A Fort of Nine Towers: An Afghan Family Story
Page 15
“His son knocked on my window this morning,” my mother said, “while we were asleep in the car. He already had set this cloth here with all these things. He said that his father thought that we were modern nomads with our car.”
We all laughed at “modern nomads.”
“Do they know that I stole pomegranates from their garden last night?” I said.
“Yes, his son saw you,” she said.
“They will call me a thief,” I said. I felt shame rising in me.
“I don’t think a host calls his guest a thief,” she said.
“He may call you Mr. Thief,” my old sister said, and my other sisters hid their faces as they laughed, too. I sighed as I sat down to eat.
* * *
After we had finished, a boy my age crossed the road and said hello to us. Then he started collecting the dishes, stacking one plate on top of another. When he stood up, he invited us to go with him.
“My family is waiting for you,” he said very warmly.
The boy led us to the garden of the pomegranate trees and opened the gate. The garden was very large. It had two small one-story houses, one built along the northern wall, the second along the southern wall. There was a long tent in the middle made from some simple black cloth that was stretched over some poles and staked to the ground to make a place of shade. An old man appeared from one of the buildings and came toward us. He shook hands with my father. He greeted my mother and gave salaams to us. Then he asked me what was wrong with my leg.
“Your dog was hungry last night, so I let him have a chew on my leg,” I said, trying to make a joke to cover my shame.
He laughed and replied, “You should have knocked on my door. I would have given you more than five pomegranates.”
My father said to the old man, “It was my fault; I was afraid that no one would welcome us in this village, especially in the night. Since the fighting started, everyone is afraid of everyone else.”
“That is true, but now I know you, and we’re not strangers anymore. We are a family,” the old man said.
The dogs started barking. I jumped, but I could not see them.
The old man continued, “You are welcome to stay in my house for as long as you want. Those rooms over there are for guests.” He pointed to those along the south wall of the garden. “You have water, electricity, TV, and radio. I will send you some blankets. There are mattresses and pillows in the rooms already. If you want to eat with us, you’re most welcome.”
“You are very generous,” my mother said. “But we cannot be bothering your family with unexpected guests.” She smiled, and the old man smiled, too.
“Yes, you are right! You are unexpected guests, but unexpected guests are gifts from God. Our door is always open to them; they bring the charity of God with them,” the old man said. “I’ll send you some dishes, and you can cook your own food. Please use any of the herbs, vegetables, and fruits of this garden.”
“You are very kind,” my father said.
“This garden is not mine, it is God’s,” the old man replied. “He gave it to me for use by those who need it for as long as they want. In fact, He is the owner of everything, and whatever He gives us, it is with us for only a few days.”
His family came to greet us. He had four daughters and three sons. Among them was a woman who was much younger than he, almost the same age as his oldest daughter, and very pretty.
“Is she your wife?” my mother asked.
“Yes, she is my second wife. We married five years ago,” the old man said. His wife was very shy. She invited us to her house at the far end of the garden, and we followed her as my father began discussing politics with the old man and his sons. A few minutes later, he joined us and whispered to my mother that our host was a great man.
Later, after we had had our first hot baths since leaving Kabul, we ate a magnificent lunch with them in an area shaded by almond trees. It seemed as if we had known one another for years. The old man told us to call him uncle and call his wife aunty. We talked about our lives. My father told them how he and Grandfather had lost their six thousand carpets, and now he had nothing except his family and a car.
“God gave them to you, and He took them back,” the old man said.
“I’m a boxer. I can beat any man. Afghanistan has sent me to Russia and all those Central Asian places for matches. But how do I fight against madness like this?” my father said with a heavy sigh; I could tell he was thinking about his boxing victories in Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, and Turkmenistan.
“The good times and bad times are both the same, like spring and autumn of life. Neither of them last forever.” The old man had a gentle smile on his face, but when he talked he was a very serious man. “The problem for our country is where we are located and the neighbors we have. Our stupid politicians let them interfere in our affairs.”
After lunch he showed us the guest rooms. When we passed the tent in the middle of the garden, the two big dogs jumped out of it and frightened us. My little sisters hid behind my mother. Strong chains were fastened to thick collars around their necks, but they were jumping with so much force, I was afraid they would break free.
“These dogs are good for security, especially during the night. They will tear anyone apart who tries to get in this property,” the old man said.
“Do they have names?” my father asked.
“Yes, the white one is Shir [Lion], and the gray one is Palang [Tiger]. Shir doesn’t harm anyone unless someone attacks him or tries to hurt him. He is a fighting dog and has never lost a game. But Palang is very cruel; he likes to wound people.”
“Palang bit my leg,” I said.
“Don’t worry, my son; he’ll be your best friend soon,” the old man said, then he called one of his sons to bring him the leftovers from lunch. He gave them to me to feed them to the dogs. I threw the leftovers to them. First they tried to leap at me, but soon they were busy eating.
