SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  The bond between Rabia and Sofie grew deeper. More a friend than a daughter-in-law, Rabia was always happy to accompany Sofie on trips to meet a friend, or go shopping in Peshawar. Rabia herself loved to shop anyway, especially for home furnishings, so this was never a challenge. Equally importantly, Rabia and Kausar became the best of friends.

  Ayub, who was almost six, had begun school in Hayatabad, and while at home, he and Qayyum were looked after by an Afghan nanny named Atiya. A refugee from Qandahar, Atiya spoke perfect Pashto and acceptable Urdu.

  With the success of Javelin, Sikander provided financial assistance enabling Abdul Rahman, Sabiha, and their children, Sadiq and Sohail, to migrate into Pakistan, as Ejaz and Hinna—who now had three children, with the birth of daughter Riffat—had done. Abdul Majeed and Saleem, however, remained in Afghanistan to become full-fledged members of the local Taliban, enforcing their version of Islam with vigor.

  To everyone’s regret but particularly Rabia’s, the older generation refused to leave Laghar Juy. In a bid to get them to change their minds, Rabia and Sikander decided to visit the village, taking Ayub and Qayyum, who had yet to meet their maternal grandmother. This time they traversed the rough roads in their own Pajero over the Khyber Pass.

  Even after eleven years since Sikander had last seen Afghanistan, imprinted in his mind were the images of the homes of Laghar Juy receding in the distance as he left behind the village that had transformed him from a boy to a man. He knew that things were very different now, but he couldn’t imagine any change in that image despite the passage of time, and the turmoil that had beset the country.

  The vehicle wound its way up the Torkhum Road toward Landi Kotal and as the road turned north and split apart into its northbound and southbound lanes, Sikander could just about recognize the compound into which he had been driven on his first trip. On the hill stood the house from which he had departed to walk across the mountains, leading Neela. Now, for the first time, he was finally traveling along the entire length of this famous mountain pass. Once past Landi Kotal, after some dramatic and breathtaking switchbacks, they entered the small Afghan border town of Torkhum.

  Thanks to Pakistan’s unwavering support for the Taliban before and since their rise to power, people coming from this direction were generally welcomed. However, the Taliban were naturally suspicious of external corrupting influences and offered no concessions to their strict dress code for women, which Rabia had to abide by. Prior to the Taliban, dress styles and head covering had been a matter of family custom and Rabia’s family had been content with shalwar, qamees and dupattha. But after moving to Pakistan, she had slowly grown to prefer the increasingly common hijab, which seemed to find acceptance in middle-class company there. Returning now to her native land however, it was time to don her brand new royal blue burkha with the embroidered top and crocheted meshed viewing panel, through which she would have to peer while out in public.

  Though gruesome, a benefit of the times was that Taliban punishment was designed to be vigorously deterrent and not simply to “fit” a crime in some kind of equitable exchange. That this lesson had been learned the hard way was evidenced by severed limbs left hanging by the roadside with labels warning that their erstwhile owners had been bandits. Robbery of all kinds dwindled to a fraction of its level under warlord rule almost immediately. Sikander and Rabia could take their children in safety toward Laghar Juy.

  Once they reached Batawul, they drove off the road into nearby Anarbagh. From his first time in Afghanistan, Sikander had learned of Razya’s uncle, Zubair, who lived in the village, and being unfamiliar with the routes into Laghar Juy from this direction Sikander wanted to seek Zubair’s assistance in getting there. He also wanted the melmasthia protection that would no doubt come with such assistance.

  He parked the Pajero, looking for anyone who might direct him to Zubair’s place. A small throng gathered around the vehicle, mostly out of curiosity, the closest of them peering inside. Although Rabia was a child of these parts, she had already spent long enough away from her native culture to feel uneasy at this level of attention. Finally, two Taliban youths approached the vehicle, brushing everyone else aside. After giving them his name, Sikander let on that he had fought against the Russians together with people from these parts years ago and was looking for Zubair. The introduction proved effective, as one of the youths offered to direct him. Rabia gave up her seat and moved to the back as the youth sat next to Sikander. Once there, the youth stepped out, went into the house and a moment later, emerged with the surprised old man.

