The Widow's Husband

by Tamim Ansary

Khadija had to admit, it was saucily well done. Ibrahim stared at his wife for a moment, his cheeks and cheekbones still ruddy above his sharp black beard. Then he said, “Send him a plate of dinner, heaped high, swimming in oil. He must want for nothing!” He hurried upstairs without a backward glance.

  Khadija called after him, “What about your dinner, Ibrahim-jan?”

  “I’ll eat later,” he said impatiently.

  But the malik did not come down again that night, and when the women sent Ahmad up to check on him, the boy heard nothing behind the door but the rhythmic muttering that either meant his father was reading books again or that he was reciting extra prayers.

  * * *

  

  The next day Khadija decided to go see the headman without warning or permission. After knocking she waited till she heard a muffled grunt and entered. He was crouched over his writing board, carefully copying words from one of his books onto a sheet of paper. He’d already copied at least fifteen of his twenty-two books, she knew, some of them twice. She waited for him to finish working, but he just kept at it.

  “Hajji-jan.”

  “Yes?” He set his pen down and sat up. No matter how distracted he was, his voice was always courteous. She waited for him to wrap his book in cloth and set his papers out of harm’s way. It struck her that Ibrahim had never looked so deeply happy.

  “You said you wanted my advice…” she murmured.

  “I do. I want it. Have you thought of something?”

  “Yes. About the water? I should have brought this up the other day.”

  “It’s fine. Tell me now.”

  “First, tell me: are you planning to consult the other men about this?”

  “Of course. It’s my duty as malik. I will call a meeting.”

  “Before the meeting: will you speak with Ghulam Dastagir?” She could picture Karim’s grim father as she spoke his name.

  “I thought I might. A leader must seek advice, even if he doesn’t need it. That is what my brother taught me. He said, never let people think you proud.”

  “Well, just be careful how you do it,” Khadija said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know what Ghulam Dastagir says to his wife?”

  “Of course not. How would I know. What does he say?”

  “That you are untried and inexperienced, that you won’t be able to make decisions on your own, that you will come to him for advice as a boy comes to his father.”

  The malik rubbed his cheeks hard. “He said that?”

  “To his wife, who told Akram Gul’s wife, who told me. Ghulam Dastagir thought the village should have chosen him as leader, and it still gnaws at him.”

  “That’s no secret,” muttered Ibrahim.

  “Well. I am only saying. If you ask Ghulam Dastagir for advice, make sure he knows you don’t actually need his advice. Make him feel that you are asking purely as a show of respect. That way, you do what’s proper, you leave him nothing to criticize, but you give away none of your strength.”

  “Sometimes, Khadija-jan, I think Allah really should have made you a man.”

  She closed her eyelids to let her long lashes lie against her smooth cheekbones. “But alas, no…he made me a woman. What have you decided about Sorkhab? Will you talk to Malik Mustapha? When will you go?”

  “I haven’t decided. I have other things on my mind right now. This sheikh on our hillside, we must take good care of him so that he’ll have no reason to wander off.”

  “The malang, you mean?”

  “Everyone is calling him ‘the malang’, yes, but I tell you, Khadija-jan, when people hear about this man, we’ll have pilgrims coming to the village. We’ll have to build a place for them to sleep, somewhere over the hill, away from the village, so they can visit the sheikh as they wish.”

  “We could charge money,” said Khadija. “We could sell them food.”

  “Just what I was thinking—if it’s lawful. I’ll have to ask Mullah Yaqub about it.”

  “Mullah Yaqub lives in Sorkhab. He’ll tell you no. He’ll want the malang to grow dissatisfied with Char Bagh and move to Sorkhab. Then Mullah Yaqub’s opinion will change, that rascal. Don’t trust him. You know more about religion than he does.”

  Ibrahim stroked his beard. “Well, perhaps you’re right. How could the holy law forbid feeding pilgrims? I don’t need to consult him. It can’t be necessary.”

  “What would you we do with the money, if any comes our way?” Khadija wondered.

  “We could build a water mill,” Ibrahim mused. “We could get Ghulam Haidar some carpentry tools—oh, what he could do with a big saw! Or enlarge the mosque, perhaps! We could send someone to Baghlan to shop.”