The guest rooms were nicely painted. A beautiful red carpet with big motifs lay in the middle of the largest room, and mattresses stretched along all the walls; they were covered with long, narrow carpets. A small TV with a video player was in the corner.
“Perhaps you’ll let my eldest son take your kids out and show them around,” the old man suggested. We heard a big engine start with a roar behind us. His son, who was about Wakeel’s age, was seated on a large tractor and invited us to get on it with him.
“How is my airplane? It makes a lot of noise, doesn’t it?” he said as we climbed up to the platform behind the seat, and he put his foot on the gas.
“Yes, and it has bigger tires than other airplanes,” I said.
“Do you like this place?” He shouted into my ear over the big noise of the engine.
“I don’t know yet. You have to show me around, then I can tell,” I said as we drove out of the garden onto the main road.
The sky was churning with dark and white clouds. The sun was lost among them and seemed ready to drop like a stone. The wind ruffled the surface of the wheat fields.
On both sides of the road as far as I could see, the fields were yellow and ready for harvest. The farmers were working with their scythes, holding a bunch of wheat stalks in one hand and cutting them with a smooth sweep of the other. Others were collecting pomegranates and almonds in sacks that drooped behind them on their backs. Their hands moved deftly through the branches.
I asked the old man’s son whether he had ever traveled out of his village.
“No, and I don’t want to. I love my village. I can find all that I need here. People respect my father, and me because I’m his oldest son,” he said.
He pulled over and told his sister to take my sisters to the riverside, where she could introduce them to the other village girls. This was a branch of the same river along which we had camped, but there was no sign of the flood that had nearly carried us all away only a day earlier.
“All the girls from the village go there every day in the afternoon to
fetch water for dinner. The village boys meet at the mosque,” the old man’s son said.
“Can we go to the river, too?” I asked. “I want to go swimming.”
He laughed. “Don’t ever try to go to the riverside at this time of day. If you are seen, someone will shoot you. Sometimes the girls take baths there.”
“Are the girls carrying guns?” I asked.
“No, no. One of their fathers or brothers will shoot you.”
“You have snipers here, like in Kabul?”
“No, but we have hunters, and they are everywhere. If one of them sees any boy or man going to the riverside at this time of the day, he will shoot.”
“What about strangers? They don’t know this rule,” I said.
“You’re not a stranger anymore. My father already announced in the mosque this morning that he wanted to host you guys for as long as you want to stay.”
“You mean, all the villagers know about what I did last night?” I asked with a renewed sense of shame rolling over me.
“That is why all the villagers agreed to let us help you. They said that you guys had nothing to eat and nowhere to go,” the old man’s son said.
“They will call me a thief,” I said despondently.
“No! They are not so stupid and rude to call their guest a thief.” My mother had said the same thing. I was very relieved to hear this.
He showed me his hunting place nearby. He had some wooden ducks in a pool of water he had dug where the land began its rise to become a mountain. A narrow stream of water flowed down from the mountain’s springs into the pool. Each time the wind rippled the surface, the wooden ducks bobbed as if they were real.
“When the birds are crossing over our village, they see my wooden ducks and think it is safe to land. When they land here to play or drink water, I catch them. I will teach you how to shoot,” he promised.
“Have you ever seen Kabul?” I asked.
“No, I don’t want to. It is a horrible place. Every trouble starts from there, and it spreads all over Afghanistan. I wish Kabul did not exist. I belong here. Everything that makes me happy is here.”
He started reciting an old poem:
“‘There is no room left in my heart for anything but the beautiful faces of my village girls. You have to know, how you will see her face with the light of the sun and the moon reflecting in her eyes. Wait and hope with all your vain fancies and dreams to see her face on a cloudy dark night.’”
He stopped and smiled at me. “I’m talking about my girlfriend. I’ll show her to you, but you must promise not to fall in love with her, because she is mine. Okay?”
“Yeah, all right!” I said.
“If her beauty enslaves the heart of any man, I’ll tear out that heart,” he said with a suddenly serious, almost harsh voice, despite his poetic words. “Be careful, okay?” he said. I nodded my head, but I was a little afraid of him now.
* * *
We got off the tractor and walked for ten minutes without talking. He took me to the end of the village, where a very large courtyard with a garden stretched as far as I could see along the base of the low mountains that rise up behind Tashkurghan.
“That is her house,” he said. His voice was soft now, and I relaxed. “We really love each other, but nobody knows, except for my mother. Please don’t say anything about it to anybody.”
“I can keep a secret,” I said.
“Now, I’ll make you my reason to get into the house to see her,” he said. He sounded excited.
“How?” I said.
“I’ll knock on the door. She or her brother will open it, and I’ll introduce you as my guest. I’ll say that you would like to see the garden. If she opens the door, she will know everything, but her parents won’t. Your job is to tell them that you are my cousin, and you came from Kabul to visit us, and you would like to see the garden. The rest of the talking is up to me. Do you understand everything?”
“Yes,” I said. This was an adventure, and I was enjoying it.
He knocked on the door, and a young girl opened it. She was a real beauty.
