The sun beat down on the highway cutting through the valley, causing the faded grey asphalt to shine dully. The Mullah and the others were crowded under the meagre shade of the ZIL beside the checkpoint, squatting and facing the dushka. Rashid stood beside it, holding the feed cover open with one hand and pointing at the mechanism inside. “This feed block revolves,” he said, “pulling the belt through as it fires. The bullet on the bottom of the block is the one that fires.”
Umar craned his neck to see it more closely.
“This little strip of metal is what pulls the belt off as it rotates,” continued Rashid. “This is where it is most likely to jam. This needs to be kept clean and lightly oiled.” He wiped the belt stripper with a cloth, and showed them the oil and dust that was crusted onto it. “This is one of the most reliable machine guns there is — if you keep this part of the mechanism very clean. Now let me show you the rest.”
Rashid’s hands moved over the gun with confidence. He pulled the trigger and slowly let the bolt come forward, restraining it with his other hand. He then moved around to the front of the gun and pulled the gas piston tube as far forward as it would come, and then unscrewed it until it came off in his hand. He lay this down to the left of the gun, on top of the ring of rocks. Rashid continued to fieldstrip the gun, naming each part and laying it in order beside the others.
“Who can put the gun back together again?” asked Rashid, looking up. Standing behind the group was a young stranger who had been listening quietly. When Rashid stared at him, the stranger nodded slightly and then spoke.
“Asalaam aleikum,” the stranger said respectfully, his hand over his heart.
The Mullah recognized the stranger as Nasir Khan’s nephew before the others did, and placed his own hand over his heart as he spoke. “Wa aleikum salaam.”
The nephew quickly launched into a litany of greetings. “I hope you are well. I hope that your house is strong. May you not be tired. I hope that your family is well. May you be strong. I hope that your livestock are well. May your health be ever good.”
When he had finished, the Mullah waited impassively.
“Haji Mullah, again I bring a message to you. My uncle continues to hear of the success of this village, and wishes to speak with you again. I can take you to his home.”
“Of course I will come to speak with Nasir Khan,” said the Mullah.
The nephew gestured to a pickup truck parked a short distance down the roadway, intermingled with other vehicles in the market. The Mullah saw that standing beside it, watching them, was Nasir Khan’s man Ghulam Zia. “We can leave immediately, if you are ready,” said the nephew.
The Mullah nodded and headed toward the truck, Umar, Rashid, and Isa following him. He paused to embrace Ghulam Zia as he approached. “Brother Ghulam, I trust that you are well?”
“Well enough,” said Ghulam Zia.
“And I trust that it is no trouble for two of my men to accompany me?” asked the Mullah.
Ghulam Zia eyed Isa and Rashid, who each dangled a kalash loosely in his hand. “As you wish,” he said with a shrug.
Rashid and Isa climbed into the bed of the pickup truck and took seats leaning against the rear of the cab, as Umar remained standing nearby. Ghulam Zia sat behind the wheel, and Nasir Khan’s nephew took the middle seat. As the Mullah walked around to the passenger side, Umar tugged at his sleeve and spoke quickly into his ear. “I am saddened to say it, but I don’t believe that Nasir Khan is to be trusted.”
The Mullah turned and put his hands on Umar’s shoulders. “He is a great man, involved in a great many things. Talking is our way — and at worst, one learns to be good by watching those who are not.”
The nephew leaned over and opened the passenger-side door for the Mullah, who shook his head and closed the door firmly. “I will be more comfortable in the back.”
The Mullah climbed into the back of the truck and took a seat between the others. Isa banged on the side of the truck with the flat of his hand, and the truck started rolling forward slowly through the market. Umar watched until it disappeared up the road, his face knotted with concern.
The truck raced down the highway for some time before reaching a point distinguishable only to Ghulam Zia, who pulled the truck off road and continued driving cross-country, a plume of dust rising high in the air behind the vehicle. The Mullah pulled the tails of his turban across his face and closed his eyes as the dust storm kicked up by the truck enveloped them. Shattered vehicles, the discarded remains of the Russian occupation, littered the countryside, reminding him of bad times. Soon, the dust was so thick that it obscured the world around them, leaving him to think.
