by Tamim Ansary
“Yes, sir.” Ghulam Dastagir cleared his throat. “And this is my countryman—”
But the prince interrupted him affably—he would do the talking. “Ghulam Dastagir, you have lost a son, we hear. Take pride in fathering a martyr. Inshallah, your precious boy is in paradise already, seated among God’s most cherished favorites.”
This declaration was followed by a moment of respectful silence. Ghulam Dastagir’s permanent scowl released its grip enough to let his eyes uncrinkle.
“You charged a line of sipahis and eluded all their blazing bullets, people tell me. You dispatched one bastard with a single blow,” said the prince. “This is true?”
“I don’t remember. They murdered my boy,” Ghulam Dastagir muttered. “My eyes were filled with blood.”
“And properly so,” said the prince. “Very properly so. Blood must be avenged with blood.” He turned to Ibrahim. “You, sahib. You are the malik of Chil Bagh.”
Ibrahim blinked. Chil Bagh meant “Forty Gardens.” Should he correct the prince? Does one correct a prince? What if the prince was testing to see if he would a claim a grandeur he did not possess? “I am the malik of my village,” Ibrahim hedged at last, but then, worrying that his hesitation made him sound evasive, he added, “It’s a poor village known to most people as Char Bagh, sahib. We are famous for melons, grapes, and goats.”
“I see.” The prince nodded. He addressed his dinner companions. “Here are two of our real Afghans, Khan-sahibs. Stouthearted men of the countryside: honest, loyal, and brave. This is why the British will lose—men like these two.”
A windy chatter of agreement rose from the prince’s khans, like the wing-melody of pigeons rousted from a courtyard.
But the prince trained his attention on Ibrahim again, and the chatter ceased. “I am told you can read and write.”
“Yes, sahib,” Ibrahim confirmed, taken aback.
“Excellent,” said the prince. “Our struggle requires scholars as well as warriors. Eh, men?”
The khans agreed. “Oh yes—indispensable—Scholars? Very important…”
“Tell me, sahib—as a scholar well-versed in the wisdom of the ancients—what do you say about these farangis who have settled upon our land like locusts, these foreigners who have driven my father from his throne and put a midget in his place, the accursed worm Shah Shuja?”
Before Ibrahim could say a word, Ghulam Dastagir blared, “What could he think? What gives these murdering bastards the right to choose our king? By what right do they even set foot on our soil without permission? On that count alone, we would hate the dogs, but they’ve given us so many other reasons too! Your father is the true king, Wazir-sahib. He will always be the true king. Our loyalty is wrapped around him like bark around a tree, eternal and unchanging. Long live Dost Mohammed Khan! Long may he live!”
The prince heard the man out. “Uh huh,” he said, then returned his gaze to Ibrahim. “And you, Scholar? What is your opinion?”
Ibrahim thought of the malang, chained up in that underground cell. Guilt surged inside him so forcefully, he thought he might howl. He wanted to tear at his hair and scream. What did the prince want him to say? Something in particular, it seemed. Ghulam Dastagir’s rant had not sufficed. What did he expect then—more fawning?
“Well, sahib,” Ibrahim began cautiously, “we never knew such men existed until recently.” Picking up the thrum of passion in Ibrahim’s voice, the khans looked at him curiously. “They came to us this summer, for the first time, and what did we know? We let them live in a hut we had built for visitors. They gave us money, and we rejoiced, God strike us! Rejoiced at payments from those men! They said they were looking for special herbs, and we believed them blindly, so great was our hunger for their money. We never asked ourselves: are these men Muslims? Where do they come from? What could they really want? God strike us dead, half the blame is ours! All this happened, sahib, and then—then they did terrible things in our village… things I can’t even bring myself to mention. Terrible things.”
“When?” The prince’s attention was like a needle now, poking into Ibrahim’s story. The whole party leaned in to listen.
“The month of Assad,” said Ghulam Dastagir.
“Or early Sunbula,” mused Ibrahim. “Anyway, before we harvested the wheat.”
“Go on,” said the prince. “Terrible things.”
“Yes, and our malang tried to protect us.”
