The woman smiled. She was looking into his face openly as only Western women did. Javaid had to deal with such women in the shop sometimes; they even spoke to him if their husbands were with them, but he knew they didn’t mean any harm. It was just the way they were raised.
“He had the most unusual green eyes,” the woman said. “Good looking, helpful, and respectful.”
Javaid was so aghast he forgot his manners and stared at her. Green eyes? Didn’t he himself have light-colored eyes? And respectful? She had just described practically every boy in the mountains. Only politeness stopped him from cursing. How would he find Razaq? With no maulvi, he couldn’t get a message out.
He turned to the man. “Who is giving the azan, the call to prayer?”
“Wazir Ahmad, the maulvi’s son. He is living behind the mosque.”
Javaid inclined his head to the young woman without looking at her directly this time and retreated to the village. He bought a chicken kebab and ate it with a chapatti by the side of the road. He stripped the chunks of meat from the bamboo skewer and slowly ate each piece wrapped in strips of the bread. The food in Kala Dhaka was the best he had ever eaten. Food in the city could never match it for freshness and taste.
He wiped his hands and hurried on toward the mosque. “Janab!” he called at the door.
“Ji?” A man with a long black beard emerged from a tent to the side.
“Why do you not sleep in the mosque, janab?” Javaid asked.
“We are having many aftershocks. All the people are frightened of buildings collapsing.”
“I am searching for Nadeem Khan. He is my brother.”
The man frowned in thought. “I do not think I know him.”
“He lives in the mountains,” Javaid said.
Wazir Ahmad sighed. “We found some survivors and brought them down. But there were many wounded we could not help.”
“Were there a boy and two girls?”
“There were many boys and girls.” He put a hand on Javaid’s shoulder. “Do not worry, bhai, I will ask when I give the call to prayer.”
He sounded weary and Javaid wondered how many people he had told not to worry in the past week.
“Please be sure to say all the names: Nadeem Khan, Mrs. Nadeem, Razaq, Seema, Layla.”
“Zarur, certainly.”
Javaid waited for the evening prayer near a tent that was set up as a shop. He would have to give thought to where he would sleep tonight. His eyes began to close: the bus trip had taken its toll, plus that walk up to Nadeem’s holding. He wrapped himself in his shawl and lay on the ground near the mosque. He was woken in the late afternoon by the azan. Wazir Ahmad was wielding a megaphone in front of the mosque. It looked as though he was taking no chances on the minaret. At the end of the prayers, he mentioned the names of Javaid’s family and some others as well. Javaid did his namaz, hoping God would see his devotion and help him.
When he finished his prayers, he saw two boys, almost men, with Wazir Ahmad. They were mountain boys with AK-47s slung over their shoulders as proudly as city boys wore a gold watch on their wrist. When Wazir Ahmad saw Javaid walking toward them, he said, “Janab, these boys may be able to help you. They are Abdul and Hussain.”
The shorter one named Hussain spoke. “We know a boy named Razaq, but we do not know if he is your relative.”
“We helped him bury his father,” said the other boy, Abdul.
Javaid’s heart plummeted. Still, it may not be Nadeem. “Where is he now?”
“We haven’t seen him recently.”
“Not since we helped him fight off thieves from his mother’s tent a few nights ago,” Hussain added.
Javaid couldn’t contain his anxiety. “His mother is here? Mrs. Nadeem?”
“He called her Mrs. Daud,” Hussain said.
Javaid couldn’t help himself. He burst out, “Could you please take me to her?”
“Zarur, certainly,” Hussain said.
Javaid followed them to the lines of tents by the river. When they made their way to the very same tent he had already visited, he had conflicting feelings. Since this wasn’t Nadeem’s wife, perhaps Nadeem was still alive. But the alternative was worrying: where was his nephew? He thought of the grave. How tall would Razaq be now?
The woman was inside the tent. “Mrs. Daud?” Hussain called. “I am a friend of your son’s.”
Mrs. Daud emerged from the tent, a shawl around her head and face. “Have you word of him?”
“No, but this man is looking for his relatives.”
Mrs. Daud looked up at Javaid, but there was no recognition in her eyes that he had been there before. “My son has gone to the city to find work.”
“How did he do that?” Hussain asked.
“A man took him. And he gave me money,” she said proudly.
“What do you mean?” Abdul’s voice was tight.
“The man said he would give him a job.”
“But Razaq—”
Javaid cut in. “Do you have a signed paper? What was the man’s name?”
Mrs. Daud shut her eyes. “I think it was Ikram.”
“And a family name?” Javaid asked, trying to keep his voice level.
She shifted her head to one side. “He did not say.”
Javaid suspected there was no signed paper either.
Hussain looked at her in disbelief. “You let a man you do not know take Razaq away—how much money did he give you?”
“Three hundred rupees,” she said happily.
“But that is stupid—how could you do that to your son—”
Javaid laid a hand on Hussain’s shoulder. When the boy glanced up, Javaid shook his head slightly. They moved away.
“She has suffered much trauma,” he said. “She would not have known what she was doing.”
“I am sorry about your nephew,” Abdul said.
“Thank you for your concern,” Javaid said, “but your friend Razaq is not my nephew.”
Abdul frowned at him. “How can you know this for certain?”
