by Tamim Ansary
“Don’t call him ‘jan.’ Have some shame. He’s not ‘jan’ to you, he’s Malik-sahib! My God! Even marrying you off doesn’t stop you.”
“So you take credit for my marriage! Oh, I suppose you should. I know how you pushed and prodded him and now you’re jealous because I’m married to the greatest—”
“What else could I do? Him and you together all the time behind closed doors!”
“What closed doors? Have you lost your mind? Is Khushdil filling you with this slime? I’ll forgive you this time, little one, but I swear if you ever dare—”
“Shut up, you thief! You shut up! Shut up! You can’t threaten me. What door did you leave open that day when he came to your compound? When they dragged our poor, dear malang away to some horrid prison, and all you could think about was how to get my husband alone so you could do that thing with him.”
“God strike your filthy tongue!” Khadija swung a slap against Soraya’s cheek and a wet sound cracked out. It felt like slapping a frog. Soraya’s head bounced to one side, but she recovered at once and came springing back. Khadija grabbed her wrists and held them, and braced against the lighter body. For a moment, the two women tilted and teetered from side to side. Soraya tried to pull her wrists free, and then to claw, but she failed in both: Khadija pushed her against the cow. Her sweating hands slipped off Soraya’s wet wrists, but she kept pressing the woman bodily against the cow, pinning her there with her weight, feeling the slender, sinewy warmth of Soraya under her clothes, her breath… She flashed back to the memory of her breath on her neck in the guest room earlier…
Suddenly the fight drained out of Soraya and she went limp. She would have fallen had the pressure of Khadija’s body not kept her upright. She shoved her hand between their faces to wipe her leaking nose. “You were seen,” she said, her chin up-thrust. “Yell all you want, but you were seen, you liar, liar, you big liar. You’re just a liar!”
Khadija stepped back aghast, letting Soraya crumple. “Doing what? Who saw me! Where? You tell me, Soraya. You better tell me.”
“You were seen, you were seen,” Soraya insisted, sing-song style, tauntingly. “The night he left for Baghlan. Everyone thought he was going straight to Ghulam Dastagir’s, but he went to your house first. He was alone with you.”
Khadija flushed with shame. All the animals were lowing and murmuring, shifting weight and rustling against the straw. The whole room felt moist with their breath. The warmth of the animals and the smell of manure filled Khadija’s nostrils. Her gorge rose. Tears seared her eyelids. “He came to say goodbye,” she whispered. “Do you begrudge me that, Soraya? Even that?”
“You were alone with him,” Soraya accused.
“He came to tell me he would die to save my husband, if death is what it took. I let him tell me. How was that wrong? I listened to him. Then we said namaz together.” Khadija bit her lips, glad for the darkness that hid her face from her beloved’s wife.
“A man and a woman saying namaz together! That’s just wrong!”
“Namaz is never wrong. Who claims he saw something more? Ibrahim came to my compound, he left my compound, that’s all anyone saw.” No one could have seen more than that. No one had seen, she was sure of it. She would defeat this assault.
Then Soraya let out a shrill laugh and said. “You stand there, pregnant with his child and lie?”
“Pregnant!” Khadija clapped both hands over her belly. “Pregnant? I’m barren! Everybody knows! How can you fling that in my face? How can you be so cruel?”
“You’re pregnant! You are, you throw up all the time. You’re pregnant, pregnant! How long do you think you can fool people? Your mouth can lie, but your belly don’t. Your belly won’t. It’ll tell. Your belly will tell.”
Khadija’s fingers pressed against her own flesh. Then she knew. And yes, it was true. Knowing took no more than someone saying it out loud. Her body had already known. She was pregnant. If the thought had never entered her mind, it was only because she had never let it enter. She had shut her mind so utterly to any such thought so long ago. Pregnant was the one thing she knew she could never be.
Only now she was. Soraya stood there, still blazing out resentment—until Khadija fell into her arms and began to sob against her shoulder because there was no other shoulder to sob against. And still Soraya just stood there, not knowing what to do with her awkward arms, until finally—because her arms were tired—she rested her hands on Khadija’s upper back. And then—because her hands were already in the neighborhood—she began to stroke Khadija the way she stroked the children when they were hurting.
