The Wandering Falcon (13 page)

“I knew your father,” he said. “You should know it. We grew up together. Two youngest sons of two poor families. We drove our flocks together. We started working the fields at the same age. It was together that we made our first bold remarks at some girls and then hid together the rest of the day, worrying whether they would tell their fathers, who would come after us. We shared one gun together, an old matchlock—and we were together when I killed my first man with it. He was an enemy of my father's, and I had crept after him as he was working in the field. When I was near enough, I lit the fuse and aimed the gun. The man saw this and started running. The gun took some time before it fired, and I started running after him, gun aimed at the fleeing figure. Your father found the sight very funny and stood there laughing until the gun finally went off and my father's enemy fell.

“Get me that gun down from the rafters,” he told a boy sitting near his feet. The boy scrambled up and brought down an old matchlock with a long, heavy barrel and a thin curved butt. It was dark with age, and the wood below the barrel was splintered. The fuse in the hammer was missing.

“Our paths separated after that. Your father had always been restless. He went away one day without telling anyone and joined the army. I stayed on.”

He remained silent for some time. One of the young men moved from the corner and stirred the embers and blew them into small dancing flames. Mehboob Khan looked thoughtfully at the boy.

“Boy,” he said, “you are Abdul Malik's son. Are you not?”

“Yes, Uncle,” the young man replied.

“It was your grandfather, child, who looked after me when I was your age. He was not a friendly man, and not many people knew him personally throughout Tirah and even beyond. His reputation was fearful. He was known as one who would be prepared to attempt anything, if only there was sufficient money involved. There were grim tales of how he had acted as a hired assassin in his youth, but in his old age he had steadied and was getting more than enough money from supplying information and doing a few odd jobs for foreign governments.

“He was in touch with Afghanistan, with Turkey, with Belgium and Germany, and even with Russia and China. He was working for all of them, but they did not mind, as he was reliable and dependable in his own way. He must have heard of my circumstances, as he sent for me one day and asked me to do some work for him. It was a simple task, and he paid me when I carried it out. I must have pleased him, because gradually he entrusted more and more work to me, till I was working for him almost the whole time and was being allowed to make decisions on my own. In less than two years, I was a kind of overseer for him and was looking after the work myself.

“Boy, your grandfather died just before the First World War broke out. His spirit must indeed have been unhappy at leaving this world just when his services were needed most. Anyway, as soon as the war started, there was a heavy rush of work. I, too, had to make a choice of who among my various clients had to be treated as the most favored. Gradually, it somehow appeared to resolve itself, and I found myself working almost entirely for Afghanistan, Turkey, and Germany. They considered our area and our people as deserving real importance in those years, and were prepared to spend a lot of money to see that their interests were looked after properly.

“One day—I think it was the time when the war had run half its course—I received a very unusual message from my German contacts. They told me of a scheme which had been dreamed up back in their country to organize our entire tribe to fight against the British. Eight battle standards or flags, one for each of our clans, had been made in Germany, with suitable verses from the Holy Koran embroidered on them. The standards were being sent to us through Turkey and Afghanistan. I was to see that these battle standards were accepted with the honor due to them, and to ensure that each of the clans started using them as symbols against the British.

“Since the idea was something entirely new to our people and I was not clear about how it would work, I sent frantic messages back, asking for more time to sort things out. The reply I received astonished me. I was told that the practicability of the idea should be assumed as sound, because it had originated from a man who lived in Germany and was himself an Afridi. The letter also told me who the Afridi was.”

Mehboob Khan looked at me. “It was your father, son. He had deserted from the British to the Germans during the war and was working for them. That was the only time I heard from him after we went our separate ways. I never saw him again, but seeing you has brought joy to me. Though I did not entirely believe in the scheme, I tried to see that it worked. I visited the leading mullahs and explained to them how the clans and the whole tribe needed to be organized if we were to resist the British in a better way than we had been doing in the past. After a lot of talking, we decided on a number of measures. They included electing a king for Tirah who would have his headquarters at Bagh, making people agree to providing the king with some funds. It was agreed that he would receive a pound of opium out of every fifty pounds sold in the area, and that a small select body would be created in every clan who would look after their particular standard, bring it out, and persuade people to rally around it. It took quite a few days to make all the decisions, but we were ready for the flags when they arrived at Bagh.