  “They could bring back some cosmetics,” said Khadija. “Some of the younger women, you know, the merriment of a good wedding…It lifts everybody’s spirits.”

  “Indeed, indeed, I will consider all these things,” the headman said. “I’ll give it plenty of thought. You see what I’m dealing with, though. I have a lot on my mind! I’ll remember what you said about Ghulam Dastagir, though..”

  “See that you do, Hajji-sahib. It’s for your own good. Well, I will leave you to your thoughts now.” She turned to leave, but at the threshold, she spotted a crumb of dirt, and with her back to her brother-in-law, she bent over to pick it up. Feeling the headman’s interested gaze on her backside, she cast a glance over her shoulder, flushed with embarrassment, and straightened up abruptly. Their eyes met and the look between them was a short, fiery flash of flirtation. Khadija hurried out.

  7

  The moment Ibrahim stepped out of his compound, his cousin Asadullah hailed him from down the street. “Hajji-sahib,” the squat man shouted. “Did you hear? We have ourselves a malang!”

  “I know,” Ibrahim shouted back. “I know. Have you sent him food?”

  “Do you want me to? I’ll do it, Hajji-sahib, a thousand times,” Asad grinned.

  “I shouldn’t have to ask you. It’s not for my sake,” Ibrahim clucked. “Do it for your own sake. He’s a man of God, you’ll earn credit with Allah. In fact, I’m thinking of building a shelter for our guest. How would you and your boys like to help me?”

  “What guest?” Asadullah came limping toward him, still grinning.

  “The man on the hill! Who else? He won’t come down to the village. What if people see him up there and say we don’t know how to treat a guest!”

  Asadullah spat and swore. “Who says so? My boys and I’ll beat him till he squeals.”

  “You miss my point, Asad-jan. I’m saying, let’s be sure to treat our guest handsomely. Will you help me build a shelter for the sheikh?”

  “What sheikh?”

  “The malang, as all of you call him! The man on the hill!” Ibrahim made an effort not to roll his eyes. “Will you help me?”

  “Faster’n a five legged horse, Hajji-sahib. You’re the headman, ain’t cha?”

  “That I am,” Ibrahim sighed. “Meet me up there this afternoon, then.” He left his cousin still bowing and grinning and headed down to his fields. The soil was too wet to plow, but he could inspect the irrigation works today and see what needed repair. Next week, God willing, he would bring his buffalo down and cut some furrows.

  He took a shortcut across this year’s fallow fields. The headman enjoyed ambling barefoot under a blue sky, feeling the mud squish between his toes. It was a cloudless day and the sun was finally shedding some real warmth. The snow on the higher peaks looked wet, and all the slopes were sweating rivulets. The trickle of water sounded on every side.

  When he reached the bend in the river, he spied Ghulam Dastagir standing mutely on a field that bordered one of Ibrahim’s, peering at the ground. In the further distance, over a series of low partition walls, Ibrahim saw two other farmers gathering stones. The elm trees along the river still sparkled with this morning’s dew. Ibrahim waved to Ghulam Dastagir but the latter was staring at something by his feet. The headman c
limbed over the wall and picked his way over the scorched stubble of last year’s wheat. “Salaam aleikum, dearest Ghulam Dastagir. How are you?”

  “Peace be on you, young fellow,” the other responded.

  Young fellow! Oh, the scoundrel couldn’t resist! “Thank you, Farmer-sahib. May you be vigorous. How is your household?”

  “Very well, thanks be to Allah. Good health, good health. How’s your great uncle? I hear he complains of back pain.”

  “Old age, my brother. God provides. What do you study so earnestly there?”

  “The milk weeds, lad. They’re very tall. The rains have been heavy this month! Heavy rain now means a dry summer later. You may not know this, but don’t worry, a man learns from experience and you’ll have that in time. I just want to warn you, though, a dry summer means the river might run low by the month of Mizan. As malik, this is something you should start thinking about now.”

  “In God we put our trust,” the village chieftain murmured uneasily.

  Ghulam Dastagir gave him a wolfish look. “Truly. We are always in God’s hands. So all is well with you, Malik-sahib? Your mother-in-law is…?”

  “Better, sahib. And your children?”