The prince raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “What malang is this?”
“The malang of Char Bagh,” said one of his dining companions. “Haven’t you heard of him, Akbar Khan? A poet of sorts. His book is floating around the bazaar.”
“That’s the one!” Ibrahim exclaimed. “But he’s much more than a poet, good sirs. He is a sheikh!”
“The Malang of Char Bagh. Yes, I have heard of him,” said the prince. “His pen name is Tempestuous Love or some such—correct?” The Prince lifted his eyes and recited two couplets in a croaking sing-song, “Not all your prayers…nor all your piety or pleading … will alter by an ant-hair where your path is leading. Did you choose the hour of your birth on Earth? Do you think to choose the hour of your leaving?”
Ibrahim’s pulse skipped a beat.
“A man recited his verses to me last week,” the prince explained. “They stuck with me. I have an excellent memory. He comes from your village, this malang?”
“Yes, he’s ours. Those lines you quoted, Wazir-sahib—I have the original manuscript at home. I can make an accurate copy for you when I get back to Char Bagh and have it delivered to your lordship.”
“What do you mean ‘the original’?”
So Ibrahim told the story. The company listened raptly, their attention coming unstuck from the prince for those few moments. “That’s the original manuscript,” Ibrahim concluded, “the one taken down fresh from the sheikh’s lips. We don’t know where the sheikh hails from, but of all the villages in Afghanistan, he chose ours. Some call him the Wandering Malang, but he’s a wanderer no more, sir. No more. He chose Char Bagh. We gave him land. And then the Engrayzee ripped him from us.”
“What do you mean, ‘ripped’?”
“They sent soldiers to our village and dragged him away in chains.”
A palpable shock ran among the listeners. “Took him where?” one diner asked.
“Here,” said Ibrahim. “He’s here in Kabul, locked in a dungeon below Bala Hissar. That’s why we came to the capital, sahibs—to petition the king for justice. But what king? Not till our feet trod upon the streets of this city did we learn the news: we humble Muslims no longer have a king! This creature on our throne is only a slave of the Engrayzee. So whom do we petition? When our grievance is with the Engrayzee, who do we turn to? I turn to you, Wazir-sahib,” Ibrahim addressed himself earnestly to the young prince. “You are my king now. I plead with you, sir.” And despite the turmoil that dimmed his gaze and made the room a twirl of confusion, when Ibrahim spoke those words, he saw something flutter in the prince’s eyes, felt a tug in his heart like the one a fisherman feels when a fish has nibbled at his bait. He knew what he had hooked and went on playing the line. “You are my king now,” he insisted. “Until your mighty father is restored, I look to you, as do all the suffering subjects of this tragic land, your sacred majesty—”
“No, no—” The prince shook his finger as if to scold Ibrahim, although he did not look at all displeased. “I am not the king, only my father’s regent. Never use that title with me, lest the other khans suppose I have ambitions. Gentlemen! You all know I have no ambitions, correct?”
“You are the soul of modesty,” his companions chorused.
“I am simply a patriot,” the prince told Ibrahim, “seeking justice, seeking honor for my people. Justice and honor, nothing more.”
“But how is justice to be incarnated except in you, your highness? Where else should we repose our hopes?” Ibrahim pleaded. “You say you seek to redeem the honor of your people, but you are
that honor! We look to you for all our hopes. Help us! Only you can set the malang of Char Bagh free. Please, your sacred majesty—”
“Uh uh! I warned you,” Akbar shook that playful finger again, then he looked about at his dinner guests, shining with pleased amusement. “What do you think, my friends? What do we see in these two men? Gentlemen, I give you—Afghanistan. Eloquence and purity! Courage! Can we deafen our ears to such a plea?”
“What sort of men would we be?” the dinner guests exclaimed.
“You fellows have touched my heart. This malang interests me. I will help you,” the prince decided. “But you must help me as well.”
Ibrahim responded with a heartfelt, “Ba chishm.” I would give my eyesight.
“You, Ghulam Dastagir.” The prince turned to the big man. “A warrior like you in my service would lighten the weight upon my shoulders. Will you pledge your strength to me, Ghulam Dastagir?”
