The Wandering Falcon

by Jamil Ahmad

  “What is this story I hear about you?” the General inquired of him. “That you are suing another Kharot in the courts of the government?”

  Torak grinned sheepishly. “The case is against a man who has left the fold,” he replied defensively. “It is against a Kharot who is now settled in the city. He cannot really be considered a true Kharot any longer. The devil married my mother after my father’s death and did not pay any bride price. As the eldest son, the money is due to me, and the man refuses to pay it. I have to get it out of him. My mother agrees with me.”

  “You are right, son,” agreed the General. “No man respects his wife or her family unless he pays a price for her. But you should be able to get your due without seeking the help of other people’s laws.” He looked at Dawa Khan. “You will help him, of course.”

  “We will get his money,” promised Dawa Khan.

  The light faded away, and there was a sudden drop in temperature with the setting of the sun. A fire was started, and the sitting figures moved closer to it. As the dishes of stew and platters of bread were brought to them from the tents, the General turned to Dawa Khan.

  “Your kirri is to lead the caravan this year.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Be very careful and circumspect. There is to be no quarrel either among yourselves or with other tribes. No disputes with the authorities. I have heard a rumor that the authorities are going to demand travel documents from our people. You will continue moving while I go to the government officials to get a sense of things. Use your tact to the utmost, but also keep in touch with a few kirris in the rear. Which are the kirris nearest to you?”

  “My father and brothers are leading the nearest, a day’s march away,” interjected Gul Jana, who was standing in the shadows, suckling her two-year-old. “Abdullah Khan and Niamat are following behind them.”

  “Very well. Ask Abdullah Khan to fall back. I want Niamat to be the third in the line.”

  The General then rose from the carpet and walked around the encampment, from one tent to the next. He had a word for every person, praising a man’s rifle before his young sons at one tent, admiring a woman’s son before the mother at another. He liked to see his people laughing and, as always, exchanged sallies with the women he knew in the various tents, including his granddaughter, who was resting after a difficult childbirth. But while the laughter was there, it sounded a little subdued to his ears. It did not sound like the open and unrestrained laughter that his ears were used to. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he even detected a small element of sadness and uncertainty in it. The words he had spoken on the carpet had by now, he was sure, spread to every tent. He only hoped he could come back to them and tell them that the rumor was false. But until he was able to do so, it was better for them to worry a little.

  Early the next morning, while it was still dark and before the kirri was ready to move, the General and his son departed on foot, as usual. A few stars were still visible in the sky when they left, but the camp was humming with activity. The tents were already down and were being packed onto the animals. Some of the fires were being doused after the preparation of the morning meal, and the snorting of the camels intermingled with the barking of the dogs as they readied themselves for the journey. The caravan was to cross the border that day. The next day, they would know the attitude of the authorities.

  The sun had not yet risen when the caravan started moving. By mid-morning they were on the edge of the plateau that marked the boundary between the two countries. A vast, flat plain—featureless except for small outcrops of rock breaking through the crust here and there. There was no sign of man in this area except for the ruins of a few karezes—underground channels tapping springwater for irrigation—which had been patiently constructed by a people long since vanished, and destroyed by another, also forgotten.

  Today, all signs of cultivation and all marks of habitation had disappeared. A few springs, however, still remained, and the kirri stopped at one of these for their evening halt. The day had been entirely uneventful, and the people, who had been morose and edgy during the day, relaxed as the caravan paused and broke for the night. The men gathered together and talked for a while among themselves. They agreed that tomorrow would be an important day, and it was necessary that the young hotbloods should be kept in the rear while the elder and wiser men moved to the forefront.

  Each man also agreed to keep a close eye on his sons and nephews, and to put them on their best behavior, so that their youth or exuberance did not create trouble for them all, in the event that they came across any government authority.

  Within less than two hours’ travel the next morning, the plain had ended and the track they had been following joined the bed of a dry ravine with a range of cliffs, interspersed by narrow valleys, on either side. Perched high on the cliff, guarding this gorge, was a small fort. It was built like an aerie anchored to black rock but jutting out at an angle into space.

  As the caravan came into view, a long line of soldiers poured out of the fort and started scrambling down toward the Kharots. Dawa Khan stopped his caravan with a wave of his right arm and stood, looking toward the soldiers as they approached, led by their subedar, who was a familiar figure to them all, and famous in the area because of his mustache, which measured twelve inches from end to end.

  As soon as he was within earshot, Dawa Khan shouted a greeting: “May you never be tired, Ghuncha Gul.”

  “May you never be weary, brother,” responded the subedar. “Are you moving straightaway? My men are ready to escort you, unless you want to rest.”

  Dawa Khan’s brow had cleared at the offer of the authority not only to allow them passage but also to protect them during their journey. Things sounded so normal that the rumors they had heard must indeed be wrong. Suddenly, Ghuncha Gul’s voice broke in: “What is this I hear about the closing of the borders, Dawa Khan? One of my soldiers brought this rumor on his return from leave.”

  “I have also heard a rumor of this kind, and it had worried me somewhat. Do you think there is something to it?”