It didn’t last long. With Khadija, it never would. The malang’s wife pulled away, and her sobs subsided. She pulled away and wrapped her arms around her own trunk as if against the cold, but really against the world, her usual armor restored. Into the darkness, she whispered. “It wasn’t Ibrahim, dear child. Think about it. I’m barren. Everyone knows I am. Do you really think your husband could have quickened this poor womb of mine? Ibrahim is a good man, but he’s just a man. My husband! Mine is the Malang of Char Bagh! My husband walks with his feet on the Earth and his head in the sky. He wades through clouds, he sees the face of Allah every day the way you and I see the sun and the stars. If I’m pregnant—even a wretched half-woman like me, who could have planted this seed?”
Soraya’s eyes grew saucer-huge with awe. Her wonder shone in that dark room. “You’re carrying Malang-sahib’s child?”
Khadija said nothing, but now that Soraya had spoken the words, she knew they must be true. She was a vessel, Ibrahim could only be an instrument, this was Malang-sahib’s doing, his miraculous child. Somehow, it must be true.
“You are,” Soraya decided. “You’re carrying his child!” The immensity of it made her voice tremble. The quarrel between the two women was forgotten, all quarrels were forgotten. Soraya’s arms went circling around Khadija again to nestle her close and croon to her. For once, Soraya was the big sister. “The others will do everything to hurt you, but I won’t let them,” she promised fiercely. “Oh, Khadija, Khadija, I’ve been afraid of you all my life. How could I fear someone I love so much? I do, you know! I love you soooo much.”
Khadija laughed through her tears. “We belong together, little one. Without you, they’ll eat me alive. Without me, you’re lost, admit it. Now dry those tears and put away your sulks. We need each other. Why should we ever fight? We each have a husband of our own—if they ever come back.”
40
It was mid-morning, shortly after bread-and-tea, that Wazir Akbar Khan sent for Ibrahim and Ghulam Dastagir. The two men had spent weeks in the gilded cage of the Barakzai fortress, marking time while the malang rotted in his pit. They were glad, therefore, of the summons. They found the prince in the same big room where he’d been dining with the khans that first day, leaning against a fluffy cushion. “Ghulam Dastagir,” he announced, “I want you to ride south as my messenger.”
“A thousand times, your highness.”
“I want you to meet with all the important Ghilzai chieftains down there. Don’t worry, they won’t harm you, they wouldn’t dare: you’ll be carrying my seal.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“I will give you the names of men who command respect. Find them wherever they are and deliver my message. Agreed?”
“At the glad sacrifice of my very eyesight, sir. What should I tell them?”
“Tell them nothing, just deliver a letter. But I want you to understand what will be in the letter. There’s been some scuffling, you know, between us northern Pushtoons and those Ghilzai down south. I want to tell them, that’s over with. We have a common enemy now. We must set aside old grudges and move as one nation.”
“One nation.” Ghulam Dastagir smacked his lips. “Common enemy.” From him, the words sounded like an oath. “I understand, Wazir-sahib. Yes!”
“The infidel is among us,” Akbar pressed. “Until they’re gone, we have no other quarrel. I will dictate a letter to Scribe
-sahib here, he’ll make enough copies for all the chieftains in the southeast. Can you write a hundred letters in a single day, Scribe?” He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Ibrahim.
Ibrahim remembered his ecstatic midsummer days with Malang-sahib. “Yes, your highness. I can write fast.”
“Excellent,” said the prince. “Here is what my letter will say: ‘The Engrayzees are coming through your territory soon. Let them pass unharmed.’ Make every Ghilzai chieftain sign this promise. Understand, Ghulam Dastagir?”
But Ghulam did not understand. What game was this? He rested his large hands on his thighs and turned an injured gaze upon the prince. “Spare my son’s murderers? Is that what you’re asking? I should tell all the chiefs to spare my son’s murderers?”
“Exactly.” The prince stroked his silky beard, and his black eyes gleamed. “These bastard Engrayzee are ready to flee, my boys. The fear is in them now. They know who they’re dealing with at last. I’m about to open negotiations with them, and if I can show them a crack of light, they’ll run to it, the way roaches run to darkness. Such would never be our way, of course, we Afghans would stand and fight to the last man, but the Engrayzee are not like us. If they see a way to save their skins, they’ll choose it, so I must show them a way. That’s why I need guarantees from all the tribes along the southern passes. Without that promise—on paper—signed—a guarantee—the infidels won’t leave. They’ll crowd into Bala Hissar and fire their cannons into the city. Now do you see?”
