My warps were strung vertically on a loom. Three women worked on me. They hooked out my upright threads and knotted dyed wool to them, cutting away the loose ends with a flick of a knife. They threaded weft horizontally to hold me together and banged me down with a heavy comb to compact my knots. I slowly grew up from the ground.
Sometimes the women talked but for most of the day they were silent. They checked a design on the wall, matching red, orange, ivory and deep blue to its tiny squares and knotting the colours into me.
My deep crimson pattern of encircling leaves and stepped diagonals piled up until, on the forty-second day, I was finished.
My fringe was cut from the loom and the women were paid. I was taken across the road, placed in a drum and spun so wooden battens beat me and settled my pile. I was dragged out and men pulled me flat and I was shorn with electric clippers that cut my threads short and sharpened my pattern. A hand checked the smoothness of my soft surface and two boys laid me out on the floor, soaked me and pushed brooms across me. Soap foamed through me and my colours shone.
I was hung and dried. Two weeks later I was folded, covered in plastic and stacked with others on the back of a truck. I was driven from the village and into the green valleys, through mountains along a road that clung to the rock and weaved a course down the steep spurs and finally onto flat plains. The truck stopped in a city that night and the driver sat with others by a fire and drank. And then we drove on west across a desert, past villages and camel trains, burnt tanks rusted and scrawled with graffiti and convoys of white lorries.
The road became congested and the traffic shimmered around us as we crept forward. In a town crowds thronged around administrative buildings and queued in lines that blocked the street. Some had purple dye on their right index fingers and were excited.
We then arrived in a large city, where I was unloaded into a warehouse and waited.
Weeks later, a man pulled me from the stack and I flopped on the concrete floor, spiralling dust up into the air. He pulled out others and threw them down next to me. Another man knelt down and ran the flat of his hand over me. He studied the others and then he chose me. They discussed whether payment should be made in the new currency or dollars.
I was folded and taken out by one of the men. He put me on a cart with rubber tyres and a pony pulled us out of the city into the fields. We stopped by a high, long compound wall that shadowed the road. The driver stepped down from the cart and knocked on a tall, black gate. Kushan Hhan opened the door and greeted him and came out onto the road to look at me. He was pleased and put his arm around the man in thanks.
He called over two boys who were out in the field, running as fast as they could, trying to make a kite fly, and laughing.
“Faridun, this is Noor Hhan,” Kushan Hhan said, introducing the driver. “We are working together on a new venture.” He put an arm on the boy’s shoulder and pointed at me. “Look what he has given me.”
“It is wonderful, Father,” Faridun said.
“It is from the north,” the driver said. “It is a very fine carpet.”
“My father says the best carpets are from there,” the other boy said.
“It is a generous gift,” Kushan Hhan said. “Now, Faridun, can you and Latif take it into the house, please? I need to speak with Noor Hhan.”
“He is a handsome boy, Kushan,” the driver said as the boys lifted me up.
“He should be working, not playing with his friends. He’s nearly a man.”
They watched the boys take me through the gate into a courtyard. It was an oasis of green and colourful flowers, many the same red as me. Water trickled down a channel and clear white stone paths cut between pergolas and wooden frames of lush vines. Tulips and herbs scented the cool air. The boys stepped up onto a veranda and into a clean painted room and put me down on the floor.
“Where do you think?” Latif said, pulling me along by a corner. “Here?”
“I’m not sure,” Faridun said. “Mother will know where to put it.” He had his hands on his hips and looked down at me. There were two other carpets in the room around a small gas stove and a few bowls. To one side was a low table and cushions. “Shall we fly the kite again? We could use my new bike to get more speed.”
“I want to try first.”
“It was my idea and it is my bike,” Faridun said and ran out.
The family had meals together, sprawled on me and the cushions around the room. Some of them slept on me and they all walked on me. The children learnt to crawl and took their first steps across me. Sometimes the family celebrated and the men danced to music, their bare feet jumping up and down on me as they leapt in a circle and clapped.
I stayed in that room and every few months I was taken into the garden, held up while the dust was thumped from me and then returned to the endless pattern of daily existence as the family revolved around the house. Rains came and the garden cycled through the seasons outside.
