by Thalassa Ali
“No one has told me, Bhaji. I have seen it in my dreams.”
“And what stories do your dreams tell you?” she asked gently.
“They do not tell stories.” He shook his head somberly. “In my dreams I see tall mountains and sharp rocks. When I see them, I feel sad.”
When he looked into her face, she saw him suddenly not as a child, but as the man he would become.
“I feel sad that An-nah is far away, where the mountains are high and the rocks are very sharp. It looks so cold there.”
He gave a small, unhappy cough.
“He is beginning to have visions,” she told her brother that evening, when they were alone in her chamber. “He sees the mountains of Afghanistan. He says the very sight of them brings him sorrow. ”
“Poor child.” The Shaikh sighed. “He has been given the burden of seeing into the future.”
“But he only sees what Allah Most Gracious allows.”
“That is true. And since it is, his visions are important. Whatever Saboor is seeing, I hope it does not portend ill for this family.”
November 1, 1841
The next morning, Mariana marched out onto the verandah where the tailor squatted, his scissors beside him.
“Ravi,” she announced, pointing to a bolt of cotton that lay, half-unrolled, on the verandah floor, “I want you to make me a proper Afghan shalwar kameez. Have it ready by this evening.”
It was time for her to return to the city, but without the encumbrance of a heavy, woolen riding habit beneath her chaderi.
You may visit me again, Haji Khan had told her. More than a month had gone by since their first strange meeting. He must be wondering if she had received the answer he had promised her.
Of course she had not. Eleven times each morning and eleven times each night for weeks and weeks she had recited her amended version of his durood. Nothing had happened. Furthermore, she was still unsure which question those verses were meant to address. Was it her paralyzing choice between Hassan and Fitzgerald, or the other, mysterious query that had arisen in her heart as she sat in his crowded, stifling room?
Had Haji Khan even given her the correct roll of paper?
He certainly had never asked her what she wanted to know.
Before she could even consider what that second question might be, she must discover the truth about her future. When she thought about Fitzgerald, a wave of pleasure washed over her at the prospect of seeing him again, followed instantly by confusion and guilt.
How could she—a married woman—find Fitzgerald attractive? But how could she not? He was attractive.
The only solution to her doubts was to revisit Haji Khan.
She would start off early the following morning, before Aunt Claire or Uncle Adrian appeared for breakfast, leaving word that she had gone for an early ride. As soon as she arrived in Haji Khan's presence, she would screw up her courage and tell him plainly of her dilemma, ignoring as best she could his crowd of listening followers.
The time had come to stop waiting for Ghulam Ali's return. She must know now whether her future was with elegant, perfumed Hassan or blunt, protective Fitzgerald; among Hassan's strangely compelling family or among her own people.
When she had finished ordering her native clothing, she sent for Yar Mohammad.
“I will be leaving the house at seven tomorrow morning,” she informed him. “Please be ready to take me to the mulberry garden. From there I will be going into the city with Nur Rahman.”
“This time, Bibi,” he replied, his bony face set, “you will ride your mare, and I will accompany you.”
EARLY THE next morning, before Aunt Claire or Uncle Adrian had emerged from their room for breakfast, Mariana slipped from the house. Beneath her chaderi she wore the long shirt, baggy, gathered trousers, and enveloping shawl of an Afghan woman. Her feet were encased in embroidered slippers, purchased from the cantonment's Indian bazaar. Her hair hung down her back in a single, curly plait.
The morning was cold. She shivered as she made her way to the stables, unwilling to be seen mounting her mare at the front door. There she found Nur Rahman standing in front of Yar Mohammad, retying his turban.
“You look better now,” he announced. “Remember to point to your mouth if anyone talks to you. They will think you are deaf, or that someone has cut out your tongue.”
The boy turned to Mariana. “I will have to tell him the way,” he confided. “He has no idea where we are going.”
What an odd group they were, she thought as they started off—a woman in Afghan clothes riding on an English sidesaddle, accompanied by a hill man from northern India and an Afghan boy dressed as a woman.