After several hours they turned back onto another road, although this one was in worse shape than even the highway through the checkpoint. The pavement was badly cracked and buckled, and the cracks had filled with dirt and dust blown by the wind, giving it almost the appearance of being striped. It led toward a low, stony rise that dominated the surrounding countryside, at one end of which was perched an old walled compound.
A Russian tank was parked outside the compound. Its dull green paint was chipped all over and peppered with spots of rust. Its gun pointed menacingly down the road that led to the compound gate. As the truck approached the compound, armed men opened the gates and waved them through. The gates were closed again as soon as the truck was swallowed up inside.
Nasir Khan stood inside the gate to greet them as they arrived. He was dressed in a perfectly white shalwar kamiz and a bright turban. As the Mullah climbed out of the back of the truck, caked in dust, Nasir Khan stepped forward to embrace him. The men spoke their greetings into each other’s ears as Nasir Khan held the embrace tightly. The ritual words finished, he pulled back from the Mullah and looked him in the eye.
“Welcome, Haji. Welcome to my home.”
The Mullah grunted his reply.
“And how was your journey?” asked Nasir Khan.
“Uneventful,” said the Mullah brusquely. “Of what do you wish to speak?”
“So quick to business!” smiled Nasir Khan, barely concealing his irritation. “It’s unlike you, Mullah. Come inside and I will explain.”
The Mullah turned to Rashid and Isa. “Wait here.”
Nasir Khan clapped his hands to alert his servants. “Food and water will be brought for your friends.” He then led the Mullah inside.
The interior of the house was filled with heavy wooden furniture, ornately carved with traditional designs. Nasir Khan led the Mullah to a room whose walls were lined with bookshelves. A massive wooden desk, covered in papers, dominated the open space in the library. Nasir Khan took a seat in a Western-style armchair with overstuffed pillows, and gestured for the Mullah to sit opposite him. The Mullah sank uncomfortably into his chair, shifting back and forth until he finally settled into a cross-legged position.
“Haji Mullah,” said Nasir Khan, “I think that I have misunderstood you from the start.”
The Mullah frowned. “I am not a complicated man,” he said.
“No?” asked Nasir Khan. “Is it every day that we hear of mullahs who accept orphan boys into their madrassas, then arm them and send them to attack bandits?”
The Mullah dismissed this idea with a wave of his hand. “You are a powerful man. A Khan. Why do you allow these bandits to exist? Why did you not come to the jirga and speak against Tarak Sagwan?”
“The jirga was not persuaded by your arguments,” said Nasir Khan, “and neither am I. I do not wish violence to fall upon any member of our tribe.”
The Mullah twisted the end of his kamiz in his hands absent-mindedly. “But is it violence,” he asked, “when it is sanctioned by the tribe, or is it simply justice?”
“And what if it is only sanctioned by you?” replied Nasir Khan.
“I have no such pretensions,” said the Mullah. “We merely defended ourselves.”
A servant entered the room silently, carrying a small bowl of raisins and another of nuts on a silver tray. He did not look at either man as he went about his work, but the Mullah and Nasir Khan remained silent while the servant was in the room. He poured out glasses of tea for each man before disappearing deeper into the house.
When they were alone, the Mullah began again. “We are merely doing what is right.”
“There is no need to be coy, my friend,” said Nasir Khan. “Even if the tribe did not have the stomach for it, Tarak needed to be dealt with.”
The Mullah was surprised. “Then why not do so yourself?”
“It was not the time,” said Nasir Khan.
“But you are a famous ghazi,” exclaimed the Mullah. “You should have no fear of bandits.”
Nasir Khan smiled. “Stories grow with time. But I have learned about your past as well, your exploits as a mujahid, fighting with Nek Muhammad.”
“That was in another lifetime, truly. I am a different man now,” said the Mullah.
Nasir Khan held up his glass of tea. “No man truly changes from the shape in which he is first moulded. Men are like the glass, not the tea. No matter what is poured in, this is its shape. I believed you when you said that you wanted to retreat from the world, to simply run a madrassa.”
The Mullah leaned forward, looking directly into Nasir Khan’s eyes. “I do.”
Nasir Khan returned his stare. “Your deeds speak louder than your words.”
The Mullah shifted uncomfortably in the chair, but said nothing.