“Let them fire!” Ghulam Dastagir shouted. "I don’t fear their cannons, by Quran. I’ll be the first to storm the heights. We are many, they are few! How many can they kill before we bury them?”
“Quite a few,” the prince assured him. “Quite a few. But that’s beside the point. Once the shooting starts, you’re right: we’ll storm their forts and none of us will count or care how many of our own go down. We’ll fight and kill until every last bullet is spent and every last Engrayzee stops twitching. By then many of our own will by lying still as well and we’ll honor their martyrdom.” He leaned forward then. “But if that happens, the Engrayzee will come back with a bigger force—more guns—more cannons… And the killing will start again. They have endless men in their own land, endless guns. And the Hindus will start gathering armies too, you can count on it. And the Sikhs will become four-testicled as well. And the Shah of Persia—no, no, we can put a stop to it now and we must! Ghulam Dastagir, I trust your warrior strength. The last man I sent south got his ears trimmed, but you won’t let that happen to you. All men know your courage. I look in your eyes and I see rock hard resolve. But the task is now not just military. It’s political too. You do as I command and leave the politics to me. Agreed?”
Ghulam Dastagir nodded heavily. “As you wish, sahib.”
The prince went to the door and called for the Master of the Horse, and when this man appeared, he pointed to Ghulam Dastagir. “Equip this gentleman with our best mount,” he ordered. “Give him saddlebags full of food that he can eat while riding—lamb jerky—plenty of pounded fruit-nut paste, a goatskin of good spring water—where he’s going, the streams will be frozen and his journey is long. Ghulam Dastagir, you leave before sunset prayer, ride hard, and get to Abdullah Khan’s fortress before midnight. That puts you at the mouth of Khurd-Kabul pass. Abdullah’s men will show you where to go from there. Events are gathering fast, boys, we must move faster. Don’t fail me.”
Ibrahim studied the prince’s profile and wondered at his confidence. Ghulam Dastagir might punch through where others had failed, but the southern Pushtoons would not relish taking orders from a northern Pushtoon, and even less so if those orders were delivered by a surly Tajik. Surely some diplomat with a ready tongue would have made a better envoy. Besides, what message would Ghulam Dastagir really spread? A man conveys a message by the way he talks, no matter what his tongue is saying. This man wanted to see the Engrayzee dead. Princes, however, don’t take advice from village headmen, so Ibrahim kept his thoughts to himself. Perhaps, by sending Ghulam Dastagir, the prince intended to send two message, one on paper—“spare them”—and another more subtly conveyed: “Kill them.”
Akbar shut the door on Ghulam Dastagir and turned to Ibrahim. “Come along, Scribe. We have a proper office in the back. Pens, paper, ink, everything you need. Let’s get started.”
Ibrahim retrieved his sandals and followed the prince into the recesses of the building. The prince kept chattering the whole way, just to hear his own thoughts it seemed. “I must write to my father. Oh, and my brothers. I have so many, God be praised. Brothers in Herat, brothers in Ghazni, brothers in Kandahar—phew! Everywhere. And uncles too, God be praised. What a curse!”
“Have you thought about the malang, sir?” Even to himself Ibrahim’s voice sounded querulous.
“What about him?”
“He’s injured, sir, and time passes. How long can he last in a dungeon?”
