Earth and Ashes (2 page)

“You’re killing me! Can’t you keep your grandson quiet for one minute?”

You don’t have the chance to apologize, or rather, you can’t face it. You take hold of Yassin’s hand and drag him to the bridge. You drop back down to the ground against the iron railings, put the bundle by your side, and, wrapping your arms around the little boy, scold him:

“Will you behave!”

To whom are you speaking? To Yassin? He can’t even hear the sound of stones, let alone your feeble voice.
Yassin’s world is now another world, one of silence. He wasn’t deaf. He became deaf. He doesn’t realize this. He’s surprised that nothing makes a sound anymore. Until a few days ago it wasn’t this way.

Just imagine. You’re a child, Yassin, who heard perfectly well just a short time ago, a child who didn’t even know what deafness was. And then, one day, suddenly you can’t hear a sound. Why? It would be idiotic to try and tell you it was deafness. You don’t hear, you don’t understand. You don’t think it’s you who can’t hear; you think others have become mute. People have lost their voices; stones have lost their sound. The world is silent … So then, why are people moving their mouths?

Yassin hides his small, question-filled face under your clothes.

Your gaze is drawn over the side of the bridge, to the dried-up river that has become a bed of black stones and scrub. You look above the riverbed to the rocky mountains in the distance. They merge with Murad’s face.

“Why have you come, Father? Is everything all right?” he asks.

For more than a week now, this face with this question has haunted your days and your nights.

Why have you come? The question gnaws at your bones. Can’t that brain in your head find an answer? If only there were no such question. No such word as “why.” You’ve come to see how your son’s doing. That’s all. After all, you’re a father, you think about your son from time to time. Is it a sin? No. You know why you’ve really come.

You look for your box of naswar, tip a little into the palm of your hand, and put it under your tongue. If only things were simple, full of pleasure—like naswar, like sleep … Your gaze rises above the summits of the mountains to the sky … But Murad’s face still mingles with the mountains. The rocks are slowly becoming hot; they’re turning red. It is as if they have become coal and the mountains are one great furnace. The coal catches fire, erupting from the mountain and flowing down the dry riverbed toward you. You are on one side of the river, Murad is on the other. Murad keeps asking, “Why have you come? Why have you come alone with Yassin? Why have you given Yassin silent stones?”

Then Murad starts to cross over to you.

“Murad,” you shout, “stay where you are, child! It’s a river of fire. You’ll get burned! Don’t come!”

You ask yourself who could believe such a thing: a river of flowing fire? Have you become a seer of visions? Look, Murad’s wading through the river without getting burned. No, he must be getting burned, but he’s not reacting. Murad is strong. He doesn’t break down. Look at him. His body is covered in sweat.

“Murad,” you shout again, “Stop! The river’s on fire!”

But Murad continues to move toward you, asking, “Why have you come? Why have you come?”

From somewhere, you’re not sure where, the voice of Murad’s mother rises.

“Dastaguir, tell him to stay there.
You
cross the river. Take my apple-blossom patterned scarf with you and go and wipe away his sweat. Take my scarf for Murad …”

Your eyes open. You feel your skin covered in cold sweat. You’re not able to sleep in peace. It’s been a week now since you’ve had a restful sleep. As soon as you close your eyes, it’s Murad and his mother, or
Yassin and his mother, or fire and ash, or shouts and wails … and you wake up again. Your eyes burn. They burn with sleeplessness. Your eyes don’t see anymore. They’re exhausted. Out of exhaustion and sleeplessness you keep falling into a half-sleep—a half-sleep filled with visions. It’s as if you live only in these images and dreams. Images and dreams of what you’ve witnessed and wish you hadn’t … maybe also what you yet must see, wishing you didn’t have to.

If only you slept like a child, like Yassin. Yassin?

No, like any other child but Yassin, who whimpers and moans in his sleep. Maybe Yassin’s sleep has become like yours, full of images, dirt, fire, screams, and tears … No, not like Yassin’s. Like any other child’s. Like a baby’s. A sleep without images, memories—without dreams.