A few times a year, men gathered around me to discuss the land and irrigation and what crops to grow, to argue about the government and the governor. Kushan Hhan led the debates. He sat on me and tea was brought out for his guests as they talked.
One summer, gunfire and explosions sounded in the distance. When the men now met they talked about the arrival of the foreign soldiers and their helicopters. They argued over the sale of a compound at the edge of the village where they had erected new watchtowers and walls. Their voices deepened as they discussed the shadow of the old government and the men who came from the mountains to fight the soldiers.
The family noticed the changes too. Whenever gunfire could be heard crackling in the distance they hid in the corner of the room. But this soon became normal: now they listened to work out how far away the danger was and often continued what they were doing.
Kushan Hhan’s meetings grew strained and he worked hard to lead the men through the suddenly painful discussions. The fair division of water into the ditches of their fields was no longer the most important subject. Now the balance of power across the land had split them. Many blamed the foreigners and told Kushan Hhan that everything had been fine before they came, so why were they here? And what of the constant explosions?
Kushan Hhan urged them to stay calm about this foreign presence: it was for the good of the country. But some said that a good country would do nothing and that the fighting was ruining them, scorching their fields and stopping trade. He told them that the foreign soldiers needed time to bring peace.
That same night, Kushan Hhan sat cross-legged on me with his family all around him and watched Faridun eat his soup. He was now old enough to fight, to be caught up in it, and Kushan Hhan prayed he was leading his people in the right direction.
One afternoon after the next harvest, when the days were getting hotter, Faridun came home limping and with a bloody lip. Kushan Hhan brought him over and they sat down on me.
“What happened, my son?” he said.
“There was a checkpoint on the way back—I could not avoid it,” Faridun said. “I am sorry, Father. They took your fertiliser.”
“Was it a government checkpoint? Did the soldiers hurt you?”
“It was some of Hassan’s men, I think. One of them was from the mountains.” He licked his swollen lip and looked down at his cut ankle. “Latif was with them.”
“Aadela,” Kushan Hhan called into the next room, “can you bring some water and ointment please? Faridun is hurt.”
“Why, what happened?” she said, coming in. “What have you done now, Faridun?”
“Nothing, Mother. I’m sorry about the fertiliser.”
“That doesn’t matter,” his father said. “Why did they hurt you?”
“They pushed me over and threatened me.”
“Why?”
“Latif was there with them—he must be working with them all the time now.”
His father crouched beside him. “Why would they threaten you, Faridun?”
“They said it was because you work for the infidels.” He looked at his father. “They said they would—”
“Would what, Faridun?” his mother said, sitting down in front of him with a bowl.
“They said if Father continues to work with the foreigners they will behead Lalma.”
“What is that meant to mean?” She looked at her husband and then glanced at the doorway and spoke more quietly. “What is that meant to mean, Kushan? How can they come here and threaten us like that?” She was angry and stared at him. “You must go and see the governor.”
“It is not a problem, Aadela,” he said and stood. “I’m sorry you were hurt, Faridun.”
She looked up at him. “It is a problem, Kushan.”
“They try to intimidate us. It is the school, and perhaps the wedding,” he said, gazing into his garden through the window. “We must not let them.”
“You will speak to Hassan, then. He has gone too far this time.”
“It is not possible, Aadela. Things have changed.”
“Hold still, Faridun.” His mother dabbed his lip with a cloth, and water dripped onto me. “Well, you have to do something.”
Faridun brushed away her hand. “I’m fine, Mother. Please, give me a moment.”
“I will not let you put this family in danger, Kushan,” she said, pressing the cloth back on Faridun’s lip.
“I will talk to Latif’s father again,” Kushan Hhan said.
“Latif doesn’t matter. That foolish boy has made his choice now. How could he do this to Faridun, to us? After everything we have done for his family. Did you not give him a job last harvest?”
“I will discuss the checkpoints at our next meeting.” He was dark against the window.
“Your stupid meetings,” she said. “Nothing ever gets done, you men just sit around like statues and do nothing. I’ll go and talk to Latif’s mother.”
But my owner had gone back into his garden.
In the following weeks Faridun’s lip healed. He came back from the fields each night and ate with the family. They were preparing for his younger sister’s wedding and the women sat around the room and on me sewing silks and threading jewels.
