by Jamil Ahmad
Behind all this pent-up excitement lay the fact that every year, at this time, Fateh Mohammad undertook a visit to these relatively affluent groups, who made their payments in cash and cast-off clothes.
The family did not sleep that night. They spent the next few hours talking about and making preparations for Fateh Mohammad’s journey. They laughed as they took out his traveling shoes and mended them, joking among themselves as they packed his traveling bag with a few clothes and some books, and also the charms and amulets that these rough-bearded ice cutters favored. Fateh Mohammad started early with his staff in his hand, and at dawn, when he turned to say his prayers, he found that his house was no longer in sight. He felt sad because he was sure that his family must have been waiting to catch sight of him before the next stage of his ascent.
He climbed steadily the whole day, and all the while he kept thinking of his family and about himself. As he heard the movement of buffalo chewing their cud on the ground floors of the houses next to his path, he asked himself why he didn’t have any. While passing the huts with water mills, he remembered his own childhood, when he had inquired of his father, also a mullah, why they could not live in a hut with water running through it. His father just looked at him but did not reply. As a child, he had gradually realized that whatever his father may have pretended to believe, their family was living on charity. With the clear-mindedness of the young, he had also grasped that other people’s charity to them, though not forced, was grudgingly won by his father with a mixture of chicanery and fear. One day, he frightened his congregation with his imagery of divine wrath. Another day, he would assuage the misery of their lives with glorious visions of ultimate heavenly bliss, where houris gamboled about.
In the innocence of youth, he had imagined that he would not be a hypocritical mullah like his father, but would break away. But before he was too old, he realized with some little fear that his life would be no different from his father’s. He learned the scriptures and prepared himself for the life of a mullah, wondering whether his father, too, in his childhood had thought of breaking away but had given up his struggle when he found the mesh too strong.
Fateh Mohammad climbed steadily. He climbed through strands of pines, crossed clumps of wild olives and holy oak protecting the graveyards. On reaching the fir line, he rested for his prayers, ate some dried bread, and washed it down with sweet springwater, and was ready to start up again. The night he spent on the rush-covered floor of a mosque, and was up early next morning for the final stage of his trip.
With the man of the house away on a promising journey, the rest of his family—even the young girls—went about with their heads held a little higher than they had during the winter. They were all aware that on Fateh Mohammad’s return they would not have to, at least for a short period, worry about hunger as they did during the winter. With the fear of hunger temporarily banished, none of them felt as hungry as they did when the prospects were grimmer. Fateh Mohammad’s wife and daughters chattered and laughed while they worked during his absence. They spent the days cleaning the one room they had. They mixed buffalo dung and mud, and plastered the floor and walls. They ground some borrowed ocher and brick dust, and drew flowers and ancient patterns of birds, which had been handed down from mother to daughter.
They repaired their clothes, cutting patches from torn and discarded garments and sewing them onto the outfits they were wearing. All of them were aware that when the man of the house returned from his trip, he would be a happy man, and it would be a joyous and happy house for some time. Even his morning call for prayers would have a lilt in it, and would not end with a lingering note of sadness as it echoed between the hills.
Fateh Mohammad returned one afternoon. His family spotted him when he was some distance away. They all wanted to step out and watch him walk toward them. He, too, wished to hurry home after his long absence. Yet neither could show their eagerness, as it might cause ribald comments or even a reputation of imprudence. So both sides pretended a casualness toward each other, and it was only in the late evening, when they were by themselves, that they could express their joy at their reunion.
Fateh Mohammad was more cheerful than normal. After remaining mysterious for a while, he broke the news. In one of the communities of ice cutters, he had met a young man who had captured a bear during the winter and had trained it to perform.
This young man had asked for the hand of Shah Zarina. The negotiation about the bride price had been successful, and the marriage would be taking place after one month. There was tremendous excitement in the family. To find a match for the eldest girl with a man of independent means was something they had dreamed and hoped for, but they could have never expected such a miracle to come about during a visit to the ice cutters.
Fateh Mohammad had brought a part of the bride price in advance with him. With this in hand, the family started their preparations. The selection and stitching of the bridal dress, which would last the girl for the better part of her married life, some utensils, and even a little tinsel to sew on for the festive occasion. They also bought provisions for the coming marriage feast.
Exactly a month later, the bridegroom’s family came down to Miandam. The groom was a dour young man who was spotted by the guests straightaway, as he was leading a shambling bear with a nose ring, which he tied to a tree, patting it on the head before coming to the house. His father and brothers were carrying ice blocks and insisted on taking them to the trucks before joining the company.
“We did not wish to waste the trip,” they explained. The father counted out the balance of the bride money and handed it over to Fateh Mohammad before the wedding ceremony started. As soon as they had eaten their food, the father wished his son good luck with the bear, and together with his other sons started back for their village. On the way, they remembered that they had not even seen the bride, and hoped that their brother would return one day and look them up and—if he did—would also bring his wife.