“A thousand times,” the brute vowed. “Command me, sahib. My life is yours.”
“You will record great deeds in the annals of our history,” the prince predicted. “As for you, malik. You, who can read and write. Boon companion to the great Malang of Char Bagh. I need a scribe. I had a good one up north, but British bullets killed him on our way south. British—that’s another name for these intruders. Can your village spare your leadership for a time? Will you pledge your pen to my service?”
“With my very eyes,” Ibrahim repeated fervently. His head whirling, he tried to calculate what this offer (order?) might entail and how it might liberate the malang.
“Good,” said the prince. “That being settled—please. The food is getting cold. Let’s enjoy what remains of it.”
Two boys came scurrying in with pots of warm water and towels. The men of Char Bagh washed their hands and began to feast from the nearest platters. Striving not to disgrace themselves with village table manners, they squeezed the rice into small clumps and lifted these delicately to their mouths, careful not to lose a single grain. As they ate, they uncovered chunks of baked lamb under the rice and tore these into smaller pieces with their fingers. The lamb was as soft as clotted cream, meat that even a toothless old man might have chewed. Ibrahim had never tasted such food. He sat with his head bowed, swimming in half-formed thoughts and powerful feelings. How destiny had played with him in this great and terrible year! He imagined telling Soraya about this place and then hearing her weave it into one of her phantasmagorical tales. The girls would shine with delight at a story featuring their father as a legendary hero. That is, if Soraya still had her wits about her enough to understand his report…if she had not sunk back to eating mud and trucking with djinns…And Khadija! How she would marvel to hear that he had dined with a prince! If she had not died of grief…and shame…Ibrahim’s excitement clouded over.
After the meal, the prince’s servants conducted the villagers to one of the buildings along the perimeter of the fortress walls, which served as dormitories and barracks. The front door was flanked by rosebushes. Ibrahim thought at once about the malang’s words in the dungeon. Before the seven rosebushes give up their petals your new friend will open the door for you. But here he saw only four rosebushes, two on each side of the doorway, and none of them had any petals. The malang could not have meant these roses.
Inside, both men were given bedrolls of their own and shown where to roll them out. They were now just two more of several dozen retainers sharing one long room, a room with an enormous wood-burning stove at each end.
39
Khadija was sitting by a window mending a shirt when she heard the commotion down in the courtyard. Someone had come visiting, but who could it be at this late hour? Hope suddenly made her breathless. She dropped her sewing and hurried to the balustrade to look over. All she saw down there was Mullah Yaqub, the cleric from Sorkhab, leading his donkey to the stables while little boys tagged after him, grabbing at his shirttails and yammering to know why he had come all this way at dusk.
And why had he come? Soraya was out in the courtyard already, hopping in place and yelling, “Is it news?”
Khadija shrilled at him too. “Have you heard from Ibrahim? Have they found our dear Malang?”
The mullah looked up, his face haggard in the dimming light, but his body emanated excitement. “Well, salaam aleikum to you too, Khadija-jan. Thank you so much for asking about my health.”
She felt the reproof and forced herself to be polite. “May Allah guard you, Mullah-sahib, welcome and forgive me. You must be tired. Boys, take mullah-sahib to the guest room, make him comfortable.” This damned mullah! She had known him since childhood and was related to him in half a dozen different ways but still he demanded all the ritual observances. How easily his pompous dignity was offended!
She rounded up women and set the wheels of hospitality in motion, then made her way to the guest room where the cleric was already ensconced. From the dark hallway, she could see him in there already spilling his story to a rapt collection of men and boys.
“What are you telling them?” She she demanded from the doorway. “Tell us women too.”
“Big battle in Charikar,” one boy shouted out, unable to hold back the thrilling news. “They killed them all!”
Khadija’s knees wobbled. Behind her, Soraya gasped. Neither woman knew who had killed whom, but Soraya set a hand on Khadija’s hip for support and leaned against her body to stand on tiptoe and peer over her shoulder. Khadija could feel the younger woman’s warm breath on her neck, just below her ear.