If only it were possible to begin life again from the beginning, like a newborn baby. You’d like to live again, if only for a day, an hour, a minute, a second.

You think for a moment about the time Murad left the village, when he walked out through the door. You too should have left the village with your wife and children and your grandchildren and gone to another village. You should’ve gone to Pul-i-Khumri. Never mind
if you’d had no land, no crops, no work. May the land rot in Hell! You would have followed Murad. You would have worked in the mines, shoulder to shoulder with him. Then today, no one would be asking you why you’ve come.

If only …

Over the four years Murad has worked at the mine, you haven’t had a single chance to visit him. It’s been four years since he entrusted his young wife and his son Yassin to you and left for the mine to earn his living.

The truth is, Murad wanted to flee the village and its inhabitants. He wanted to go far away. So he left … Thank God he left.

Four years ago your neighbor Yaqub Shah’s unworthy son made advances toward Murad’s wife, and your daughter-in-law told Murad. Grabbing a spade, Murad ran to Yaqub Shah’s house, demanded his son come out and, without asking questions or waiting for answers, brought the spade hard down onto the crown of his head. Yaqub Shah took his wounded son to the village council, and Murad was sentenced to six months in prison.

After he was freed, Murad collected his things together and left for the mine. Since then he has returned to the village only four times. It hasn’t even been a month since his last visit, and now you’re going to the mine to see him, holding his son by the hand. He’ll definitely wonder why.

“Water!”

With Yassin’s shout, your eyes drop from the mountains to the dry riverbed, and from the riverbed to the parched lips of your grandson.

“From where should I get water, child?”

You glance furtively toward the guard’s wooden hut. You don’t have the nerve to ask him for water again. This morning you took some from his jug for Yassin, and if you ask him again … No, this time he’ll get angry and bring the jug down on your head … Better ask elsewhere.

Shading your eyes with your hand, you scan the other end of the bridge. This morning you stopped at a little makeshift shop there to ask the shopkeeper the way to the mine, and the man was kind. Go there again and ask him for water. You start to rise, but then remain
nailed to the ground. If a vehicle goes past and the guard doesn’t see you, all this waiting will have been for nothing. No, you’d better stay put. The guard isn’t the sort of man to wait for you, or call out to you … No, Dastaguir, stay just where you are.

“Water, Grandfather, water!”

Yassin is sobbing. You kneel down, take an apple from your bundle, and hold it out to him.

“No, I want water, water!”

You let the apple drop to the ground, heave yourself up, grab Yassin with one hand and the bundle with the other, and hurry off toward the shop.

The shop is just a small wooden stand with three mud walls. At the front, four uneven planks form a window that is covered with plastic sheeting. Behind a small opening sits a black-bearded man. His shaven head is hidden by an embroidered cap and he wears a black waistcoat. A large pair of scales almost completely obscures his thin torso. He is bent over a book. At the sound of your footsteps, he raises his head and adjusts his spectacles on his nose. Despite his pensive expression, his eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, are
strikingly bright. He greets you with a kind smile and asks, “Back from the mine?”

You spit your naswar onto the ground and respond meekly.

“No, my good brother, we haven’t gone to the mine yet. We’re waiting for a vehicle to pass. My grandson is very thirsty. Would you be kind enough to give him a little water …”

The shopkeeper pours some water from his jug into a copper cup. On the back wall of the shop there’s a large painting: behind a large rock, a man holds the Devil fast by the arm. Both of them are watching an old man who has fallen into a deep pit.

The shopkeeper hands the cup to Yassin and asks, “Have you come far?”

“From Abqul. My son works in the mine. I am going to see him.”

You keep your eye on the guard’s hut.

“It was a bad state of affairs over there, wasn’t it?”

The shopkeeper tries to begin a conversation but you keep your eyes fixed on the hut. You remain silent, as if you haven’t heard anything. If you are honest, you did
not want to hear. Or rather, you don’t want to answer. Come on, brother, let Dastaguir be!