In Fateh Mohammad’s house, Shah Zarina’s cheeks were burning with the bantering she was being subjected to, particularly from the married women. They were teasing her about the ways of a husband. At the same time, they were openly envious of her good fortune in escaping to the city. The husband remained in the village for another day, and spent the night under the tree next to the bear.
The next morning, he walked up with the bear to Shah Zarina’s house, where she waited for him with her few utensils and other possessions tied in bundles. As they saw him coming, her sisters and stepmother broke out crying, as is usual on such occasions. Gathering her bundles, she placed them on her head, stepped out of the house, and started walking behind her husband. A few children and women accompanied her some distance but turned back when the bridal pair reached the bridge, beyond which the road began.
The party—the husband and the bear in front, and Shah Zarina with her dowry on her head bringing up the rear—walked mile after mile. Every time they approached a village, she would drop farther behind, as noisy children would collect around the bear and walk along with it until the village was left behind. Once in a while someone would bargain with her husband and a performance would begin. The bear would shuffle around in a dance, imitating an old man, growling, and having a mock fight with his master, alongside various other tricks of entertainment—some mocking, some tragic, and some serious—for the fee that had been agreed on. Her husband accompanied the performance in a singsong while explaining to the spectators what the bear was doing.
Shah Zarina was frightened when passing through the villages. It was not only the boisterousness of the village lads. Once or twice, the village dogs came together and tried to attack the bear while the villagers looked on, laughing. The first time this happened, she felt cold and lonely, because her husband was desperately trying to defend the bear and she had to protect herself and her dowry. As she stumbled about among yelping dogs and jostling strangers, there were a few stray remarks directed at her, which her husband chose
to ignore.
At one place—a big village—some schoolboys who had been entertaining themselves by throwing eggshells and mud at an old madman, who was scurrying about in small circles and giggling, diverted their attention to the bear and its owner. Her man bore the first assault patiently while some eggshells and mud landed on them, but then the boys became more vicious. They began throwing stones, and one of them hit the bear on his snout and drew blood. The bear screamed with pain, and at that, her husband took his staff and hit at the boys and managed to disperse them.
They walked on. Her husband bought some flour from his day’s earnings, and they stopped in the afternoon for a rest. She opened her bundles and prepared the evening meal for the three of them. In the towns, the pattern of life changed completely. Here the husband would rent a room on the outskirts, which would be used by the bear at night and Shah Zarina during the day, when the husband was away.
In the mornings after the bear left, Shah Zarina would clean the room and bring in her few belongings and spread them out. In the afternoons, they had to be put together, tied up, and removed so as to have the room ready before the bear returned.
She would then prepare the meal, cooking large quantities of bread, which would last for the bear’s morning meal the following day. In town after town, life followed the same pattern. She could not understand why the bear had to have a room and they could not. Once she asked her husband. He looked at her coldly and said, “I can get another wife but not another bear.” She was bewildered.
As the months passed, Shah Zarina’s dislike for the bear grew into a dark and sullen hatred. She did realize that she should also consider the bear to be important, but a part of her became jealous at the thought of being considered second to the animal. At the beginning, her rebellion took the form of small gestures that were known only to her. One day she would pour water in the corner where the bear was tied and imagined it passing an uncomfortable night. Another day, she scattered some thorns on the floor. Over a period of time, even this kind of pernicious mischief paled, and she resorted to more vicious tactics. She mixed red chilies with the flour when she baked the bread for the bear. That night, the bear went hungry.
Finally, she hammered small nails at the end of the staff her husband used to beat the bear with every morning to ensure good behavior during the day. That morning the bear got a few sharp cuts instead of the usual harmless blows. When the bear screamed in pain, her husband became worried, and on inspecting the staff, he noticed the small nails. He looked at Shah Zarina, who could not hide her smile. At that, her husband took the same staff and gave his wife exactly the same number of blows as he had given the bear.
From then on, Shah Zarina’s life underwent another change for the worse. Her husband made sure that Shah Zarina would not get another chance to hurt the animal. This he did in a coldly logical way, by insisting that she would live a life no more comfortable than that of the bear. If the bear ate his food, so did Shah Zarina. If it chose to go hungry, so would she. If the bear stayed awake during the night, Shah Zarina could not join her husband in the only quilt they had. In the morning, along with the bear, Shah Zarina would get her day’s beating.
After a few months of this, Shah Zarina broke down and ran away from her husband. Four days later, she was back in her village, having walked most of the way. She had left her marriage gifts behind, and her suit of clothes with the tinsel still on them was dirty and soiled.
When Shah Zarina returned, she did not hide her fate, and the whole community mourned with her. The women visited her and cried, while she screamed and pulled her hair. The men met Fateh Mohammad and commiserated with his misfortune. They clucked their tongues sadly. Though having seen only one bear trainer in their lives, they spoke about the infamy of this class in general, and agreed among themselves, wasn’t it foolish for a father to marry his daughter to one?
Commiseration for Shah Zarina and her family did not last long. Tongues started wagging. “We only know her side of the story. What if she has not run away but has been thrown out by her husband?”