“The flags entered Tirah before the snow had started falling in the hills. They were accompanied by two foreigners, and the plan almost failed because of this foolhardiness. The British were waiting for this party. Their agents started heavy sniping as soon as the party entered our territory. We had to send the two foreigners back quickly, or the tribes would have risen against us for betraying our homeland to outsiders. As soon as the foreigners left, our people and the men who were siding with the British sat down to talk things out. Do you know who was leading the other side?” he asked me. I was not expected to reply, so I kept silent.

“It was Ghairat Gul, the man sitting next to you. He had me in real trouble then.”

Ghairat Gul gave a low laugh and cracked a few toe joints. He was enjoying the warmth of the fire.

“Those were frightening days for me,” Mehboob Khan continued reflectively. “I had to argue my case before the assembly of the tribes, while Ghairat Gul's party argued theirs. I knew clearly that if I lost, not only would my reputation suffer, but I would be completely destroyed. I would have to leave my country and live as a lonely outcast wandering in the cities, cut off from my people. I had to keep desperation out of my countenance and to hide my turmoil from the world. I had to sit and laugh and talk, to combine the qualities of an orator—and a witty one at that—with that of a schemer. I had to move at night to win as many friends as I could who would listen to my side of the case the next day. And all this while, I had to slaughter lambs and throw feasts for the assemblage. The
jirga
s went on. One day, there would be a tilt in my favor. Next day, they would lean in favor of Ghairat Gul. My money was almost gone, and I dared not borrow from others.

“My luck seemed to have run out. However, the decision could not be put off much longer, because already the winter migration of our clan had been delayed and the women and children were feeling the bite of the cold.

“The
jirga
gave its decision suddenly one day, in my favor. Two things had swayed the assembly—the standards had verses from the Holy Koran inscribed upon them, and they could not be disgraced; and Ghairat Gul would not, in any case, lose face, because his party had already evicted the two foreigners by force from Tirah.”

The old man smiled. He looked at me and said, “It was Ghairat Gul himself who tried to bail me out this way. Do you know why he did it?”

“I cannot even guess,” I confessed.

“It is simple. Ghairat Gul did not wish that I be destroyed. His value to the British would have lasted only as long as I existed as a danger to them. Without me, even Ghairat Gul would have been reduced to an ordinary poor Afridi.

“It was a happy outcome for the both of us. The British were pleased with Ghairat Gul. The Germans and Turks with me. The tribes were also pleased, and took to the standards with enthusiasm. They were like children, and wanted to raise them for the simplest things. We had difficulty restraining them and telling them that the gathering of clans must not be treated as a light matter.

“After this, we had the happiest and the most joyful year of our lives. We had money, and we bought land—both Ghairat Gul and I. People talked about us with envy and respect, and children, as they grew, would dream about how they would grow up into another Ghairat Gul or another Mehboob Khan. Of course, all this changed years ago. When men started making fortunes through smuggling or through trading in opium and hashish, boys no longer dreamed about us. They hoped for different things.”

He turned to Ghairat Gul. “Do you know,” he asked, “our washerman, whose children used to run after scraps, his son is now the richest man in Tirah?”

“I know,” replied Ghairat Gul.

“His womenfolk refuse to do the waxwork on the dresses any longer, and they were the only ones who knew how it is done.”

Ghairat Gul continued: “Yes, those were good years. The British had won the war. Germany had lost, and Russia was on its knees. Once the British had no worries in their own areas, my work did not end. In fact, I became even busier, and at times had to wander outside the country, undertaking tasks which they set for me.”