“He’s part of my plan,” the prince assured him without slowing down or glancing back. “Absolutely. A sovereign must always—here we are.” He stopped at a doorway and took out a ring of keys. “What was I saying? Ah, the malang, yes. I’d not forgotten him, I assure you, but we must move in stages, Scribe—shifting, feinting, sparring as each moment requires —stick with me and you’ll see miracles. Your grandchildren will tell the story—he united the tribes, they’ll say—he drove the Godless from this land—and you’ll be part of it! Once the foreigners are gone, rescuing your malang will be gnat’s work! Do you think Shah Shuja can stand up to me for two blinks of an eye without his foreign helpers? We’ll do more than rescue your malang, we’ll elevate him, we’ll shower him with gifts, we’ll commission books from him—all in good time. Right now, we have the enemy to grapple with. Sit down, Scribe. There is your desk and your writing supplies. Ready?” Almost without a pause, the prince began to dictate. “Respected sir! Beacon of your people! May Allah shower bounteous good fortune upon your exalted head—”
Ibrahim clambered onto the desk chair and hunkered there as he would have done if he were sitting on the ground, for he had never used furniture like this before. He dipped the pen and began to scribble, struggling to catch up with the prince’s voice. The two men worked without interruption until noon. Ibrahim had to write so fast he couldn’t follow what the prince was saying or to whom. He just wrote. At last, Akbar stopped dictating and wiped his brow. “Phew, that’s thirsty work, Scribe! Now we’ll have some tea.” He clapped his hands and a pair of servants appeared with the tea service. While they poured, Akbar eased onto a platform piled high with cushions. “You probably wonder,” he said to Ibrahim when they were alone again, “why I flatter the chiefs of Kohistan so warmly. What is to be gained, you ask yourself.”
Ibrahim, who had wondered no such thing, rubbed his wrists to relieve his cramps. “It’s not my place to ask.”
The prince, however, wanted to explain. “The tribes are gathering from every direction,” he said. “What a blessing, what a curse. Listen!” He raised his hand. Gunshots crackled in the distance, as it did every hour these days. “They’re fighting all over Kabul, do you hear it? There’s hard fighting in the passes too, and there’s fighting up north—I know about up-north, I just came from there. Yesterday, the foreign leaders said to me, ‘Akbar Khan, tell your chiefs to do this, tell your people to do that.’” The prince chuckled and wagged his head. “As if I can tell Afghans what to do! These farangis! They think if someone throws a rock, someone must have ordered that a rock be thrown. They know nothing about Afghans.”
Ibrahim ventured an opinion. “They need to believe someone can start and stop the violence, Wazir-sahib.”
The prince gave him an appraising look. “Very shrewd, village man. Shrewd indeed. We’ll make a strategist of you yet. Yes, they need to believe there’s someone they can talk to about all the trouble, so they talk to me. But you know what troubles me? I’ll tell you in confidence, Scribe. The farangi is a wounded bear facing a tiger. The
tiger grows in size and strength and ferocity every hour, every minute. Today, we love the tiger because we hate the bear. But once the bear is dead, what will the tiger do? That’s what worries me.”
Ibrahim nodded soberly. For days now, his body had been filled with the same kind of tension he felt back home when a storm of unknown intensity was coming. In Char Bagh, when the air darkened and people felt the wind quickening, they huddled around their elders, begging for ancient stories about disaster and survival. Another kind of storm was approaching now, and Ibrahim longed to be back in his tranquil village with Malang-sahib by his side, Ghulam Dastagir trailing behind, and his people celebrating his safe return. “You’re right, sahib.”
“Oh, indeed I am.” The prince took a reflective sip. “Let me pose you a puzzle, Scribe. My father dealt these foreign bastards a crushing blow, shredded Robert Sale, their best general, at Parwan-Darrah, and then…that very same day! He rode into the British camp, yielded up his sword, and went into exile. Why do that directly after a victory?”
Ibrahim had heard speculation about this in the bazaar: bribes, betrayal, sheer cowardice. “It’s a mystery,” he said tactfully.
“It’s not a mystery at all,” Akbar countered. “The chiefs of Kohistan were sharpening their knives behind his back. They were planning to fall upon him from behind while he was driving out the foreigners. And all the other tribes had plans of their own too. I tell you, Scribe, in this country, nobody can turn his back on anyone. That’s why—well. We should finish the letters. But here’s a last point.”
“My ears are open, sahib.”
“Freedom is a fine thing. But every-man-for-himself isn’t freedom. When every valley’s a kingdom, when every patriarch is a king, when it’s all against all, every men is a slave to chaos and chaos is the cruelest tyrant of them all. Chaos, Scribe! That’s Satan’s face on Earth. Write it down, it’s worth remembering.”
“Already written, your majesty,” said Ibrahim as he jotted the epigram.