“What if her reasons for running away are not what she said?”
“Her sisters’ marriages will pose problems because of her wayward habits.”
Shah Zarina suffered in silence. One night, as she lay awake, she heard her parents talking in loud whispers. She stayed still and overheard snatches of their conversation. “She sits brooding all day, eating more than any of her sisters do. She hardly does any housework,” her stepmother complained.
“Her husband is bound to come by any day. He will demand that she be handed over to him. That is his right. If we refuse, he will ask for the return of the bride price,” added her father.
“But we have already spent the money!” her stepmother whined.
“She has created a terrible problem for us all.”
Shah Zarina was crushed by what she heard. She picked up the rough woolen blanket and her shoes, and walked silently out of the house and into the night.
When the sun broke in the morning, Shah Zarina was walking aimlessly on a road running beside the left bank of the Swat River. A shout stopped her in her tracks—only a few yards ahead, she saw a man and a woman resting on a sack. The man stood up and came toward her.
“What are you doing, girl, walking by yourself at this time? There should be a brother, or a husband or father, walking beside you. A girl needs protection.”
The sight of another woman, though her eyes were inscrutable, provided some strength.
“I have run away from my family. I have no one to walk beside me. I do not know what to do and where to go,” she said guilelessly.
“My name is Afzal Khan,” said the man. “I may be able to help you, as I am helping this distant cousin of mine. We are going to a place where rich and generous people come to employ help for their houses—like cooks and kitchen maids. They pay well and are kind to those they employ.”
Shah Zarina nodded wearily. “I need employment. I can work hard.” Afzal Khan placed his hand on Shah Zarina’s shoulder.
“Good. Now that is settled. We shall stop at the first place where we can have some tea and get something to eat. You will tell me your story, as I shall have to tell it to the person who employs you.”
Nine
SALE COMPLETED
Afzal Khan, who was small and handsome, had been walking with the two women for nearly five hours. The last hour had been particularly uncomfortable, with the sun glaring down on the treeless countryside and not the faintest breath of breeze. With each step, a small puff of dust rose from the ground and seemed to hang, suspended in the air. For as far as the eye could see, the trail of dust created by their feet pointed to where their journey had started.
Afzal Khan was feeling the strain. The heat, the dust, and the fatigue were telling on him, and he had been perspiring profusely, particularly under the dome-like skullcap that men of the Mohmand tribe usually wore. This made him all the more aware of the plight of his companions, who were wearing dirty white cotton burkas, the heavy shroudlike garments that served to hide a woman’s body and veil her face. The women, who had been chattering among themselves in the morning hours, had fallen silent.
Afzal Khan turned to them. “We shall stop soon for midday,” he told them. “We all need a rest. There is a good kebab shop beyond the next rise.” The women nodded in agreement, too tired to respond more enthusiastically. In muffled voices, they told him to stop so that they could urinate before they reached the village. Afzal Khan stopped, and the women went behind a rock. Likewise, Afzal Khan unslung his rifle, untied his baggy trousers, and, facing the other way, urinated while squatting. He then took a few pebbles and dried the last drops of urine before retying his voluminous trousers.
As he waited for the women to reappear, Afzal Khan thought affectionately about the two of them. They had borne the strain admirably, and without a word of complaint. Shah Zarina had really surprised him. She was young and frail-looking, and for her to bea
r the journey so well proved beyond any doubt that her stock was sound and that she had the grit, the inner strength, and the endurance that make a woman pleasing. He was half tempted to keep her but frowned at such foolish thoughts. If he started behaving so irresponsibly, he could end up a pauper without too much effort. After all, there were Mohmands better looking than he who had been fated to spend their lives chopping firewood day after day in big cities such as Peshawar and Karachi.
The women joined him after a while, and the party started on its way again. This was their third day on the road. From the verdant and heavily wooded land of Swat, they had climbed down onto the plateau of Malakand, with its irrigated orchards and fields. From then on, it had been a steady progress toward desolation. Fields, cultivation, vegetation had faded miles ago, and the land was now bleak, hot, and dusty. It looked like the middle of nowhere—small, dry hills with tufts of coarse grass sprouting here and there, narrow ravines intersecting the landscape, marking the angry passage of flash floods every year when the rains fell. Afzal Khan knew the country well. “Put him anywhere,” his friends would claim, “blindfold him, and he will still guide you by the smell in the air, by feeling the soil with his feet.”
As Afzal Khan had predicted, the moment they crossed the next rise, the village of Mian Mandi, nestling in the hollow of the hills, suddenly came into view. It was not very impressive to look at—a collection of huts, smaller than those in more prosperous villages, huddled against one another. There was a pool of water on one side of the village, which was reflecting the sun like a mirror, and dark black smoke rose thickly from a hut next to it.
“That must be the kebab shop,” remarked Sherakai, the older woman, to no one in particular. It did not take the party very long to walk down to the village. Afzal Khan took his women straight to the shop, where he made them sit down on a wooden bench lying under an awning made out of reeds and grass.