  “Assalaamu ‘alaykum, Uncle Zubair!” Sikander spoke a little more loudly than normal, while offering a hug. “I’m Sikander Khan, who had come here many years ago to fight the Russians with Abdul Latif and his sons and nephews. He’s married to your niece Razya.”

  “Wa ‘alaykum assalaam,” responded a somewhat bewildered Zubair, while accepting the hug, as he acknowledged his niece and her husband from Laghar Juy.

  “We’re here from Pakistan as the guests of Abdul Latif and Razya, and we’d like to be shown the way to his place if you would please guide us,” asked Sikander. His reiteration of Abdul Latif’s name and the word “guest” brought a warm expression to Zubair’s face. It confirmed the harmlessness of the visitors and bound their host to safeguard them.

  “Sikander Khan! You are most welcome, brother. We shall be pleased to guide you to the house of my niece, but first, please sit with us and have some chai.”

  Refusal would have been grossly impolite. The higher a guest’s station in life, the more important the host would seem to his neighbors and others in the village. This fact was not lost on Zubair and with the Pajero in full view of those neighbors he wanted to make the most of it.

  After tea, Zubair asked one of his neighbor’s sons, a young Taliban by the name of Tayyab, who himself had a cousin in Laghar Juy, to escort the family.

  Rabia resumed her seat in the rear so that no issues of impropriety would arise. Within an hour, the Pajero was driving up the rough sloping streets of Laghar Juy and finally reached the familiar stretch in the higher elevations where Abdul Latif’s house was situated. Tayyab got out of the vehicle and indicated Abdul Latif’s home, toward which Sikander had already begun to stride. Rabia kept a small but appropriate distance from him, holding the two young boys’ hands on each side of her. Tayyab bid his salaams before walking down the slopes a few hundred meters to his cousin’s place to stay until he would be needed for the return trip.

  Sikander entered the house and called out, “Assalaamu ‘alaykum? Anyone home?”

  “Who’s there?” came back a voice, quickly followed by a tall Afghan, wearing a black turban with broad white stripes and a black qamees and shalwar, emerging from beyond the entryway. His long, bushy beard was virtually identical to the one worn by the young man who had escorted them out of Anarbagh. The man and the family group gazed upon each other, briefly transfixed.

  “Ab…Abdul Majeed! Don’t you recognize your relatives anymore? It’s me—Sikander!” Sikander laughed and tried hard to reconcile his last image of Abdul Majeed with the one he now faced. It was after maghrib and Abdul Majeed had just completed the sunset prayer.

  “Sikannnderrr! You…”

  Grinning broadly, Abdul Majeed approached Sikander to deliver an engulfing hug, clearly pleased with the visitors’ presence. Sikander returned the gesture. Abdul Majeed looked at Rabia and the two boys, and then quizzically at Sikander. “Ahh! Ayub and…Qassim?”

  “Qayyuuum!” the three-year-old corrected enthusiastically.

  “It’s Qayyum,” affirmed Rabia from behind her burkha.

  “Qayyum! That’s right.” Abdul Majeed turned to face Rabia but kept his gaze lowered as he acknowledged her politely. Sikander observed how like Abdul Latif his son had now become.

  “Rabia! It’s been such a long time. Welcome! Welcome! Please, sit down while I call Aba’i and Abaa and…Fatima, my uh, my wife. They’re in the back finishing up wit
h salaat-ul-maghrib.”

  “Your…what? When did this happen, Abdul Majeed? You didn’t invite us to your wedding?” Sikander asked, half-seriously indignant.

  “Ah, I…um…it all happened pretty quickly with my uncle’s cousin’s daughter. We didn’t even have an engagement,” he offered meekly, with an apologetic smile.

  Sikander nodded sympathetically. But through the mesh in her burkha Rabia faced Abdul Majeed squarely. “No, Brother Abdul Majeed, you don’t get off so lightly with your cousin! There’ll be a badal for this.”

  Half serious, Rabia recognized that this time of reunion was not a moment for displays of acrimony, but she was genuinely cut by not being invited to her cousin’s wedding.