  “I imagine not. It would be impossible to do that. It would be like attempting to stop migrating birds or the locusts.”

  They both laughed loudly for a while over this image. Dawa Khan then turned to Ghuncha Gul. “I did not forget my promise. I have brought a pup from my own dogs for your adopted son, as you had asked me. Where is the young lad? I would like to give it to him.”

  “The boy is in the fort,” Ghuncha Gul replied. “He is going over his lessons with our mullah. I will hand him the pup on your behalf. He will value it.”

  Dawa Khan went back toward the rear of the long line of camels and returned shortly, half dragging a savage-looking young puppy, who struggled to free itself from the thick woolen cord tied around its neck. It growled furiously as it was handed over. Dawa Khan looked affectionately at the pup as he was led away. “I think he will make a good dog,” he said. “He has got strength in his voice and a feeling of loyalty.”

  Ghuncha Gul and his soldiers spread out and took up their escort duties on either side of the caravan. With a soldier walking alongside every fifty yards, the kirris were now under the formal protection of the government. The presence of the soldiers was intended to discourage raids by other tribes on the caravan; raids, with their resulting bloodshed and feuds, could cause problems for the government. Each fort was responsible for a part of the route. Ghuncha Gul would hand over safe custody of the caravan to the soldiers at the next fort, and the escort would turn back to wait for the next kirri.

  Most of the soldiers in the twenty-man escort were familiar faces who were known to Dawa Khan. He had seen them over the years, in either one fort or another. They were a special breed of men. Tribesmen themselves, they spent their entire lives, from raw youth to middle age, living and serving on one mountain crest or another.

  Except for short spells of leave to go back to their homes, they never saw their families. The only events in their
lonely lives were protecting government roads and installations, laying down the law among the tribes, stopping bloodshed when it threatened to spill over from a family dispute into a tribal war, and their own postings and promotions. The only two recreations they had were listening to their radios in the evening and talking to strangers who passed through their area.

  Gul Jana was sitting astride a she-camel with her two-year-old. The caravan was moving at a slow pace for the convenience of the soldiers, and she liked this lazy progress. The movement of the camel at this pace was not frantic and jerky. It swayed smoothly, as the ears of wild grass sway with a light breeze. Her child was asleep, and she, too, was feeling drowsy with the hypnotic rhythm of the camel’s movement. She looked down from the camel’s back to the right. This was the third time she had done so in the last half-hour.

  The young soldier, who had been walking beside her camel ever since the caravan started moving, was still staring at her. He was short and slender, and looked very young with his light growth of beard, which would turn dark and heavy in a few years. The soldier colored slightly but could not seem to take his eyes off Gul Jana’s face.

  Gul Jana checked her camel slightly and straightened her back. “You, there!” She put a hand to the side of her mouth. “You, there, who has been staring at me for a long time. Do you not know that you are smaller than my husband’s organ?”

  The women on the camels behind her and those in front erupted into boisterous laughter, as did the men, including the soldiers within earshot. Gusts of laughter swept the caravan as the story passed from camelback to camelback and man to man, and soon everyone was laughing, except the lonely soldier, who wanted only to sink into the ground and die.

  Ghuncha Gul knew what the young soldier was feeling. His own wife in the village, whom he visited for only one month every year, was somber and staid, and smiled rarely. The women of the plains kept to themselves, and were severe and serious in their demeanor. He decided not to commiserate with the soldier. That gesture might hurt him all the more, and, in any case, it was better for the boy to suffer the jolt of the ribaldry and boisterous humor of the Powindah women before he made any serious mistakes.

  By the afternoon, the caravan with its escort had reached the next fort, which was also the headquarters of the delousing party working on the caravans using this trail. These groups of paramedics were responsible for ensuring that the nomadic men, women, and children were rid of the vermin that were believed to be carriers of typhus fever.

  This was the point where Ghuncha Gul and the platoon took their leave. Another two marches brought the caravan to the outskirts of the largest fort in the area, Fort Sandeman, around which a settlement of sorts had grown. With the progress of each day’s march, the caravan seemed to shed its fears slightly, and, while maintaining their contacts with the kirris following them, they gradually began to discount the rumors that had hounded them at the start of their journey. Except Dawa Khan. He could not relax totally—at least not until he had heard from the General. He felt it would be worthwhile to halt his people for a few days’ rest at Fort Sandeman to wait for some news, to allow the women, children, and animals to recoup their vigor and to fulfill his commitment to the General to secure Torak Khan’s bride price from his stepfather.

  When he announced his decision to the kirri, there was considerable jubilation; the happiest were the women, who insisted on moving toward the nearest clump of trees. They wanted to have sturdy branches around them, on which they could hang their children’s cradles. In their minds, home and permanency meant only a stay long enough to wash clothes or to affix the cradles to the trees.