Nasir Khan smiled to break the tension and scooped a handful of nuts from the bowl. “Here is the truth,” he said. “Tarak Sagwan owed allegiance to me. When you killed Tarak Sagwan, I wanted you to replace him. But I didn’t make the offer because I thought you would refuse.”
The Mullah was stunned. “You wanted me to replace him?”
“He was a very useful man to me,” explained Nasir Khan. “He was unpleasant, to be sure. He couldn’t read and had little to talk about. But he fought the Russians, as did you and I. And he was good at many things.”
The Mullah sat forward in his chair, still processing what he had heard. “He worked for you?”
Nasir Khan ignored the Mullah’s incredulity and continued. “As could you. I’ve seen your initiative, your leadership. I have many commanders working for me, but none as able as you.”
“Is not the leader of bandits just a bandit himself?” asked the Mullah.
Nasir Khan scowled and hesitated before responding. “I admit that Tarak, and others, have sometimes been excessive. One shears the wool, one does not slaughter the sheep unless he plans to have nothing in the next season. But don’t forget that these men have earned some reward for their years of fighting in the tanzims. Mullah, together we can end the worst of the violence. Work with me, and not only will we control the district, we’ll soon control the province.”
“To what end?” asked the Mullah.
“I am a practical man,” said Nasir Khan, smiling broadly. “But we could make enough money to expand your madrassa, if you like. Or to build mosques in every village. We would do well together, you and I.”
Nasir Khan sat back and sipped his tea, waiting for a response. The Mullah left his glass untouched and said nothing, deep in thought.
The Mullah climbed into the back of the pickup truck again, and wrapped the tails of his turban tightly around his face in anticipation of the dust. Nasir Khan had followed him out to the courtyard, still smiling. “Consider my offer carefully, my friend,” said Nasir Khan. “I do wish to work with you, but I will not make the offer twice.”
The Mullah nodded and waved a hand in farewell as the truck pulled forward and out of the gate. As the compound doors were being pulled shut behind the truck, a boy in a sequined black vest approached Nasir Khan from across the compound. The boy smiled up at Nasir Khan as the man laid a protective hand on his shoulders.
Isa, Rashid, and the Mullah climbed down from the back of the truck after their return journey, pausing to beat the dust out of their clothing with their hands. Nasir Khan’s nephew got out of the truck to shake the Mullah’s hand. “Farewell, Haji. I hope that your business with my uncle went well.”
The Mullah grasped his hand and nodded before turning toward the chai khana, leading Isa and Rashid inside. As he stepped through the doorway, he was met by Umar, who took him by the hands, warm words of greeting spilling out in a long stream. The Mullah looked weary but repeated the words back to him. Umar briefly greeted the other two men, as well, before turning back to the Mullah. “There is something we must discuss,” he said.
The Mullah was irritable, stepping around Umar as he spoke. “Can I first wash the dust from my throat?”
“Jan Farooq was here looking for you,” said Umar.
“Serious business, then,” said the Mullah. “Nothing that I would start without tea.”
The Mullah stood by the samovar while some new boy who had replaced Lala Chai drew a glass of tea from it. It came out scalding hot. He held the rim of the glass with his fingertips while he took sips of it, rolling the tea around in his mouth to cool it. He had not finished half of the small glass when Jan Farooq stepped into the room.
“Mullah! I have found you at last,” said Jan Farooq, embracing the Mullah, who held his glass of tea at his side while they spoke the ritual words of greeting to each other. The Mullah’s manner was considerably cooler than Jan Farooq’s, but if the visitor noticed he said nothing about it.
When their greetings were finished, Jan Farooq took one of the Mullah’s hands in his own. “I have come to ask if you would come hunting with me today,” he asked.
The Mullah was surprised. “This is why you have been looking for me?”
“For no other,” said Jan Farooq. “Hunting is the sport of the amirs. And it would be good to have time to talk, as well.”
The Mullah hesitated, unsure. Jan Farooq gripped one of his shoulders and squeezed his hand. “Bring a few of your men with you if you wish. There is room in my truck for one or two more.”
“I haven’t hunted since I was a boy,” said the Mullah.
“Then bring your boys instead of your men,” replied Jan Farooq. “We will live today as our grandfathers did.” He smiled and gave emphasis to his next words. “We shall live the Pashtunwali.”