Ghairat Gul got up and went to a corner, where some dried poppy stalks were lying in a bundle. He broke off a few pods and crushed them between the palms of his hands. They made a crackling sound. He rubbed the mixture between his hands and blew on it to separate the seeds from the shell and started eating them as he walked back to the cot. A couple of other men followed his example, and one of them brought me some seeds, too. I thanked him.

Ghairat Gul sat down and closed his eyes. “The food won't be very long now,” said Mehboob Khan. Ghairat Gul opened his eyes and belched—a harsh, guttural belch. He kept staring at the fire and stirred it with the toe of his leather sandal, frowning all the while.

Over food, I asked Hamesh Gul if our program of going into Bagh tomorrow was finalized. “Yes, we will say our Friday prayers there and will also see the flags being raised.”

“Why are the flags being raised?” I asked.

“To decide the future of our schools.” He realized that I hadn't understood him, and continued: “You see, our elders had approached the government, and on their request the government sanctioned a few schools for our area and engaged teachers to run them. Some feel that this amounts to a violation of our freedom and independence, and the tribes are to meet tomorrow to decide whether to keep the schools or do away with them.”

“Don't you want schools?”

“I do not care one way or the other,” he replied. “I am too old to study, anyway, but I shall certainly enjoy being present when both sides argue.”

After dinner, Mehboob Khan rose. He looked Hamesh Gul straight in the face and said, “Do you know that if the elders had not asked for schools, the opposite side would certainly have? They are not bitter about the schools, but their anger is against the elders who presumed to speak on their behalf to the government.”

He turned to me. “Son,” he said softly, “the flags are now with the young people. Tomorrow, they will not be raised against an intruder from outside. They will be raised to humiliate the older men.” He wished the others and me a good night and walked slowly out of the room. The others also started leaving in ones and twos until only my companions and I remained to rest for the night. Every time the door opened, I could hear the splash of water pouring down the roof and the hiss of rain as blasts of wind drove it against the mud walls. The moment the door closed, the thick walls muffled all sounds and provided a feeling of security.

 

 

I
lay awake for a few minutes, reveling in the warmth and the peace that the room offered before drifting off to sleep, and it seemed all too soon when I was woken up for my breakfast the next morning.

I opened the door and went outside for a wash. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, but it was still cloudy. All the nearby hollows and depressions were filled to the brim with water, and even the small crevices in the rocks were stained with moisture. I could not account for the feeling of somberness that overcame me, and hurried back to the warmth I had left behind. Even back in the room, the feeling of emptiness remained, and I could not get rid of it. It seemed to affect my companions also. One or the other would make an effort at conversation, but it would die down quietly.

The mood of the previous evening had gone. I was a stranger, and I felt like one as I said my good-byes. As I left, I wished my last memory of this house had been that of the previous evening, and not of the cold despondency of this morning.

 

 

T
he three of us walked, each absorbed in our own thoughts—perhaps feeling a little lost and bewildered but unable to break the shell enveloping us. It took us three hours to reach Bagh. The sky had lightened a little, but the clouds were still thick enough to stop the sun from shining through.

Tor Baz wanted to visit the shrine of a holy man in the area. “You should come along,” he said. “A real unbeliever, a kafir mullah,” he added, as a compliment to the holy man. “I met him some years ago. He was a grand old man.”

We walked down the only street of Bagh slowly. At one of the first shops we came across, Hamesh Gul insisted on having my bruised foot attended to. The person in charge, whom Hamesh Gul insisted on addressing as “Doctor,” opened the previous day's bandages, washed the wounds, and put a layer of hair pomade on them before rewinding the old bandages around the foot. The street was crowded with small groups of men walking unhurriedly, taking their time to curiously look into every shop and at the other people in the street. One of the busiest shops was next door to where I was being ministered to. The owner dealt in opium and hashish, and a number of men were bargaining with him for a good price for the dark, nearly black bricks of the narcotic. Opposite us was a small shop where a middle-aged man was watching his young son eat a tomato, which he had bought for him after prolonged selection from a basket.