“I hear the Russians reduced the whole village to smoke and ashes last week. Is it true?”

You’ll have no peace. You came for water, not tears. A mouthful of water, nothing more. Brother, by the grace of God, don’t pour salt on our wounds.

What is this, Dastaguir? Moments ago your heart was heavy. You wanted to talk to anyone about anything. Now, here is someone who’ll listen to what lies in your heart, whose look alone is a comfort. Say something!

Without taking your eyes off the hut, you answer, “Yes, brother. I was there. I saw everything. I saw my own death …”

You fall silent. If you get involved in a conversation, you might forget about the vehicle.

The shopkeeper takes off his glasses and pokes his head out the window to see what interests you so much. As soon as he sees the hut, he understands. He sits back behind his large pair of scales.

“My good brother, it’s still too early. A vehicle always comes by around two. You’ve got two hours ahead of you.”

“At two? Why didn’t the guard say anything?”

“Probably because he isn’t too sure himself. It’s not his fault. The cars and lorries come at odd times. Besides, what’s on time in this country that transport should be? These days …”

“Grandfather, jujube fruits!”

Yassin’s words interrupt the shopkeeper. You take the copper cup from Yassin’s hands. He hasn’t finished it.

“First drink your water.”

“I want jujubes, jujubes!”

You put the cup to Yassin’s mouth and gesture impatiently for him to finish. Yassin turns his head away and continues in a voice choked with sobs, “Jujubes! Jujubes!”

The shopkeeper reaches out through the shop window and passes Yassin a handful of fruit. The child grabs it and sits down at your feet. And you, cup of water in hand, try to keep your temper. God help me. You sigh.

“That child will make a madman of me.”

“Don’t say that, father. He’s a child. He doesn’t understand.”

You sigh again, more deeply than before and say, “I’m afraid, brother, the problem isn’t that he can’t understand … The child has gone deaf.”

“May God heal him! What happened?”

You finish the remainder of your grandson’s water and continue, “He lost his hearing during the bombing of the village. I don’t know how to make him understand. I speak to him the same as before. I still scold him … It’s just habit …”

As you talk, you pass the copper cup back through the window. The man takes it and looks sympathetically at Yassin, then at you, then at the empty cup … He prefers silence. Like a ghost, he withdraws into the shop. His hand reaches for a small bowl on one of the wooden shelves. He fills it with tea and hands it to you.

“Take a mouthful of tea, good brother. You’re exhausted. You still have plenty of time. I know all the vehicles that go to the mine. If one comes, I’ll tell you.”

You glance over at the guard’s hut and, after a moment’s hesitation, take the bowl of tea, saying, “You’re a man with a good heart. May your forebears rest in peace!”

The sound of your sipping brings a kind smile to the shopkeeper’s lips.

“If you’re feeling cold, come inside; your grandson also looks cold.”

“God bless you, brother, it’s fine here. There’s sun. We don’t want to disturb you anymore. What if a car were to come. I’ll drink my tea and we’ll be gone.”

“Father, I just told you. I’ll let you know if a car comes. You can see them pass from here. Now, if you don’t want to stay, that’s another story.”

“I swear to you, brother, it’s not a matter of wanting or not wanting. That guard isn’t the kind of man to make a car wait.”

“Dear father, it takes a long time for him to issue a pass and then open the barrier. And he isn’t a bad man, that guard. I know him. He comes here a lot. It’s sorrow that has ruined him.”

The man falls silent. He puts a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lights it. Then he goes on:

“You know, father, sorrow can turn to water and spill from your eyes, or it can sharpen your tongue into a sword, or it can become a time bomb that, one day,
will explode and destroy you … The sorrow of Fateh the guard is like all three. When he comes to see me, his sadness flows out in tears. If he remains alone in his hut, it becomes a bomb … When he steps out of the hut and sees others, his sorrow turns itself into a sword and he wants to …”