The Mullah finally relented. He finished his tea and followed Jan Farooq outside to where his SUV was parked. The Mullah saw that Isa and Rashid were on duty at the checkpoint, speaking with Asadullah Amin and Wasif.
The Mullah called them over to him. “Jan Farooq has asked that I join him hunting today. I want both of you to come with us.” He looked over to Rashid and Isa. “I leave you two in charge here at the checkpoint.”
Rashid nodded. “Of course.”
Asadullah Amin and Wasif came over to the SUV, both carrying their rifles. Jan Farooq looked as if he would say something, but changed his mind. He laughed again instead, sizing them up. “And so a young man and a boy! Asadullah Amin, this is your chance to become a great hunter, as well — if you have any energy left over now that you have a wife,” he said, laughing at his own joke and looking around at the others. Asadullah Amin blushed deep red, but the others were silent. Jan Farooq climbed into the front passenger seat of the SUV, speaking to them without looking. “Get in.”
They all sat in the rear seat, the Mullah behind Jan Farooq. When the driver started the engine, the radio began to play music loudly, the latest Bollywood love song. Jan Farooq hummed along tunelessly, ignoring the obvious discomfort of his passengers. The SUV weaved around people walking through the market that had spread out around the checkpoint, driving slowly until they reached the open highway. The driver then accelerated, heading farther up the valley to the north.
Jan Farooq turned down the stereo so that he could be heard, and turned around to speak to Wasif and Asadullah Amin. “This is the way the Kochi went, heading to the Hazarajat. It is an ancient route that they take, leading them far to the north.” Neither of them said anything in reply, but Jan Farooq continued. “In a way, I envy them. They live a natural life, like our forefathers.”
Jan Farooq turned back around and they drove on in silence. No one spoke to the Mullah, who was brooding, watching moodily as the countryside passed by. After half an hour or so, the SUV pulled over to the side of the road. Trickling down the mountainside was a seasonal stream that cut a shallow channel down to the bottom of the valley. In a desolate landscape, the banks of the stream stood out, green with life.
Jan Farooq climbed out of the car and waited for the others by the side of the road. His driver went to the back of the SUV, digging around among a mess of cargo until returning with a heavy net folded and draped over his shoulders.
The Mullah was surprised. “No shotguns?”
“We will show these two how we hunted when we were youth ourselves,” said Jan Farooq.
The Mullah gave a rare smile. “Wasif, Asadullah Amin. It is true. Hunting small birds with a shotgun only makes sense if you don’t intend to eat them. This is how we hunted when I was a boy and our supper depended on it.”
The little hunting party set out to walk along the near bank of the stream, Jan Farooq in the lead, followed by his driver with the net. They moved slowly, listening. Before long, they came across a stand of thick brush from which came the sound of birds. The driver unfolded the net, finding the weights tied to each of the corners. He held one corner, while Jan Farooq and the Mullah took hold of the other three between them. Wasif and Asadullah Amin stood back, watching in wonder.
The men quietly stalked up to the brush. On a signal from Jan Farooq they threw the net over top, quickly draping it over the entire bush, and pulled down hard. Their sudden movement and noise spooked the birds hiding inside, who tried to scatter. As they burst out of the bush and into the net, they quickly became ensnared, their heads and limbs trapped in the mesh.
With one hand Jan Farooq grasped one of the birds that was struggling to get free, reaching under the net to grasp it with his other hand. Once he had it firmly in his grasp, he pulled it out from under the net and wrung its neck all in one swift movement, handing it to his driver. One by one they plucked each of the captive birds from the net, collecting six in all.
“A fine haul for the first cast of the day,” said Jan Farooq.
The Mullah seemed pleased, as well, though lost in thought. Asadullah Amin and Wasif were anxious to try their hand at casting the net, and so Jan Farooq handed it to them to carry. The hunting party stalked along the stream until they found another bush that seemed full of birds. Wasif and Asadullah Amin spread the net out between them and carefully approached the bush. As they dashed forward to stretch the heavy net over top of it, they managed to snag the mesh on a branch instead. As Wasif tried to pull the net over the bush, birds fled out the other side, settling farther up the stream and making a racket to warn their fellows. He looked sheepish.