She instantly lowered her eyes and hurriedly said “Salaam.”
“I dreamed about you last night, and now I’m here to kiss you,” the old man’s son teasingly said.
“Get out of sight! My parents are at home, and my brothers are watering the flowers in the courtyard,” she said in a panicky voice.
“Today I’ll ask your parents for your hand. I’ll ask them to make you my bride and sharer of my life,” the old man’s son said sweetly, with a smile as gentle as his father’s.
“Don’t make a fool of yourself. My brothers will beat you to death if they hear this. Go away before someone sees you,” she whispered, and looked behind her.
One of her brothers suddenly appeared behind her like a mushroom after the rain.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Oh, it is me,” the son said. “This is my guest, Qais. I mean, my cousin. He came from Kabul with his family. I was showing him around, and he asked me if it was possible to see this garden. I told him it is my father’s friend’s garden. So, if you don’t mind, I want to show him inside.”
The brother welcomed us in.
“Sarah, show them around, and make them some pomegranate juice,” he said to his sister. “You guys feel at home. I have some work to finish. We’ll talk later.”
Sarah took us to the garden. I could see almost every kind of fruit tree there is, with ripe fruit hanging from the branches. When we got to the end of the garden, Sarah turned to me and said, “If you don’t mind, we want to talk in private for a few minutes. You just walk around, and eat whatever you like. Meet us here in ten minutes. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure, it’s not a problem,” I said. She gave me a grateful smile.
I walked all around for almost half an hour, until I got tired of being alone. I snuck behind a tree to see what kind of private talks they were having that were lasting so long.
But not a word was being spoken. They were just sitting face-to-face. The old man’s son was looking right into the girl’s eyes, and she was beaming at him. When he broke the silence, he spoke in a strange, poetic way.
“Do not forsake me,” he beseeched her. Maybe he was making a joke. But the girl did not laugh.
“How could I forsake you?” she replied tenderly. “For you are all my life.”
“You are mine, for I love you and must die if you forsake me,” he said.
“I feel the same for you,” she replied.
Do all the men in this village talk like that to their girlfriends? I wondered. Maybe they had seen too many Afghan movies where both lovers die before they get to see each other a second time. I eased out of my hiding place and ate another pomegranate.
An hour later we were ready to leave the garden.
“You can come anytime you want,” Sarah said to me. “Next time, introduce me to your sisters. I want to meet them. Hamza will drive you here.” It was the first time our eyes met. I felt warm inside, but nobody else saw it. I felt guilty, because I had promised not to fall in love, but what could I do? It was not up to me. It was up to my heart, and the heart cannot be controlled when it comes to love. I knew this from the Indian movies.
“Who is Hamza?” I asked her.
“I am Hamza,” the old man’s son said.
“Oh, I am sorry. I never asked your name. It is good to know your name,” I said.
Sarah looked at both of us as she was standing at the threshold of the garden gate and holding the doorknob. “I thought you two were cousins,” she said sharply, and waited for a reply.
“Yes, that is right. He is my cousin, but he didn’t know my name. I think he never asked,” the old man’s son said.
“Hamza, what is going on? Is he your cousin, or someone you don’t know? My brother will talk about it in the mosque tonight. If they find out that you lied to them, it will be dangerous for both of us,” she said with great worry.
“Tell me one thing. Is he your cousin or guest?” she asked.
“The truth is, we didn’t know each other until this morning. He is my guest.”
She looked at him angrily. Someone called her from inside; it was an old woman’s voice, probably her mother.
“Do you trust me?” Hamza asked.
“Yes, I trust you,” she said with forgiveness edged with concern. The calling became louder, and she shouted back that she was coming.
“This is not a problem for us. You just have to relax. Everybody in the mosque knows him and his family. They are our guests, and they’ll be with us for a few weeks at least. And I call him cousin. We are a family now,” Hamza said.
“I trust you,” she said with a beautiful smile, and closed the door after us as we left.
* * *
We spent three weeks in the garden of Hamza’s father while we waited to hear that the road to Mazar was safe. The dogs did indeed become my friends. I took them for walks to the mountains and wished that Wakeel were there to go with us. I showed Palang the sign of the wounds that he had given me. He did not know what I was talking about, and he licked them.
Hamza taught me how to hunt. Every other day we went to his beloved’s garden. She always had pomegranate juice waiting for me, and while I drank it, they had their private talks. The first day it was for a short while, but after a week it seemed like hours. One day I sneaked behind a tree again. They were not having those stupid movie dialogues that day. It was more interesting than that. I felt guilty, and never watched them again. I walked all around until Hamza called me to go home.
My family was happy, too. My mother sang old Indian songs when she cooked. Everything came from the garden and tasted better than anything we had eaten since we had fled Grandfather’s house. In the mornings, my job was to take two straw baskets into the garden and fill them with tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, eggplant, peppers, pomegranates, apples, walnuts, and almonds, and then give them to my mother. Some days I could hardly carry the baskets by the time they were filled, we had so much to choose from.