He turned his eyes from her, avoiding the sin of looking at another man’s wife. Asadullah Amin saw his glance and quickly pulled the patu back over her face, keeping her out of sight.
Gol Kochi’s gait was heavy as he strode back to his tent, with the Mullah following closely behind.
Lala Chai’s body was laid out on the tailgate of one of the pickup trucks, near the other two boys whose bodies had already been prepared. He was naked, with a clean white cloth laid modestly across his waist. Umar poured water over the body from a jug, while the Mullah gently washed him. The others crouched nearby, the boys from the madrassa huddled behind them. When they spoke, it was in hushed tones.
“We should attack him directly,” whispered Wasif. “Quickly. Surprise him this time, and win.”
Rashid shook his head. “There will be no surprising him. He will be waiting for us from now until this is finished.”
“We simply have to wait until the Mullah tells us his plan,” said Asadullah Amin dismissively. “Success comes from God alone, who in all things knows best.”
“Are we even sure that there is a plan?” asked Faizal.
The Mullah ignored them, gently rocking the body onto its side and continuing to rub it with his cloth, moving it repeatedly in small circles. Umar poured water slowly for him as he worked.
“We are in the hands of God now,” said Asadullah Amin. “I am not worried.”
Rashid clucked in admonishment. “God favours the bold — and the clever. We need more than our faith.”
The Mullah held a small bottle of perfume between his fingers and dripped it across Lala Chai’s body, from his forehead down to his feet. He gently rubbed it into his skin, working his hands down the body with great care.
Faizal half turned toward the others so that he could look each man in the eye. “Perhaps Nasir Khan can be reasoned with. Or the Mullah can simply pay the blood price.” He received nothing but blank looks. “Can we not even try to go back to how it was before?”
Isa spoke in such a low voice that no one heard him. “That’s not possible. For any of us.”
Umar and the Mullah wrapped Lala Chai in a white cloth, tying it off at the head and feet. The preparation of the body complete, the two men stood by the tailgate of the truck, Umar and the others watching the Mullah expectantly. The Mullah had turned away from them, looking at some point in the distance. The long silence grew uncomfortable, until the Mullah finally turned around to speak. His eyes were rimmed with red but he held his expression together tightly. The words caught in his throat, so he gestured to the others to help him lift Lala Chai onto their shoulders.
As they lifted the thin body of the boy, tears filled the deep creases in the Mullah’s face. His voice was thick when he finally spoke. “Let us begin.”
The Mullah sat beside a low fire in between the Kochi tents as the evening grew around him. The others sat in a circle centred on the fire, with the boys in a loose group around them. They had finished the last of the food given to them by Gol Kochi, which was eaten with little of the usual enthusiasm. A pot of tea sat untouched by the fire, empty glasses stacked beside it.
In one of the tents, all the Kochi men had gathered to speak. They had not asked the Mullah to join the jirga, although it was clear that the only topic of discussion would be the status of their guests.
After a long time with the crackle of the fire as the only sound, Umar broke the silence and spoke. “I still can’t believe it. Nasir Khan is a traitor.”
Rashid poked the fire with a stick. “I am sorry to say it, brother, but is it not right that they come to arrest a murderer?”
Wasif’s face flushed hot. “He was an evil man! No better than a bandit!” Everyone looked away as he spoke. “No one tried to arrest my brother when he shot Tarak Sagwan!”
Asadullah Amin’s voice had a tinge of venom. “That was different, Wasif, and you know it! Tarak broke into the madrassa. I had no choice.”
“Jan Farooq was just as bad!” replied Wasif.
Umar interrupted them. “According to Islam, one instance was murder and one was not. But that does not mean that Nasir Khan has the jurisdiction to conduct a trial.”
“If not a trial,” said Rashid, “then a jirga. Wasif could admit his guilt and we could settle on a blood price with his family.”
“Yes!” said Faizal. “We have money. We don’t need to be fugitives.”
“If they accept money,” said Umar. “They may demand blood instead. They may be forced to demand blood by men like Nasir Khan. And don’t forget — they came to arrest the Mullah, as well.”
“That charge was untrue. Everyone knows it,” said Asadullah Amin.
“Then why would Nasir Khan try to arrest him?” asked Wasif.
“It was politics, for certain,” said Rashid. “Or simply to get him out of the way while the other matter was settled.”
“Nasir Khan cannot be trusted,” said Umar. “He may have intended much more for the Mullah than you think.”
“Then we are fugitives,” said Rashid. “All of us. For as long as Nasir Khan wishes harm upon the Mullah.”
Faizal’s face betrayed his sense of exasperation. “This need not cause all of us to suffer. If there is to be a trial, it is not for all of us.”
The others sat in silence, none replying to what Faizal had implied.
The Mullah had listened to everyone speak before he offered his own thoughts. “A trial is only necessary when there has been a sin, and the need for it remains until there is repentance.”