One day the women were singing softly, stitching the bridal dress, when Faridun came home early from work.
“Where is Father?” he said.
“In the back field,” his mother said. “Why?”
“The soldiers are here. They want to speak to him.”
“What do you mean, here?” She pulled a thread through the silk in her lap.
“They’re outside now. Right here, Mother.”
“Did you bring them here, Faridun?”
But he had already left.
“We should finish,” she said.
She made the women and girls leave the room, tidied all the fabrics and needles from me and waited.
Kushan Hhan came back with his son.
“What is happening?” she said as they entered.
“The British soldiers are here, Aadela,” my owner said. “They have come to speak to me.”
She held a length of fabric to her chest. “Why are you here, then? Go out and see them.”
“I have invited them in,” he told her.
“You will not, Kushan, I will not let you bring them into this house.”
“They have asked to see me. We cannot forget our traditions, Aadela.” He looked out of the door.
She was frightened. “It means nothing to them.”
“Go and make tea, Aadela,” he said firmly. “And do not show yourself.”
“Do you do this for power, Kushan? It is reckless.”
“Go,” he said. “Please.” He glanced at his son. “Faridun, bring in the foreigners.”
The boy brought the soldiers in. There were only three of them. The first walked in after Faridun. He was dark and massive and his aerial rattled off the top of the doorway. Once he’d taken his helmet off and pulled a band from his head and smiled, he didn’t seem so huge and strange. He placed his equipment and his rifle down by the door.
Kushan Hhan beckoned him over and they sat on me across from each other. Another soldier waited outside the door and the third man came in and sat with them. He spoke first.
“This is Captain Tom. I am his translator,” he said. “He thanks you for allowing him into your home. It is very generous of you.”
“Tell him he is welcome,” Kushan Hhan said and smiled, touching his hand to his chest.
The young soldier nodded. He was hot and his trousers were damp with sweat. He spoke to the translator.
“He says he has placed his men around the house for our protection. He is sorry to have to do this. He hopes it does not mark you out.”
“It is fine: I understand.”
“Captain Tom is from the base beyond the village.”
“Tell him I know the base well. I have been there before to meet with them,” Kushan Hhan said. “But each time I go there it is a different man in uniform I speak to. I have never seen your captain. How long has he been here?”
The interpreter and the soldier talked.
“He has been here for two months. He apologises that they are always changing, but it is beyond his control. I myself have had to speak for three different groups since I have worked with them. They never stay for very long.”
“Where are you from?” Kushan Hhan asked the interpreter.
“From the capital. I learnt English there.”
“You take a great risk.”
“As do you,” the interpreter replied and Kushan Hhan smiled.
While the young man talked to his interpreter, my owner studied another soldier guarding the door into his garden.
“Captain Tom would like to hear about the school you have opened,” the interpreter said. “He says he wants to support you in this.”
Kushan Hhan still looked out of the door but then turned to the soldier sitting on the other side of me. The man was smiling but Kushan Hhan could tell he wasn’t comfortable being here. “Tell the captain that there will be time for talk of schools and government and bombs. Tell him I will bring tea for us to drink together.”
He motioned to Faridun, who went through the back door and returned with a tray holding three small cups of tea, which he put down on me. Kushan Hhan leant forward to drink. The captain did the same, twisting awkwardly in his armour to pick up his cup.
“He thanks you,” the interpreter said. “He says it is refreshing.” They all sipped tea and waited.
Kushan Hhan let the silence fill and listened to the water running in the channels through his garden.
Suddenly the captain started talking to his translator. He seemed to mean well but was impatient. He would want to do business quickly—like everything else they did. Fix it and then move on. Build, repair, leave. He looked straight at Kushan Hhan as the interpreter spoke.
“He is very interested in the school, if you would like to talk about it?” he said.
Kushan Hhan sighed and put his cup back down on the tray. “Ask the captain how many children he has.”
The two men spoke, then the interpreter said, “He is not yet married, but hopes that one day he might be.”
“Not married? How old is he?”
“I told him you were surprised,” the interpreter said after speaking to the captain again. “He is twenty-five. He has yet to meet the right woman. Their traditions are very different.”
“His father has not found a woman for him?”