The road was busy as they approached the city, with groups of intent-looking men interspersed with the usual Uzbek and Tajik traders, wizened Hazara laborers with impossibly large loads on their backs, and boys with poles over their shoulders, carrying dripping cloth cones of yoghurt to the marketplace. Many of them glanced at Mariana, and frowned in surprise. One or two tried to engage Yar Mohammad in conversation, but lost interest when he did as Nur Rahman had told him.
After a short detour, to purchase a bottle of Bukhara honey, they arrived at Haji Khan's door.
“Guests have come,” the old gatekeeper announced, as he had before.
“Enter.” Haji Khan's rasping voice was unchanged. This time, Mariana noted, only one jezail, and no knives, had been left on the verandah.
The blind man raised his head as Mariana and Nur Rahman stepped inside and greeted him, leaving Yar Mohammad to tend the mare.
He held up a hand. “Where,” he inquired, “is our third guest?”
“Oh,” said Nur Rahman airily, “he is outside with the—”
“Send for him,” Haji Khan snapped. “Such a man is not to be left standing in the courtyard.”
Such a man. From the way Haji Khan spoke, Yar Mohammad was worth more than Mariana and Nur Rahman together.
As before, a filigreed copper lamp illuminated the far end of the blind man's windowless room, now unoccupied save for Haji Khan and a small, mild-looking person, presumably the owner of the jezail, who ran dark eyes over Mariana and her companions, greeted them, then fell into contemplative silence.
Mariana arranged herself on the straw stool, the honey ready in her hand, and looked about her. The room, with its wall hangings, was unchanged. The heavy perfume in the air smelled vaguely familiar.
Whatever it was, it seemed to have a power of its own, for she felt her breathing deepen.
“Well, Khanum,” Haji Khan inquired, as she laid her offering beside him, “what have you to tell me? What have you learned?”
“Haji Khan, I have learned nothing.” Mariana cleared her throat nervously. The confidence she had felt when she started off earlier had drained away when she stepped over his threshold. Once again, her concerns, so pressing at home, now seemed petty and unimportant.
“Did you recite the durood I have given you?”
“Not as it is written,” she said, too loudly, then dropped her voice. “I am Christian, you see.”
She heard the Afghan visitor shift on the floor behind her.
“You, Khanum,” Haji Khan snapped, “are a very foolish woman. Islam is meant for all the people who roam the face of the earth. It acknowledges one God. It shares its laws and its faith with Jews and Christians. Why do you not know this?
“Have I asked you,” he added irritably, “to recite the Shahada, the attestation of faith? Have I asked you to recite La illaha illa Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
“Then I have not asked you to embrace Islam. You have more to decide than who is to be your husband,” he went on. “If you recite the durood exactly as it is written, you will receive the answers you seek. If you do not, you will have wasted my time. In any case, I have no more to say about it.”
“Haji Khan,” Nur Rahman called eagerly from the doorway, “speak to us of Paradise.”
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The blind man did not reply. Instead, he lifted his head, as if searching for someone. “Third visitor,” he commanded, “speak to us. Tell us of the key to Paradise.”
Yar Mohammad's resonant voice came from a shadowy corner of the room. “It is peace,” he said.
“And what is the key to life?”
“It is ishq, the Essence of Love,” Yar Mohammad responded, without hesitating. “When a man has peace and love in his heart, he will travel far toward the Goal.”
Mariana breathed in. She should have known he was more than a simple groom.
Haji Khan sighed gustily. “It is so good to hear these words. Truly, brother, your murshid is a great man. Or, I should say, your two murshids, for you, unlike most men, have the good fortune to have more than one great teacher. Yes,” he continued. “You are blessed with guidance from both Shaikh Waliullah Karakoyia of Lahore, and Shafiuddin Khan, the great interpreter of dreams. It has given me signal pleasure to sit so many times with my friend Shafi over these past months.”
Shafiuddin Khan? But that was Munshi Sahib's real name. No one had told Mariana of those visits. How many times had he come?