  “Oh, my youngest, you know, that knave! Too much spirit in the rascal. Too much spirit!” Thus did Ghulam Dastagir frame his boasting as complaint. “I vow I’ll take a stick to the little tiger. He must be tamed before he swallows a plum bigger than his anus. Have you heard the story he’s spreading lately? Some stranger on Baba’s Nose!”

  “It’s no mere story. There is a man up there. Our sons discovered him together.”

  “Yes, they’re inseparable, your son and mine. Your great brother and I were like that as boys!” The memory brought a wistful smile to Ghulam Dastagir’s lips, but it faded. “What do you make of this hillside stranger? Folks say he’s a malang, but he might just be some vagabond, looking to lure our women up there. They’ll want amulets, you know, women always do. What’s your opinion, young fellow?”

  Ibrahim tried to keep the irritation out of his features. “I went up and spoke to him myself. He’s no fool, I can tell you that much. He’s wide awake. If he’s a malang, he’s a new kind—not that I disrespect malangs, but this fellow might be something even greater, not less, as you seem to think. A real sage, he might be. A Sufi sheikh.”

  “Sheikh!” Ghulam Dastagir let out a guffaw. “Is that what he told you?”

  “He didn’t say it. I just noticed that he can quote the poets.”

  “Oh—quote the poets.” Ghulam Dastagir dismissed this evidence. “My brother-in-law quotes the poets. Two months in Baghlan and he quotes the poets. You’ll never find a bigger fool.”

  “Your brother-in-law parrots poets. This man understands what he’s reciting.”

  “I see.” Ghulam Dastagir leaned on his shovel, his forearms bulging in his sleeves. “This one understands the poets. Why didn’t you say so?” His dry voice let Ibrahim know where poets rated in the scheme of things for Ghulam Dastagir.

  Ibrahim remembered a long ago day when he was one of a dozen little boys watching Ghulam Dastagir stick-fight some brute from Sorkhab. He remembered his quick moves, his agile strokes. He remembered the crashing blow that sent Sorkhab’s champion sprawling, remembered how he and all his little friends had cheered! Certainly Ibrahim owed this man some deference: Ghulam Dastagir was at least twenty years his elder.

  And yet! On this issue of respect for poets and scholars, Ibrahim could not back down. His family name was at stake. “A man who understands Rumi and Sa’di is a boon to any village. I hope to God he’ll choose to live among us.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to invite this vagabond into your women’s quarters, Hajji-sahib?” Ghulam Dastagir grinned.

  Ibrahim held his ground. “Don’t worry about the womenfolk. He won’t come down from the hillside, even if you ask. I know because I’ve asked. Nonetheless, we must take care of him. He might be an angel sent to test our generosity, you know. At the very least, he’s a malang and that’s a great deal right there. If he prefers to stay outdoors, I think we must build three walls around him and put a roof over his head.”

  “Three walls! What about the fourth? Will this be like Mullah Nasruddin’s tomb, padlocked against thieves on three sides, gaping on the fourth?”

  Ibrahim tolerated the jibe with a smile. “What can thieves steal from a man with no possessions? He enjoys looking at the river, let’s leave him a view. What do you think?”

  Ghulam Dastagir merely shrugged. “Whatever you wish, Hajji-sahib. People have entrusted such decisions to you.” He left the rest unsaid: if the village woke up one day to find all their horses and daughters stolen by the vagabond, the blame would fall entirely upon Ibrahim. “I’ll bring a few good men up there this afternoon if you want.”

  “Excellent,” said Ibrahim, “Let’s show him some generosity before Sorkhab lures him away.”

  “Speaking of Sorkhab, Ibrahim-jan.” There was condescension in the shift to the intimate jan. “They used too much water last year. There’s an agreement between us, you know. Unspoken but it’s there, and they broke it. Your late, lamented brother intended to confront them about it before the planting started this year. Now, with the river in danger of running low, it’s all the more urgent they cut back. Do you plan to pay them a visit soon and deliver the message? Don’t worry, there’s nothing to fear. I’ll go with you.”

  Ibrahim glanced over the garden walls at the other two farmers. If the conflict with Sorkhab exploded into a fight, people would be hurt. Ibrahim longed to share the burden of the responsibility he bore.

  “Actually,” he said, “I have had some word from Sorkhab.”