“You ruined it for us!” said Asadullah Amin.
Jan Farooq laughed. “Not as easy as it looks!”
They all worked together to trap a few more birds along the near side of the stream. The Mullah rarely spoke of his early life, but this day he described how he and his brothers would net birds to feed their family. Jan Farooq took an interest in Asadullah Amin, showing him how to pull birds out from under the net without accidentally setting them free, and also how to snap their necks so that they died instantly.
When they finally reached the end of the brush along the stream, they trapped one last bird in a small bush. Jan Farooq urged Asadullah Amin to reach in and seize it. The boy emerged holding it firmly in both hands. The bird looked around wildly, but was held fast in the boy’s grip. Wasif came over to look at it, stroking the bird’s head to calm it. It began to coo gently.
Wasif looked at the Mullah pleadingly. “May we keep this one?”
The Mullah scowled. “We have no time for such frivolous things. Do you not recall how often we have gone hungry? This bird is for the pot.” He gave Wasif a severe look and gestured at the bird. Wasif took it from his brother, stroking its feathers gently to calm it again as it was passed from boy to boy. He looked up at the Mullah, pleading again, but the Mullah was firm. When Wasif continued to hesitate, Asadullah Amin reached over and wrung the bird’s neck. The Mullah turned away and began to walk back toward the SUV.
Jan Farooq watched the Mullah walk down to the road and spoke to the others. “Come, that is enough for today.”
“What about the other side of the river?” asked Asadullah Amin.
Jan Farooq laughed. “As every bandit king knows, my young friend, if you kill all the pigeons today there will be nothing to eat tomorrow.”
The hunting party followed the Mullah back to the SUV, the driver carrying the net draped over his shoulders again, and a heavy bag full of birds. Wasif hung back, gently carrying the last bird that they had caught. The Mullah said nothing as the others climbed into the vehicle, nor as the driver turned it around to return to the village.
After a short time, Jan Farooq turned around in his seat and addressed the Mullah. “Can I speak freely in front of them?” He gestured to Asadullah Amin and Wasif.
“They are like sons to me,” said the Mullah. “You may say anything you wish.”
“I know of the offer that Nasir Khan made to you today.”
“And?”
“It is a very generous offer he has made. I suggest that you accept.”
“Is this Nasir Khan making his offer twice? He said that he would not,” replied the Mullah.
Jan Farooq laughed. “He won’t. I’ve come on my own to urge you to accept it. Peace is what this country needs.” He slapped a hand on his driver’s shoulder. “It will make every one of us rich men.”
The Mullah was circumspect. “Can Nasir Khan be trusted to keep his word?”
“Maybe so,” said Jan Farooq. “He can certainly be trusted to do what is best for himself, no?”
The Mullah grimaced. “Is that what we now expect from ‘good’ men? Have we fallen that far?”
“You are the only man I know who speaks about good men and bad men,” said Jan Farooq. “When Nasir Khan speaks, it is about survival. If you were paying attention, you would know that there is little else to be concerned about in times like these.”
The Mullah shook his head. “I am not sure that I agree with him.”
Jan Farooq smiled. “And so perhaps we need to have a different conversation.”
The Mullah looked at him, waiting.
“Many of my men from the Russian times still follow me,” said Jan Farooq. “We control this road from here to Maiwand. Everywhere except for your village. Nasir Khan’s other commanders control the road all the way from there to the outskirts of Kandahar City, where we butt against Ustaz Abdul Haleem’s men.”
The Mullah said nothing, watching Jan Farooq closely.
“Working together, we could defeat both Nasir Khan and Ustaz Abdul, tax all the trade from here to Quetta, and become rich men, both of us. And why not? Are we not the mujahideen who defeated the Russians? Do we not deserve the sweet fruits of this life?”
The Mullah looked out the window, seemingly deep in thought. Jan Farooq pressed onward.
“If you don’t believe in Nasir Khan, believe in yourself. Why not ally with me instead? We have known each other for many years, spilt blood together. It is only right that we be partners in this.”
Wasif and Asadullah Amin listened with disbelief. “Go on,” said the Mullah, causing the boys to look sharply at him.