“And now,” Haji Khan said, “I only lack the joy of meeting Shaikh Waliullah.”
“But what is the Goal Yar Mohammad speaks of?” Nur Rahman's voice came from the back of the room.
“It is to see the face of the Beloved,” Yar Mohammad and Haji Khan responded in unison.
Nur Rahman sighed rapturously. “In the Garden?”
“Yes,” responded Haji Khan.
The room around Mariana, with its embroidered hangings and heavy, scented air, seemed to alter. In her imagination, it was no longer a dark and windowless chamber, but a gateway, leading to another world. It almost seemed that, past the string bed where blind Haji Khan sat motionless in the light of his copper lamp, a door had opened. Beyond it lay a vista shrouded in fog, its only visible feature a path leading away to another, more beautiful world.
Gate and path beckoned to her.
Mariana's unasked question returned. It tugged urgently at her, demanding to be asked.
“What must I do,” she blurted out, “to attain the Garden, and see the face of the Beloved?”
The image disappeared. Light-headed, she imagined Papa in his vicar's robes, and her mother dressed for church, both their faces filled with horror.
But why should she not call God the Beloved? Why should she not aspire to Paradise? Everyone knew Eden had been a garden. Besides, this was her life, her adventure.
Haji Khan's rasping voice brought her back to reality. “Only do as I have said. Recite—”
“Listen!” The silent guest spoke for the first time. Mariana turned and saw him sitting bolt upright, his face alert, a hand raised for silence.
Outside, faint shouting arose. It grew louder, as if a large, triumphant crowd were approaching.
Something in the quiet man's face frightened Mariana.
“What is it?” she asked. “What is wrong?”
“I fear, Khanum,” Haji Khan said gently, “that your Mr. Alexander Burnes is in grave trouble. You have chosen,” he added, “a difficult day to enter the city.”
“But why? What has he done?”
Before the words had left Mariana's throat, her hand was over her mouth. All the hints that Burnes, Macnaghten, and the others had ignored came rushing back to her—the closing of the passes to India; the fighting in the north; Akbar Khan's movements around the country; the fighting that Fitzgerald had met with on the road from Kandahar.
Each time they come back, Fitzgerald had said, there are more of them.
The Kabulis must know of Burnes's drinking, of the women he lured into his house. Who knew what else he had done to cause hatred to spread like poison through the city?
Living here, within reach, he was an easy target.
“What will they do to him?” she asked, and immediately regretted her question.
No one replied.
The quiet man got to his feet and stepped outside. Mariana heard the heavy outer door creak, and then a sudden torrent of noise as if a river of rage were streaming past them in the street.
The door creaked again, then thudded shut. The guest reappeared and stepped over the threshold. “These visitors should be escorted from the city as soon as it is safe,” he said, gesturing toward Mariana and the others.
Haji Khan nodded and turned his white eyes to Yar Mohammad. “Leave the horse here,” he ordered, “and follow Nadir. He will take you to safety.”
Yar Mohammad unfolded himself from the floor.
Mariana hesitated for a moment before Haji Khan's string bed. “I will do it,” she half-whispered. “I will recite the durood properly.”
He nodded. “Go,” he commanded.
She, Yar Mohammad, Nur Rahman, and the man called Nadir stood in the courtyard, listening to the crowd rush by outside. As it passed, voices rose above the general din. Their tone caused a chill to run down Mariana's spine.
“Aminullah Khan says there is a great treasure to be looted from the house across the street,” crowed one male voice.
“We will take it,” shouted another, “but not until we have finished the infidel Eskander Burnes.”
Aminullah Khan. The sick old man Burnes had laughed about only ten days ago…
After the sound had faded in the crooked street, the guest stepped outside, followed by Yar Mohammad, then Mariana and Nur Rahman. As the elderly guard swung the heavy doors shut behind them, Haji Khan's caged nightingale gave out a series of lovely, bubbling cries.
