But, my brother, my life changed, completely and totally. I left the village to return to the city where the job I had held is not available to a man with one eye and a face that would frighten children and the faint-hearted even in daylight. I rushed back to the university, but I was too late. I not only lost my job, but also my leg and my dignity. I arrived at the university the day there was a raid on my department. Actually, a professor was getting married that day, his bride was another teacher of science, a beautiful young woman who spoke softly and knew so much at such a young age. The ceremony was in the grounds of the university. I got there after the rebel soldiers had already done what they had to do. They forced the marriage party into the chemistry lab where they tied up the bride and the professor and made them lie together in a box two meters long and one meter wide. Then they doused the two of them with the acid in the lab. When I found them they could not be recognized, except for the bride’s white gown, like the ones your women wear in your country. There was a message written on a piece of paper and left on top of the box. It said: These are the bodies of Godless Communists who Shame our Country and Do not Follow the Faith.
I rushed out of the lab, horrified. I must have been screaming, for one of the rebels heard me and found me, and began to shoot at me, hitting my leg many times. Each time I fell, he would laugh. I could not hide, I was in an open area, there was no shelter anywhere. He shot at me until I couldn’t move anymore, until my leg was severed at the knee.
I lost my leg and my faith in humankind that day, brother. But still I live, and I have no idea what keeps me alive. Maybe it is the fact that even with only one leg and one eye, I still have my mind and my memories, which is more than what most of these people here have. Perhaps it would be better to have neither mind nor memories, not the memories I have.
When Sabir finished his story the tea in my mug was stone cold, and I was shivering despite the fact that the sun had warmed the courtyard and shone above us like a beacon.
Waris and Sabir have asked me to come with them to the basement before we eat this evening. I am to make a list of the people left alive in this asylum. And then I’m supposed to list all of us on a separate page, noting down family names and villages and post office addresses. These lists will then be put in a place where they can be found by whoever chooses to come to Tarasmun once the war is over. And if none of us survive, at least we will have plaques with our names on them, marking our graves.
six
The air in the basement was thick with the stench of human waste. I choked going down the stairs and had to keep my nose and mouth covered for fear of vomiting from the nausea which almost blinded me. Waris led the way, Bulbul followed. We had to find a place where we could stand without falling over any of the men who lay across the floor like corpses. Waris hung the lantern on the wall and I stood beneath it, Sabir’s diary in my hands, the pages trembling like a delirious man’s mouth.
Bulbul made his way to each man and sat on his haunches, looking into his face, talking to him, asking questions to which he would seldom get an answer. Waris knew the names of most, some of who he and other members of the staff (disappeared or dead now) had named in order to identify them on the day they were washed and deloused. There were never enough supplies to be wasted or used haphazardly, and so the men’s names would be written in a register each time they were tested for worms or doused. Among the men who wouldn’t speak, or whose language could not be understood, was one named Geedar, since his high-pitched laughter sounded like the cry of a jackal. Bulbul sat next to Geedar and talked to him in a low voice, like a mother coaxing a child to sleep. Geedar kept looking at Bulbul, a small smile perking up his filthy face. He blinked at him, picked his teeth with his fingers, then spat a huge glob of phlegm at Bulbul’s feet. Bulbul stood up in disgust; Geedar broke into his high-pitched screech and several others joined him in the yelping that filled the basement like sounds from a crypt, which in essence it was. Waris helped me fill the empty pages of the diary—we listed eighteen men and three young boys. Of these, one is very small, stunted, with a crooked back. He looks like a child except for the slight beard covering his jaw. His voice, too, is like a child’s. At least he can speak and he gave Waris the name of his father and his address: Mohammad Ayub, resident of Village Darabad, Farah Province.
This boy’s name is Karim—he is called Karim Kuchak, Karim the Small. He tells Waris his father tried to sell him and his three sisters after the war began and their village was destroyed, when there was no money with which to feed them. The shopkeepers in the area collected some money for him, telling him to keep at least the youngest one, a baby. The other two sisters were bought by someone crossing the border that day, but no one wanted him (I am so small, you know! Karim Kuchak is my name!), so his father left him here, in the hope that at least he would get food and shelter. (And now look—no food, no shelter! Karim Kuchak is hungry and cold!)
This amazing character talked like a person possessed, and I could hardly write all that he said, but I did get his father’s name which he checked to see if it was noted correctly. I handed him the diary, he looked at it very seriously, holding it upside down, then nodded and handed it back to me. He offered me his hand and I shook it, reminding me that I must wash as soon as I got out of that stinked-up hole in the ground.
* * *
I really don’t think this exercise is worth anything, except that it keeps us busy and “purposefully engaged,” as they would say in the real world. No one is going to find this list of people here, and even if they do, what use will it be when none of us are around to see whether our graves are marked with our names or not? No one is going to come and mourn us—at least, I don’t think anyone will come all the way from the Pentagon to check up on me anytime soon.