  “Abaa! Adey!” Abdul Majeed called out, “Come and see! Sikander’s here! Fatima!”

  Abdul Latif and Razya were not long in coming. By most interpretations of the Qur’an, her age permitted her to not to be veiled, but Razya wore a burkha just the same. Fatima followed them in.

  “Sikannnderrr! Raaabia!” cried out Abdul Latif. “W’Allahi, so good to see you after so long. And you have your boys with you mashAllah. Sikander, they’re just like you!” Abdul Latif hugged Sikander tightly and turning to his niece he stroked the top of her burkha. He could clearly see from the motion of the fully covered figure that she was crying. It was more than he or anyone else could bear and for a short while, the weeping spread around the room.

  The joyous reunion had clearly awoken memories of happier times that contrasted starkly with the present. It was an unspoken lament for the sad demise of what was once a vibrant, united village. Although its energy had faced down and beaten an immeasurably better-equipped foe, the village was now dark and riven by fear under the repressive strictures of a force bent on protecting the soul, with the threat of physical violence if need be, to provide that protection.

  Were souls protected? Who could say? One thing was clear, however. The greater these efforts were, the more elusive any soul for the place as a whole proved to be. Laghar Juy had truly been drained of its spirit, and that of Abdul Latif’s own family seemed to be flowing out of the village as manifestly as the village stream. Such a loss merited mourning and the family instinctively understood it even as their conscious minds did not.

  For all the repression and fear, Abdul Majeed and Saleem had not transformed into bad men. Neither had many Taliban. For most of them, their love had not vacated them as if they were zombies. They had simply concocted for themselves a system of guiding principles that led them to behave in a way that, at least in their conviction, would result in a better society. They were not to be compared with the murderous, raping warlords who had preceded them. The Taliban were a reaction to all of that. To them, the demands of a secure, orderly, and peaceful society that comported with their unique precepts of Islam, left little room for personal liberty. With unbridled authority, however, even saints could turn into sinners, and there were clearly elements of the Taliban who appeared to revel in meting out harsh punishments for any infraction.

  “Where’s Usman?” asked Sikander.

  Abdul Latif pursed his lips. “It would have been a couple of years ago that he left the village and got married. He’s somewhere in Khost again, his birthplace, you know.”

  “Do you hear from him?” asked Sikander, disappointed.

  “Sometimes,” responded Abdul Latif. “Must be at least a year since the last time. Thankfully, that family’s on the rise again. They actually just had a son.” He shook his head wistfully. “When you think about all that he and his family went through, it’s a wonder he’s as cheerful as he is. We miss that around here.”

  “May we go to see Aba’i now?” asked Rabia. Abdul Latif acknowledged the eagerness in Rabia’s voice.

  Having decided that everyone should go, it took a few moments to prepare and soon the family group was outside Noor’s. Before entering, and without mentioning who else was with him, Abdul Latif called out to warn Noor to prepare herself for non-mehrams. After hastily donning her burkha, Noor replied that Saleem was not at home but that she was ready for them to enter.

  “Aaaadey!” moaned Rabia as she ran toward her long-unseen mother.

  “Ya-Allah! Raaabia! Rabia, my dearest. Oh, it’s been so long!” Noor exclaimed, both shocked and delighted. The two women hugged each other and cried. For a moment, their surreally wobbling, sack-like forms made Sikander almost chuckle at the comedy of the image, but its tragic quality abated the urge just as quickly.

  Sikander approached and lowered his head for his mother-in-law to bless him. When she saw their two young sons, Noor wept with renewed impulse as she stretched out her hands to draw them closer.

  “Assalaamu ‘alaykum,” said Ayub, knowing only that this was the right thing to do to please the grown-ups in the room.

  “Asslamlikm.” Qayyum, knowing even less, struggled with so many syllables. Nonetheless, their utterances earned them warm hugs from their grandmother as she continued to weep joyfully at finally meeting them.

  For several minutes, the commotion continued. When it died down, the family sat cross-legged on the floor in relative peace, while Rabia decided to make tea.