The quiet stranger walked in front with a rapid, rolling stride, his jezail slung across one shoulder. He did not look back. Yar Mohammad walked beside him, the long knife he had taken from his clothes ready in his hand. Mariana followed them, together with Nur Rahman, who for once seemed to have nothing to say.
Burnes's house must have been nearby, for Mariana heard the shouts of the gathering mob echoing behind her as she crept along the margin of the narrow street, her stiff new slippers with their upward-pointing toes biting into her feet. Groups of men strode past her, hurrying to join the others, faces intent, weapons resting on their shoulders.
The city bazaars were eerily silent as they passed. No wood sellers chopped their wares in the Chob Faroshi as they passed. No tinsmiths filled the air with rhythmic hammering. Even the Char Chatta shops were shuttered. As she tried to ignore the blisters growing on her feet, Mariana calculated how long it would take them to reach the cantonment.
Tonight she would recite the words on Haji Khan's little roll of paper. She had given him her word.
“I HAVE done nothing to harm you! Nothing!” Alexander Burnes shouted to the crowd. Below him, between the posts that held up his carved balcony, heavy thudding indicated that the mob was now forcing the door to his house. “Do not shoot,” he cautioned the guards who stood, muskets loaded, on the rooftop.
Beside him, his assistant surveyed the crowd with a practiced eye. “There were three hundred an hour ago,” said Major William Broadfoot. “Now I would say there are ten times that many. They are packed into the road here, and I suspect there are more, out of sight around the corners.”
Burnes had begun to perspire. “What of the back of the house?”
His companion shrugged.
“William,” Burnes said somberly, “I should have listened to the warnings. I am to be sacrificed to these savages, but you have no part in this.”
“It is my duty, sir,” Broadfoot assured him. “Do not worry. Reinforcements will be here soon. It is already two hours since we sent your letter to the cantonment.”
Before he could say more, the first shots ricocheted off the wall behind them. He pushed Burnes through the open shutters. “Get inside, sir,” he ordered, then turned his attention, and his musket, to the crowd. “Open fire!” he called to the guard on the roof.
He killed six Afghans before he dropped to the balcony floor, shot mercifully through the heart.<
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One by one, the six guards fell.
The mob burst into the wide courtyard, and set the stables, then the house, ablaze. Inside the burning house, Burnes put on his Afghan costume with shaking hands.
“Hurry,” said the Kashmiri who had come to suggest he escape by the back door.
“I am hurrying,” Burnes panted as he wound on his lucky turban, the one he had always worn on his woman-hunting forays.
They opened the back door only enough to let them squeeze outside and into the crowd that stood shoulder to shoulder, shifting impatiently. The crowd smelled of sweat, unwashed clothing, and lust for blood.
The door shut behind them.
Someone turned and looked into Burnes's face. He dropped his head, hoping…
“He is here, I have him!” The Kashmiri raised his voice. “Here is Eskandar Burnes!”
Before Sir Alexander Burnes, British Resident at Kabul, had time to protest the Kashmiri's betrayal, before he had time to pray, the mob had fallen upon him.
There was no room for jezails in the narrow street, so they used knives: heavy pointed churas with long, straight blades for thrusting; ivory-handled kukri knives with downward-curving blades, heavy enough to slash a man in half; beautifully weighted Persian daggers with decorated hilts, Indian katars for tiger hunting, with wedge-shaped blades and strange handles, damascened khanjars and jam-biyas, whose upward-curving blades were sharpened on both edges.
When at last the crowd turned away, satisfied with its work, Sir Alexander Burnes, British Resident at Kabul, was no more than a scattered collection of body parts and blood-soaked rags.
“The British will come, now,” spectators muttered as the jubilant crowd marched, shouting, through the city. “They will come with their great, damaging guns. They will come.”
They must get clear of the city, Mariana told herself as she toiled painfully past the wall of a large formal garden. Word of the attack on Burnes must have reached the cantonment hours ago. The British rescue party would already be on the march, bent on saving him, or avenging his death.