Noor Jehan has brought Anarguli and Hayat into the kitchen, asking us to leave while she heats up a mug of water and washes the women behind a torn burlap curtain she devised this morning while we were in the basement. Sabir tells her she must be careful with the water—it seems that this year winter rains will be late, possibly because the air is choked with the dust churned up from the bombing, changing the weather pattern.
It seems a lot of things have changed this year, a lot of things will be different, and the weather is the least of them.
We were joined in the courtyard by Noor Kaka while Noor Jehan attended to the women. Waris insists that the men in the basement be brought out in small groups so that in case of an attack, it will be easier to herd them back in. The last time, so many of them died just watching the mayhem—it’s possible that they had no idea what was happening around them, they just stood there as the buildings of the compound collapsed and fellow inmates were crushed to death as if it was nothing extraordinary, just another day of madness.
Noor Kaka was one of the first to be brought out. I think Waris still feels guilty about having abandoned him underneath all that rubble, and so makes up for it by extending him kindness whenever he can. This afternoon, Waris led him to the tree in the middle of the courtyard and sat him down beneath it, first laying a frayed burlap bag on the ground. Then he sat next to Noor and offered him a pinch of the tobacco that seems to keep him and Sabir going. Noor sucked on it for a while before spitting it out and speaking.
Son, you may not believe it now, seeing me in this miserable state, filthy rags for clothes, no shoes on my feet, and hardly anything to my name. But there was a time when I was a fine specimen of manhood—I was young too, Waris Khan, like you and this boy with the red scarf, this Bulbul, child of Ababeel, the bird who will warn us of the approach of the Day of Judgment.
Many years ago, when you were not even born—when we still had our pride and when kings ruled our country—I stood alongside my father and defended this land from those who came to rob us of what was ours. There had already been many wars before the one I fought in—my father would tell us the tales, and his father before that. I grew up wanting to be like them so I memorized their stories, a
nd now those stories are etched deep in my heart.
The first war which my grandfather fought was in the year 1842. It was winter, icy winds blew straight down from the distant peaks of the Hindu Kush. They howled as they traveled across the snow-covered wasteland where a handful of desperate, frozen men staggered down the boulder-strewn tracks leading to the few hovels of our village. A week before there had been 4,000 of them—700 British soldiers and the rest Indian sepoys. The previous evening they had numbered only a hundred or so. Now, after a fearful night of fighting and panic in the freezing twists and turns of a narrow pass, there were barely forty men on their feet, of who only half were in any condition to fight. The Indian troops were long gone, killed, frozen to death, or lost forever in the grim mountains. Only the British remained, some officers of various regiments.
My grandfather told me that he had waited at the end of the pass to finish off those men, those invaders of our country. Across the land there was nothing but anger at how the Firangi had butchered our men, women, and even children. There was little food or fuel to sustain our troops, and the weapons we had were muskets and long knives with which we could rush in and stab the invader, slashing them till we were sure there were no more waiting to loot our land.
These men, the Firangi, they wore brilliant uniforms, yellow-faced coatees and white cross-belts, with long greatcoats that did not do much to protect them from the bitter cold. We had little to keep us warm, except the fervor of our loyalty. A few of our men had posteens from the sheep we would slaughter for food, but often there would be no footwear except for the strips of leather the men would bind around their feet. Many soldiers lost their feet to the snow and ice, but they did not lose their passion for the battle which had to be won.
We watched the Firangi as they struggled through the pass, their hands frozen and fingers unable to load their heavy muskets. Their ranks had thinned and we were amazed at their insistence on carrying on what was already a lost battle. We waited until they were close enough for us to see the fear and fatigue in their eyes, and then we came down the side of that mountain to claim the enemy as ours. They did not even have time to draw their swords or fix their bayonets into their muskets.
My grandfather and several of the elder men were on horseback—when the Firangi were surrounded, my grandfather let out a cry that pierced the ice and cracked it like a giant boulder. The Firangi were crouching in a crevice, waiting for the worst, but my grandfather did not fire at them—he rode up to them and offered his hand in friendship. He told them that if they handed over their arms, all would be well for them.
One man came forward to meet my grandfather. He wore medals on his chest and a brilliant waistband, and announced that he was Captain Souter of Her Majesty’s 44th Regiment of Foot. He stood before my grandfather and declared that he would rather die than give up his arms. My grandfather tried to reason with him, reminding him that death was the only certainty for him and his troops. It was better to do as asked and to save themselves from further bloodshed.
This Firangi officer, he was a bold one, an admirable one, fearless. He stepped up to my grandfather and grabbed his musket. At this, the men following my grandfather began to shoot, and suddenly the rest of our men waiting on the neighboring hilltop rushed down to settle the argument. Our men were armed with long-barreled jezails, guns that had a longer range and better accuracy than the arms held by the Firangi. Most of Souter’s men were killed; six were taken captive, among them the captain himself. Later, when he was searched, it was discovered that he had collected the bayonets of the fallen men and hidden them in his belt. He was certainly a brave one, that man, worthy of anyone’s respect. My grandfather described him to me, a tall man with yellow hair—he preferred to call him Kaptan Shutar, Captain Camel.