“Who did?” Khadija said. She scarcely knew how to frame her question.
“We did,” the Mullah blared out, sweating with excitement. “The Engrayzee had a fort in Charikar—it’s ours now! I was passing by is all, I saw a crowd, boys, I stopped to look—I had no idea what was going on. The Engrayzee! Who would have guessed they had such a fortress there, such numbers—a hundred of them! More! Well, I saw a crowd, I plunged into it—and then it started. I don’t know why. Suddenly, they were shooting—”
“Was Ibrahim there?” Khadija broke in. “Did you see him? I hope he’s been eating! Was he looking well—”
“He wasn’t there. Your Malang was hauled off to Kabul, your men followed him. But I’m talking about Charikar—like I said, I was there for a wedding, I had no idea—suddenly they were shooting, we were throwing rocks—bullets going zing, zang, this way, that way—I thought I was finished, by God—some men ran home for rifles—“
“And then what,” Khadija said impatiently. “In the end? What happened finally?”
The mullah frowned. He wanted to wallow in his epic deed. “Long story short,” he said grumpily, “we broke the doors down, rushed in and killed the dogs, a hundred of them. Only two got away.”
“A hundred!” Soraya cried out. “How many’s that?”
But Khadija zeroed in on the crucial point. “Two got away?”
“Traitors gave them horses,” Mullah Yaqub huffed. “We killed all the rest. A hundred or more, I tell you! A mighty victory!”
But Khadija only glared at him. “Those two will bring the rest of their tribe down on us. You should have killed none of them or all of them.”
“Those two won’t get out of the mountains,” the cleric swore. “The wolves will get them or the cold. I barely got back through the passes myself, it snowed so hard that night. And I came here at once to bring you the news.”
“What news? We want to know about our men! You didn’t even see him, you said. He wasn’t there, you said.”
“Well, I heard a rumor. That’s what I came to tell you. Someone saw Ibrahim and Ghulam Dastagir in Kabul two weeks ago. Rejoice, they were alive and safe.”
“A rumor!” Khadija wrung her hands, her heart palpitating. Soraya was pulling at her sleeve, but she ignored it. “Rumors can’t be trusted. Who saw them? Two weeks—anything could have happened since then! Why even tell us news like that—”
“Trust in Allah,” the mullah said.
Sora
ya was pulling harder, but Khadija didn’t care. “It’s hard, Mullah-sahib. It’s hard to stay behind, helpless, totally in the dark.” But the cleric had turned away. The men were bristling with discomfort. She could have stood up to their anger, but their embarrassment defeated her. She gave in and let Soraya draw her out of the room. In the courtyard, Soraya kept tugging at her. She pulled away but Soraya grabbed her hand. Khadija felt the warmth of those bony fingers. And still Soraya kept pulling. “What are you doing?” Khadija said. “Where are you taking me?” Soraya was pulling Khadija back toward the stables with all the bullish determination of a child. Khadija giggled but felt uneasy. Something was not right with Soraya. Something was wrong here. Maybe djinns had the girl again, maybe it was djinns who were trying to get Khadija into some dark corner. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me, Soraya?”
They were in the stable now. Soraya was breathing hard. The light in the courtyard had sunk to little more than a candle’s worth, and here in the stable, it was too dark to see anybody’s features. Khadija could make out only the general shape of Soraya’s body against the mottled background of a cow. The large animal puffed out a warm, humid breath and lowered its head to its alfalfa. In the next stall, behind a mud barrier, two goats jostled and stamped.
“Why did you bring me here?” Khadija demanded in a sharper voice.
“You shouldn’t have asked about him like that!” spat Soraya.
“What are you taking about? Who?”
“My husband, you shameless bitch with your hungry eyes! Who else? May the grave swallow you. Who else would I mean!”
“But we’re all just dying to know—”
“I should be the one to ask! He’s my husband! You crowd me out, you dance among the men, you let that nasty Mullah inspect every part of you—oh, Allah, why did I ever let you back in this house—”
“Let me! Oh, I like that! You begged me! Little Fool, I asked for news of him on your behalf. What’s wrong with you? Ibrahim-jan—”