Umar was shocked. “Mullah, you can’t mean that. How have you sinned?”
The Mullah smiled. “This trial has been sent for all of our sins. Indeed, the state of our country is a trial for all the people, and for all of our sins.”
“I don’t understand,” said Faizal.
“God will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves that displeases him. When God intends misfortune for a people, there is no repelling it, only acceptance and change.”
The others listened closely to his words.
“We thought that we did the bidding of God when we fought the Russians,” said the Mullah. “Now every man who fought them, no matter how dishonourable, calls himself a mujahid. A ghazi. These same men now live how they please as reward for doing what they say was the work of God.”
Umar was visibly upset. “But our cause was just. You know this in your heart.”
“The cause was just,” agreed the Mullah, “That is true. But our people, without the invaders to guide their actions, have fallen away from the path that is the will of God. We have the country that we deserve. And we ourselves have been given this trial for our sins.”
“But, Mullah,” said Asadullah Amin, “we are not sinners.”
The Mullah smiled again. “We told ourselves that we led good lives, but we lived
with many sinners. We heeded the words of men like Jan Farooq and Nasir Khan. We protected those who chose to lie and cheat. Our sins are many and great. And so God is testing us.”
“And so how do we pass this test?” asked Umar.
The Mullah pointed at Wasif, who had been silent as the Mullah talked of sin. “This man, no longer a boy, saw the solution while the rest of us were blind. He chose to stab evil in the heart, not to live with it in our midst.”
Wasif’s cheeks reddened as he looked up at the Mullah. Umar turned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Wasif is no longer one of us. Instead we must welcome Jan Nasrollah, brother of Asadullah Amin.” The others muttered their welcomes, as well, using the boy’s new name.
The Mullah stood, lifting Wasif to his feet and embracing him. “Jan Nasrollah. Dearest Victory of God. This is a good name.”
The men went back to sitting quietly by the fire, mostly gazing up at the stars. The young boys seated all around them were quiet as well, soaking in what had been discussed.
After a time Faizal spoke. “Haji Mullah, forgive me for speaking again, but … I know of something. Somewhere. From the Russian days — an arms cache. It belongs to Engineer Hekmatyar. It is far, near Spin Boldak. And it is guarded, I am sure, but …”
Umar’s look at Faizal was poisonous. “How long have you held on to this secret?”
Faizal was frightened by Umar’s expression, but stammered out a reply: “I have not been hiding this information. My uncle told me of it many years ago. I only just remembered last night. Perhaps with more weapons … well, we can protect ourselves at least.”
“This hardly solves our problem,” said Rashid dismissively. “Spin Boldak is far and driving there would be impossible. Surely Nasir Khan’s men, and Jan Farooq’s family, are looking for us on all the roads.”
The Mullah held up a hand. “There is no straight answer here. The solution to our problem will itself be a problem.” He leaned forward, his face glowing in the firelight. “Faizal, you have piqued my interest. Tell me more of what you know about this cache.”
Faizal cleared his throat, and began to speak.
Early the following morning, the men and boys all lay wrapped in their patus, sleeping around the dying fire in the centre of the tents. Asadullah Amin had rigged a simple shelter from his patu in the back of one of the trucks, and slept there with his wife. The Mullah sat apart from the others, awake and looking out over the countryside.
Gol Kochi sat down beside the Mullah. “The jirga lasted late into the night,” he said.
“I would not have thought there was much to discuss,” replied the Mullah. “You offered us nanawatai shortly after we arrived.”
Gol Kochi chuckled. “You know what it is, our way. Every man had his say. In the end, we agreed that the only thing to do was what had already been done — to offer you our protection.”
The Mullah took Gol Kochi’s hand in his own. “For this,” he said, “you have my thanks. Truly.”
Gol Kochi raised one eyebrow, his expression a warning. “But don’t think that it is that easy. As is the custom, you may stay with us for as long as you wish. We will fight to defend you as if you were our own kin. That is our public decision.”
“But privately?” asked the Mullah.
“The truth is that you bring many mouths with you, which is a concern. We will be moving again soon. One last push and we will be up and over the mountain passes and then into the Hazarajat.”
“Is that all?”
Gol Kochi studied the grass at his feet. “We are also worried about the violence that will come to us once Nasir Khan finds out you are here.” He looked up at the Mullah. “This violence will not stop until you are dead. Or more likely until we are all dead.”
The Mullah sighed. “And so what would you have us do?”
“Publicly, you may stay with us forever,” said Gol Kochi. “Privately, I ask that you leave. Asadullah Amin and the boy Wasif may both stay with us if you wish. I suspect that they are not the ones Nasir Khan really wants, in any case.”
“The boy Wasif is now the man Jan Nasrollah,” said the Mullah.
“No matter. He may stay. If there is to be a trial, I will endeavour to ensure that it is fair and that no blood is shed, you have my word.”