We have great regard for those who die fighting, but Souter’s courage was nothing compared to the passion of our men who stood triumphantly over the hills of Gandamak, proud of having defeated the enemy, the unwanted Firangi.
Dusk had fallen by the time Noor Kaka finished his story. Cold winds had started blowing through the narrow passes in the mountains and I wondered whether Captain Souter’s bones were buried anywhere near here, like mine will be, in the hard remorseless soil of this land. At least he died fighting—I will probably just die like a rat in a basement, drowned in the urine of a dozen insane men.
The curtain I wear to keep myself warm is not going to do me any good for much longer. I want to ask Waris to let me stay in the kitchen where he and his family and Sabir and Bulbul also sleep. I want the warmth of the kitchen, and I want to know that there are others here, that I am not alone, fighting on so many fronts.
I entered the kitchen with the intention of speaking earnestly to Sabir, who would then ask Waris to let me stay. I would take up just a corner of the room and leave in the morning, spending the day in the courtyard. As it was, I really didn’t know how much longer any of us had—supplies had dwindled, the rebels could return anytime, and the bombers, they could reappear like spirits out of the sky without any warning at all.
In the kitchen I was surprised to see something quite unexpected. Noor Jehan sat before the hearth stirring a large cauldron of gruel. Next to her sat Hayat, holding a knife in her hand with which she peeled potatoes. And in the corner sat Anarguli, beautiful, troubled Anarguli, her face averted but her skin glowing in the soft light of the cooking fire. In her hands she held a pestle which she pounded rhythmically into a mortar, beating rock salt into a fine dust.
None of what I saw betrayed the chaos we had seen below in the basement, or outside in the compound, with the bombed-out building and the bullet-scarred walls. I am constantly amazed at how these people manage to carry on as if nothing has happened, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps this is as ordinary as it gets here; many of the younger ones were born in war and have known nothing else.
Bulbul appeared shortly after me. I smelled him before I saw him—he must have splashed on some of that lice-killing lotion, and he had preened himself like a baboon in mating season. His hair was slicked down and he wore a hat he must have found in the ruins—it was an old tweed cap, the kind a golfer would wear on a Sunday morning. I wonder whose it could have been—the Canadian doctor’s, perhaps? Were there any golf courses here before the war?
Bulbul winked at me as soon as he saw me, then pointed with his chin to the corner where Anarguli sat, engrossed in preparing the spices for the evening’s meal. She held some dried red pepper in her hand and was breaking off the brittle stalks one by one. Bulbul walked toward her softly and sat beside her. Noor Jehan turned to look at him. She smiled. I watched as he took the red pepper from Anarguli’s hand and began to break it into smaller pieces, adding it to the stone mortar. He was saying something to her; I couldn’t hear him, but I saw him taking her hands and wiping them with the end of his scarf. Then he pointed his fingers toward his eyes, and I realized he was telling her that she must not get the dangerous seeds of the red pepper in her eyes. I had no idea whether she could see him, but I knew she understood him, and even from the distance of my corner, I saw her smiling at Bulbul, her face still averted but her heart open to the love he wanted to offer her.
When Sabir came I asked him to speak to Waris about letting me sleep in the kitchen. Sabir patted me on the back and laughed, telling me: My brother, is that something you have to ask us? You are our guest, a mehmaan, we must give you the best place in the house. And if there is no suitable place for such a revered guest as you, then we must find it in our hearts!
I have to grant this much to Sabir—he knows how to spin my head around faster than a roller coaster in the Magic Kingdom. The best place in the house, tell me about it.
All of them have fallen asleep. Waris has made a small place for Noor Kaka so now there are nine of us in the kitchen. Maybe the warmth of our bodies will keep the cold out once the fire dies down.
Hayat snores gently near the hearth. She sleeps with the knife grasped in her hand. I can ba
rely see the tattoos Bulbul mentioned—it seems as if dark shadows mark her arms, patterns of waves undulating on her flesh. Perhaps I am imagining this. Perhaps it is just the shadows cast by the dying fire, but I can see that she has a dark stain around her lips which makes her mouth look like it has been embroidered. The shape of the stain is like a man’s mustache, and I wonder if this is something that was done to her by people to beautify her, or whether it is a birthmark. Or if my mind is slowly losing its grip on reality.
It is so quiet here at this time, once the day’s monotonous chores have been done. All I do is wait and count the hours till salvation. It is hard to imagine that a week ago the compound resounded with so much ear-splitting noise during the bombing. All I can hear now is the sound of deep, regular breathing, an occasional murmur, and crickets that sing their dirge from some recess hidden in the depths of this place.
Bulbul talks softly in his sleep. I cannot catch what he says. Waris has insisted that he sleep across the room from Anarguli. Noor Kaka sleeps next to Anarguli, his head resting on Sabir’s crutch. Noor Jehan cradles Qasim close to her and Waris sleeps near the door, his feet sprawled out across the entrance. He keeps his shoes on even while sleeping, ready for anything that might happen at any time.
I have been given the place of honor nearest the fire. I share it with Hayat, also an outsider of unknown origin, with a story that I still have to hear.
No Space for Further Burials Page 8