  Rabia, society wife of a wealthy Peshawar entrepreneur, fluent speaker of Pashto, Urdu, and English, wearing her burkha, retreated to the back of her mother’s mud-brick home and began preparing tea on a crude charcoal stove. She lit the fire. It was a simple physical act but it became a key, unlocking happy memories of her childhood and teenage years, even in the face of war. While the water heated, she gazed at the walls, into the backyard, and in just about every direction as warm memories enveloped her like a womb.

  Abdul Majeed left the house to look for Saleem, who was out patrolling the locality to make sure everyone’s behavior was within religious limits. He had been hand picked by regional authorities of the Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice to represent it in the area around Laghar Juy. Eventually the two of them entered the house and with a broad grin Saleem embraced his onetime Stinger class fellow. Saleem looked much as he had done on the last occasion the two men had met in Pakistan. He offered his condolences at the passing of Javed and sat on the floor beside Sikander, chatting about how things had evolved over the years in Laghar Juy. Naturally, his focus was on the law and order that had finally arrived, and on how the opium growing was now a thing of the past. He was genuinely thankful on behalf of the village for the means to generate electricity that had been donated by Sikander and his father before him.

  Sikander was wise enough not to get embroiled in an ideological debate with his two young Taliban friends and hosts. He simply wanted to reconnect with them and try to persuade Abdul Latif, Razya, and Noor to come back with him to Pakistan. That conversation started after dinner.

  Eyeing his former mentor intently, Sikander began, “It’s really great to see you again after so long. I know that most of the resupply runs to Nangarhar have stopped since the Americans have left, but we still need to see you from time to time, you know.”

  “W’Allahi, Sikander, I understand and truly I’d like to get over there but circumstances don’t permit it. I have no sponsorship, no transportation. I’m sorry but I just don’t have the means to come.” Abdul Latif replied.

  Sikander studied the aging face, understanding something of the hurt that Abdul Latif obviously felt from not having the freedom to come and go to Pakistan as he did before. The fearsome Taliban rule had reduced this man to a fraction of his former stature. Sikander knew that any proposal he might make would have to be sensitive to Abdul Latif’s need to preserve what was left of his dignity.

  “Well, brother, what if I could let you borrow my vehicle? If I were to arrange for it to be delivered to this village for your use, would you be willing to come? To come and go as you please? Would that be a way to solve the transport problem?” Sikander didn’t wait for an answer. “I know that driving isn’t something you like to do, so why not bring Abdul Majeed or Saleem, a
nd, of course, Sister Razya and Aba’i? We need you, too. We need you to be with us at least some of the time as our children grow. Would you do that? For us?”

  “Sikander,” Abdul Latif replied hesitantly, “what you’ve said tonight, what you’ve done today in coming… It’s truly wonderful that you thought to do this and I would love to come and visit you in Peshawar. But we cannot leave our home in Laghar Juy—”

  “Brother, we understand that it will only be for visits and we won’t ask you to abandon your sons or village—” interjected Sikander.

  “—because we’re committed,” continued Abdul Latif as if without interruption, “to Abdul Majeed and Saleem, who are also our children. Whatever they do, whatever they think they want to do, they will always be our sons. Your offer is very kind,” he replied, indicating, without formally saying it, his acceptance. His sense of badal was working hard to rationalize how to achieve an exchange for the enormous favor offered to him. It was difficult for Sikander to convey to Abdul Latif how much he and Rabia saw the mere act of being visited as the greatest favor possible.

  “Adey, what about you? Won’t you also please join your grandchildren and us? At least some of the time?”

  Her plaintive gaze into her mother’s eyes—a gaze unseen but absorbed all the same by her mother—elicited yet more quiet tears from Rabia. She blotted her cheeks with the fabric of her burkha, revealing her condition with a small but eloquent stain.

  Noor was too overcome to do more than nod. She motioned for Rabia to go into the back where the burkhas could be removed and they could have the intimacy the situation deserved. Razya and Fatima joined them.

  Rabia embraced her mother, then Razya, and finally, Fatima. Noor was only too pleased to agree to visit her daughter and her Pakistani family. The conversation was quickly over on that matter, liberating Rabia to unleash her inveterate curiosity on an unsuspecting Fatima. She needed to know everything about her cousin-in-law with no detail left unvisited.