  On his way to the town the next morning, Dawa Khan and his companions took a detour up a narrow valley through a Kakar settlement, where he had another errand. He had sworn to avenge the murder of a cousin who had been killed by a Kakar tribesman years ago. The murderer had died a natural death soon afterward, leaving behind a widow and two young sons. As Dawa Khan turned the corner toward the house of the long-dead Kakar, he saw two tall, grown-up teenage boys sitting in front of the house. They were wearing only long shirts and had no trousers on.

  “May you never be tired, Uncle!” they shouted in unison, as they recognized Dawa Khan. They were laughing as the greeting was given.

  “May you never be weary,” responded Dawa. There was acute disappointment in his voice. He came up here every year, hoping that the boys would take to wearing shalwars, signifying their having grown up, so that he could avenge his cousin. The Pushtunwali, the traditional code of the Pashtuns, was clear that revenge could not be visited on women and children. The wearing of a shalwar signified a transition into manhood, yet year after year the boys cheated him by refusing to wear trousers. For all he knew, these perfidious Kakars might well refuse to wear shalwars in his lifetime.

  “How they tempt me to break our traditions,” he said, and grunted, within hearing of the boys. The boys only laughed and were still laughing as the party turned the corner on their way back.

  The General and his son had been on the road for days but remained as vague about the question in their minds as they had been when they had set out on their journey. In one village they would be welcomed as old friends; in another, someone would ask them what they were doing there, and their fears would return, for they had crossed the international boundary into Pakistan. However, since this was the first year of the new policy on the frontier, and the border posts were not yet familiar with its precise terms, the lines of demarcation between the tribal areas and the settled districts were confusing to all. So it was in the government offices, too. The reactions of the officials alternated between the familiar welcome and point-blank questions as to how they had managed to cross the border. Their bewilderment increased with each passing day, as did their worry about what was happening to the caravans behind them.

  One day, after being made to wait for a few hours on a bench, they were allowed to meet with an officer who was dealing with the tribes and the administration of the border. If anybody knew, it would be him. Both father and son wanted to hear the truth, even if it was unpleasant, rather than endure further uncertainty.

  They had known the officer for years. He looked up as the General and his son walked in, and invited them to sit down. They exchanged pleasantries for a bit, but their forced attempts at treating this as an ordinary visit petered out after a short time. The General kept marshaling his thoughts. He finally realized that there was no way but to put the question directly and frankly.

  “Tell me, sahib,” he said, looking up, his face rigid with concentration, “do you know anything about this rumor of government orders against the Powindas?”

  The officer held his gaze. “It is correct, Karim Khan, the government has indeed decided that there should be no movement between the countries without travel documents. And this affects you directly. A part of me is unhappy and sad at this decision, Karim Khan, but time passes, and events and men have to change with it. You and I cannot prevent this change even if we wish to.”

  The General and his son looked steadily at the official. At last the son spoke: “How is it possible for us to be treated as belonging to Afghanistan? We stay for a few months there and for a few months in Pakistan. The rest of the time we spend moving. We are Powindas and belong to all countries, or to none,” he added reflectively.

  “This argument has been used, and it did not count,” the officer remarked.

  “What will happen to our herds?” the General broke in. “Our animals have to move if they are to live. To stop would mean death for them. Our way of life harms nobody. Why do you wish for us to change?”

  “All these arguments and more have been put forward by your friends, General,” the officer told him. “They are not acceptable to the government. The decision has been taken and cannot be changed. You will now have to accept it and try to live with it.”

  Father and son rose from their chairs. The General adjusted his cloak over his shoulders. His
eyes seemed to be looking into the distance as he turned. “How is it possible? How could it happen?” He was addressing no one in particular. The son watched the father from two paces away, as he had done for most of his life. The General once again adjusted his cloak, and his son felt a stabbing pain as he realized that within the last few minutes this garment, which had signified grandeur, pride, and strength, had become an ordinary covering for an old man seeking to hide his mind and body.

  The two men stepped onto the street feeling impotent and powerless, and began to walk along. Naim Khan broke the silence, which had dropped like a curtain around his father.

  “Shall we send word to Dawa Khan?” he asked.

  “What can we tell him?”

  “The truth,” replied the son. “What else?”

  “How will it help him? The animals are going to die. Hundreds of them.”

  “Yes, but Dawa Khan must know the truth.”

  They walked along silently for a while, thinking about the effect the new policy would have on them and their people. There was no way for them to obtain travel documents for thousands of their tribesmen; they had no birth certificates, no identity papers or health documents. They could not document their animals. The new system would certainly mean the death of a centuries-old way of life.

  Then Naim Khan spoke again: “Cheer up, Father,” he said. It was the first time in his life that he had addressed the General as such. “We shall go to the capital of this country and see their king. He will listen to you.” He paused. “Yes, he surely will, Father.” Naim Khan’s voice was pleading. He wanted to conjure the General from this beaten and tired old man.

  Meanwhile, in Fort Sandeman, Dawa Khan kept waiting for a message from the General. He had used these days to good advantage. Torak’s troubles had been sorted out. His stepfather had been made to agree to a handsome bride price. Collection of debts due from some local people had been carried out without trouble, and there were a number of successful sales of dried fruit and nuts in the local market.