“He says he wishes it was that simple.” The interpreter smiled. “He has to do all the hard work himself.” The young man grinned as his words were translated.
“It should be simple,” Kushan Hhan said, “but rarely is. Still, it makes for strong families.” He pointed at his son. “This is my son, Faridun. He is seventeen. I will have to find him a bride soon.”
Faridun sat by the window. He did not smile but stared at the captain’s strange clothes and the armour that encased him.
“The captain says he likes your garden,” the interpreter said. “It is the most beautiful thing he has seen since he has been here. It reminds him of his father’s garden.”
“Your father has a garden like this?” Kushan Hhan said.
“The captain says it helps his father think after work.”
“Yes.” Kushan Hhan looked out into the courtyard. “It is the one thing I have some control over here. And who my children marry, of course.”
The young man smiled at the translation.
They continued to talk about the garden, the surrounding fields and what the farmers were growing. The captain asked about the harvest and how good it had been. Then they talked of family and the men Kushan Hhan was close to. They discussed the village and how the market was doing and he told the soldier how the bombs under the road made everything difficult for them.
The captain fidgeted on me and had to stretch out his legs. My owner smiled at his discomfort and suggested he should get used to sitting on the floor. He could tell the man wanted to leave; without his weapon he was worried and he glanced at his watch and then at the soldier guarding the door.
So Kushan Hhan told him about the school.
“The building has been destroyed and it is too difficult to rebuild without any security,” he said. “I have tried, but I lack the support of the other families. They feel threatened.”
“The captain understands,” the interpreter told him. “He will do what he can to help but he is aware of the difficulties. He feels the school is important for the area. He has funds.”
Kushan Hhan looked down at me and rubbed my pile. “It is always about money.” He was angry. “Funds do not keep them from beating the children who attend the school, or ripping out doors and windows, or setting fire to the roof. You think dollars will solve all our problems.”
“He says they will do everything they can. He understands it is not easy for you. But we must be going soon or our journey back to the base will be more dangerous. He thanks you for the tea,” the interpreter said, putting his cup down on me.
“Tell him that he will walk out of here, back to his base, and before sunset I will be visited by them. They will come in here, sit where he has been sitting and ask me what the soldier wanted and what I said. Tell your captain that.”
The soldier looked at him and spoke slowly to his interpreter.
“He says he hopes you have not taken too grave a risk.”
“We will talk more of the school when we next meet,” Kushan Hhan said. “If he is still here and it is not some other captain.”
“He hopes he can continue to talk to you. Captain Tom says he realises how hard it is for you to invite him into your home and he is thankful,” the interpreter said.
“For each time I speak to a captain or a major like him, and hear their promises about security and education and bridges and new roads, about money, I have to speak to the insurgents five times.” Kushan Hhan stood up. “The insurgents come here to tell me how I should lead my people and to threaten me and my family. They will punish me for inviting you in here today.”
“I understand,” the interpreter said.
“But does he understand?” Kushan Hhan pointed at the captain, then called over his shoulder, “Lalma, come here.”
There were whispers from behind the back door and then Lalma walked in. She stood next to him, her bare feet on me. She glanced up at the soldier, then looked down and pulled her green headscarf up to her eyes. Faridun shifted in the corner.
“This is my daughter. She is to be married,” Kushan Hhan said. “They have threatened to hurt her if I talk to these foreigners.”
He held the soldier’s gaze as the translator explained what he had said.
The captain nodded and put his equipment and helmet back on. He looked at Kushan Hhan with his beautiful daughter standing beside him and said he hoped they would meet again soon. Kushan Hhan watched him pick up his rifle and step out into the courtyard; he looked aggressive again with his eyes shadowed by his helmet and his weapon at his side. He wondered if the man’s father really did have a garden like his.
When they had gone his wife came in through the back door and hugged Lalma close to her. She watched him silhouetted by the window. “How was it, Kushan?”
“You know how it was, Aadela,” he said softly. “You were listening to every word.”
“I thought it went well. Perhaps they might help us—maybe they do have money?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“And you didn’t promise them anything, Kushan. I think Hassan will understand that you had no choice.”
Kushan Hhan wasn’t sure that Hassan would understand and he walked across me and went to sit on the veranda and look at his garden.