  “Good,” said the older man. “They’re offering to cut back on their own? Good, good. They know when to be afraid.”

  “Actually…no. The word is: they’re planning to put more land under cultivation.”

  A sharp grunt escaped Ghulam Dastagir’s lips. “More?”

  “At least a thousand jireebs more. Mustafa Khan has new twin sons, Mullah Yaqub—”

  “Fuck his new twin sons! They think they can drain the river and get away with it? Steal our water just like that?”

  “Well, it’s God’s river, and it does flow past them first, that’s a fact.”

  “The more they take, the less they leave! Have you missed that fact, Malik-sahib?”

  “I have missed nothing, brother.” Ibrahim drew himself up to his full height, which still left him inches short of Ghulam Dastagir. “I am only telling you what a judge would say. We have to negotiate with these people.”

  “Fuck negotiating. They’ll take bargaining for weakness. We have to draw a line.”

  “It isn’t that simple.”

  “Of course it’s that simple! They plan to steal our water. And who are these castrated donkeys? We’re descended from Babur’s own men. Who are they? You, Malik-sahib—descended from the great scholar Ahmad Wali, the most learned man of his age! Are you going to let these upstarts place themselves above you? Who are their people?”

  “It’s true that when—”

  “When our forefathers built Char Bagh, they were nothing but a bunch of starving peasants, that’s what! The emperor put us in charge, gave us dominion over this valley—”

  “That was three hundred years ago. That emperor is gone. His whole dynasty—”

  “—and they’re going to drain our river? We must pay them a visit, a group of us—men, not boys! You’ll come too, of course. You’ll deliver the ultimatum: take more than your share and you will live to regret it! That’s what you’ll say.”

  “Well spoken, Ghulam Dastagir, but they’re over seven hundred people, and we’re not even four hundred. This is a delicate business.”

  “Delicate! I’ll cram a stick up their delicate butts. I bested their best boy in a stick fight twenty years ago! Your cherished brother—God pardon him—your brother would never have talked as you are talking now, Ibrahim.”

&
nbsp; “How am I talking? I bow to no one, Ghulam Dastagir. I only say, let’s not start with words not swords. Let’s start by showing respect and expecting the best. That’s how honorable men behave. For God’s sake, let us not squander the hard-earned honor our forefathers laid in store for us.”

  Ghulam Dastagir absorbed these comments sullenly. “Well, I bow to your judgment,” he said without conviction, “You are, of course, ‘malik,’ but let’s see what the elders say—”

  “I’ll call a jirgah,” Ibrahim interrupted. “Nothing you and I say here has any force anyway. Let the question ripen for a few days, and then I will call the men together at the mosque. There you can make your views known to all—”

  “When and where did I ever flinch from making my views known? I may never have been to Mecca, but a man learns a thing or two from experience over the years.”

  Ibrahim held his tongue. Scoring points in verbal sparring would only harden Ghulam Dastagir against him and make working with the man more difficult later. “I will look to you for the wisdom that experience brings. Now, about the sheikh—”

  “Yes. The malang, you mean.”

  “I call him sheikh. Will you meet me at Baba’s Nose about mid-afternoon?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?” Ghulam Dastagir pulled out his snuff box and took a pinch. “Ghulam Dastagir keeps his word.” He popped the snuff under his tongue and pursed his lips to keep it where the flavor would permeate, then fixed flint-gray eyes upon Ibrahim. “Accept some advice, Malik-sahib. People are nothing without land. Land is nothing without water. Protect our water and everyone will respect you, despite your tender years. Lose our water and even our children’s grandchildren will curse your name.”

  “I treasure your advice, dear friend.” Ibrahim spoke with just enough enthusiasm to meet the minimum requirements of good manners.

  8

  Picture the steep slope west of Char Bagh bathed in light shortly after a cold, bright noon. Picture thirty men, seven or eight from each clan, trudging uphill behind Ibrahim, presumably to help him build a shelter for the vagabond. Even Ghulam Haidar’s father was among them, hobbling along on his elephant feet. What could he possibly do to help? Not a thing. He just wanted to see the vagabond for himself. This was understood. In truth, this was what they all wanted, what drew them all up the mountain after Ibrahim: to judge for themselves who the stranger was up there and what he might be up to.