“Is that all?”
Gol Kochi spat. “It is. Our grandfathers would cry to hear this decision, but it is so.”
“Do you not agree with it?” asked the Mullah.
Gol Kochi’s voice was heavy. “We are the Free People, but we are accustomed to being used. To being hated and chased away. You have dealt with us fairly and honestly, unlike others. Our children have married, although what will become of the second wedding that was promised?”
“The father is dead,” said the Mullah, “but I do not know what will become of the girl.”
“Even blood has been mingled already for the purpose,” said Gol Kochi. “I have no quarrel with you or your people, who also follow the old ways.”
The Mullah got up on his haunches, surveying the grassy land all around them. “I assume that you have men posted all around?”
“On a normal day, yes. Today, twice as many,” said Gol Kochi.
“What if I told you that it was my intention to leave as soon as possible?”
“I would bless your journey and ask how you thought you would travel anywhere without being found.”
“I have decided that I no longer wish to be the hunted. We will become the hunters.”
Gol Kochi looked surprised. “Even still, easier said than done.”
The Mullah entreated Gol Kochi: “Can you find us a Kamaz? One with a long cargo bed?”
“Is that all?” he asked.
“And we will need two dozen sheep. Maybe a few more.”
“What will you do with these things?”
The Mullah looked at him earnestly. “You may keep these things when we are done. We just need them for a short time.”
Gol Kochi pulled his fingers through his beard as he thought. “It is one thing for us to protect you in our homes. It is something else for us to help you attack Nasir Khan.”
“That is not what we ask of you. You need not be connected to this at all. But we need your help. As you say, they will be looking for us.”
“Giving away our livestock is like giving away our children. It will be hard to convince the others.”
The Mullah’s mood turned. “You can take both of our trucks and the motorcycle as payment. To help with your grief.”
Gol Kochi smiled. “That would be fine. We can likely find a Kamaz in a day or two.”
“Can the boys from the madrassa stay with you until this is settled?”
Gol Kochi shook his head and spat. “Useless mouths. They are yours.”
The Mullah pointed at them emphatically. “These boys are the future of our country.”
Gol Kochi laughed dryly. “Your country, and your future, perhaps. The future is the enemy of those who live in the past as we do. We walk each journey from the high pastures to the low pastures as did our ancestors, except that we do it knowing it could be our last.”
The Mullah nodded slowly, realizing that he had begun to ask for too much. “Will you take Asadullah Amin’s wife? Where we will go is no place for a woman.”
Gol Kochi looked past him at the truck. His eyes betrayed his true feelings even as he rejected the request. “She is no longer of our tribe. She is yours to care for.”
“Let us not speak of custom now,” said the Mullah, “but of mercy.”
Gol Kochi hesitated, his fingers caught on a tangle in his long hennaed beard. “If only to keep her from being abandoned. Does her husband wish this?”
“He will say yes.”
Gol Kochi did not smile or laugh this time. “Then she will be safe with us.”
“We are agreed, then,” said the Mullah.
CHAPTER 23
Dust swirled along the highway, chased up by the wheels of the Kamaz truck
as it rolled along, bouncing roughly on the potholes. The back of the truck was filled with sheep and goats that complained loudly with every bump.
The truck began to slow as it approached a rockfall that narrowed the highway into a single lane. Armed men stood at the choke point, waving at the truck to stop. The brakes squealed as it slowed and lurched, halting just short of the rocks.
A fat bandit in a dirty shalwar kamiz climbed up onto the step by the driver’s door, a kalash hanging loose from his hand. He blew cigarette smoke into the cab as he spoke. “What delights have you brought us?”
Two other bandits working with him circled the truck like scavenging birds, lifting the canvas flap to peer into the back. One called up to the front of the truck. “Sheep and goats, and a mountain of shit by the smell.”
The two Kochi in the cab of the truck stayed very still. “We only want to pass through to market,” said the driver. He gestured to the other Kochi, who pulled some money out of the pocket of his shirt. “Don’t be foolish, brother. All of it,” he said. The Kochi pulled more bills out of his pocket. The driver passed the wad of money out the window to the fat bandit. “This is all we have. For you, to feed those who protect this road from bandits.”
The fat bandit laughed. “And we’ll take a goat.”
The driver held up his hands as if in surrender. “We want no trouble. Only to get to market to sell our livestock.”
“In that case we’ll take two,” reasoned the bandit. “You’ll be empty-handed when you come back.”
The bandits at the back of the truck lifted two squealing goats and each slung one over his shoulders. The fat bandit stepped down and waved the truck onward. The truck belched black smoke as it rolled forward again.
The driver leaned over to watch the bandits recede in the distance through his mirrors. “Too many more fat greedy bastards like that one and we won’t have a goat left by the time we get there.”
The other Kochi reached through the broken back window and lifted the canvas a few inches. “Mullah,” he said, “we’re almost there.”