Jan Farooq turned farther in his seat to face the Mullah, and used his hands for emphasis. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. “Together, we can carve up the district without him. Perhaps I can even lure him out from his home, and then you can do what you wish with him.”
The Mullah’s face was impassive. “You would do that for me?”
Jan Farooq laughed, glancing at his driver for support. “Of course! For my tribe, for my cousins, for my brothers, and for myself. Nasir Khan lives in a fortress. Why fight him head-on if we don’t have to?”
The Mullah let out a long breath. “You are right, Jan Farooq.”
Jan Farooq smiled and clapped the Mullah on the knee. “I knew you would see it my way. And so — you and I as brothers against Nasir Khan?”
The Mullah spoke in an even tone, but his eyes shone brightly as he did. “You are right that he has a strong fortress. But it is like a castle made of butter. In a cold, dark night, the castle stands, imposing and strong. But in the light of day, in the light of Islam, it melts in the sun and is no more powerful than a puddle of ghee.”
Jan Farooq scowled and turned around to face forward again. “Would that life were as simple as you make it,” he said.
They drove the rest of the journey in silence.
When they reached the village again, the SUV drove through the market and turned off the road, slowly picking its way up the track to the madrassa. The day was fading into evening and there was no one moving about outside of their homes. The SUV pulled up by the water pump and they all clambered out. Jan Farooq embraced the Mullah swiftly, though without much enthusiasm. The driver brought the bag of dead birds around from the back of the truck. He handed it to the Mullah.
Jan Farooq waved his hand at him. “You can keep them all. To feed the orphans.”
“Your generosity is appreciated,” said the Mullah. He handed the bag to Asadullah Amin, who could barely lift it. “Take this inside the madrassa,” he said, “and then return to your wife.”
Jan Farooq gave Asadullah Amin an embrace, as well. “Don’t forget, Asadullah, that now you are a man. You have killed a bandit king. You are married. Soon you will have children of your own, and you will be the father of a dozen sons.”
“Yes, Jan Farooq,” said Asadullah Amin.
The Mullah spoke to Wasif. “Go down to the checkpoint and send Umar up to the madrassa. He should know how to dress these birds.”
Jan Farooq gestured to the SUV. “Get in, Wasif. I will take you there, as I am driving back down to the highway.”
Wasif looked to the Mullah for assurance, who merely nodded at him. After he had clambered into the back of the truck, he realized that he was still holding the last dead pigeon. He put it on the floor by his feet, trying to ignore it.
Jan Farooq reached out the window to take the Mullah’s hand. “Think about Nasir Khan’s offer,” he said. “And about what refusing it might mean for you. Think also of my offer.” He looked around at the houses surrounding the madrassa. “Your quiet life here cannot continue uninterrupted forever.”
The Mullah’s face was impassive as he watched them leave. Wasif sat quietly in the back of the SUV, ignored by Jan Farooq. When they reached the highway, the SUV stopped in front of the checkpoint. Jan Farooq snapped at the driver. “Wait here. I am going to speak to a man in the chai khana.”
The driver lit a cigarette, blowing smoke at Wasif. “Off with you, boy,” he said.
Wasif fumbled with the door handle until it opened, stepping out into the road. He looked down at the dead pigeon on the floor of the truck, but left it there and closed the door. When he turned to walk toward the checkpoint, he saw Umar, who greeted him warmly.
“The great hunter returns!”
Umar looked at him curiously, holding him by the shoulders, but Wasif simply looked away and said nothing.
“Are you sick?” asked Umar.
Wasif shook his head.
“I have had my doubts about Jan Farooq all along,” said Umar. “Your face says much of what must have been discussed.”
Wasif didn’t look at Umar, but simply passed on his message. “The Mullah wishes to speak to you. He is at the madrassa.”
Umar looked as if he wanted to say something more, but did not. He handed his rifle to Wasif, briefly pulling back the cocking handle to show him that a round was chambered.
“Rashid and Isa are eating in the chai khana,” he said. “Stay here for now, and go eat when they come back.”
Wasif took the rifle and sat on the low stone wall, looking down the road. Umar watched him for a moment, but knowing how impatient the Mullah could be, he hurried up the well-worn path to the madrassa.
Wasif sat alone, with tears in his eyes. His hands gripped the rifle tightly, twisting and wearing the wooden grips.