“It is simple. Mrs. Daud is not my nephew’s mother. She is the aunt of my wife.”
Javaid stayed on in the village; he felt closer to Nadeem there. One night, there was a bigger aftershock than usual. He woke, ready to run, but it subsided. He lay down again, wrapped in his shawl under a makeshift shelter created from a sheet. Not for the first time he felt the old stirrings of doubt. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to the city. He remembered one of the worst shouting matches with Nadeem. Was he right that Javaid shirked his responsibility, that he wasn’t a true mountain man? If he had been here, could he have helped Nadeem and the family, or would he have died like so many others? He had seen the village burial ground, but the maulvi did not have his brother listed. Maybe Nadeem had taken his family elsewhere for aid.
That day he ate at different stalls in the bazaar, asking about Nadeem, but no one had news. He had tried talking again to Mrs. Daud in case she remembered anything new. Something would have to be done about her. She was Amina’s aunt, and where was her brother? Why hadn’t he come to take her home to live with him?
Hussain and Abdul came to see him at the mosque that afternoon. “We are worried about Razaq,” Hussain said.
“And I am not convinced he isn’t your nephew,” Abdul added. “He protected Mrs. Daud as we would any female relative, but he never referred to her as his mother. He told us he had lost all his family.”
“We think we should show you the grave we helped him dig,” Hussain said.
“To put our minds at rest.” Abdul sounded like an echo.
Javaid stood and shifted his feet. “I have seen the burial grounds here,” he said. “Wazir Ahmad has no record of my brother.”
“The grave is in the mountains,” Hussain said, watching Javaid carefully.
Javaid stiffened. What good would all this do? Maybe he should just go home today.
“Please,” Abdul said. “It is making our hearts heavy.”
J
avaid sighed. “Okay. Show me.”
The boys took him up the same path he had climbed days before. With each step the sense of foreboding in his heart grew, but he tried to keep it at bay. Hundreds of families used this path. Then the boys led him to Nadeem’s holding. Without knowing how he got there, Javaid found himself staring at the grave with rocks on it.
Hussain spoke quietly. “This is Razaq’s father. A tree had fallen on him. No one else survived.” Hussain gestured toward the pile of rubble that had once been a shale and mud house.
For the second time that week, Javaid sank to his knees.
The boys retreated to wait while Javaid stretched himself over the grave.
“Bhai jan, I am so sorry.” The tears flowed but he spoke through them, hoping his brother could hear. “I am sorry, you were right—I should have been here. But I will make amends. Do not worry, brother. God help me, I will find Razaq.”
Chapter 7
Razaq woke at noon. He barely had his eyes open before Kazim was throwing orders at him: fill buckets with water, help peel vegetables. “We are run off our feet today,” Kazim said. “Everyone is on their way to the cricket at Lahore. You,” he pointed at Razaq, “you have to help Aslam as well.”
Razaq picked up a vegetable knife, but Kazim smacked him over the head. “No, get thirty naan first.” He handed Razaq the money.
Razaq slapped his pakol on his head and pulled on his father’s sandals as Kazim flapped back to the eating room. They almost fit him now. Aslam watched him. Razaq could tell he was wondering why he was wearing shoes.
He winked at Aslam. “If I get rich and famous, like Amir Khan, I will come back and help you.” He chuckled as Aslam’s mouth dropped open. It was the way he thought he would always remember Aslam.
Outside, the bus adda was busier than usual. Buses revved their engines; men shouted; boys called their wares of shoelaces, Sprite, and ices. He saw Saleem’s boy carrying curry and chapatti to the bus, for Saleem no doubt. Razaq ducked his head and made off toward the tandoor oven. He had thirty rupees in his pocket; he bought two naan, one for now and one for later.
“Only two?” the boy said. “I thought you would want many with the crowd today.”
Razaq realized too late it had been a mistake to buy food there. He shrugged as if he had all the time in the world. “The other boy is getting them today.” And he scooted off.
Razaq didn’t dare stop to ask anyone the way until he couldn’t see the tandoor shop. When he finally asked where Raja Bazaar was, a man said it was a long distance.
“Can I walk?” Razaq asked.
The man shook his head. “Bus is the quickest and cheapest way.”
Razaq looked at him in dismay. He couldn’t go back to the bus adda now. What if Kazim saw him before the bus left? Besides, many people who worked there might know he was Kazim’s boy and give him away. He stood by the side of the road, thinking what to do, when a rickshaw pulled up beside him. Razaq had never ridden in one. It shook and spat out black fumes.
“Get in,” the driver said. “Where do you want to go?”
“Raja Bazaar, janab.”
Razaq climbed in behind the driver and watched the streets fly past. Every now and then he caught the driver studying him in the mirror, but Razaq couldn’t take his eyes from the streets for long. The shops were so much bigger than anything he’d seen in the village on the Indus. Yes, there were buffaloes on the street, and carts pulled by horses, but also many cars, trucks, and motorbikes, and all tooting at once. There was even a train going over a bridge above him. He had heard of trains. It was noisy, too, but the put-put of the rickshaw gaining speed soon drowned it out.
When they pulled to a stop among busy shops with stalls spilling onto the pavement, the driver said, “That will be twenty rupees.”
“So much?” Razaq stared at the man in horror.
The man grunted. “I didn’t think you would have any money. You are not from Rawalpindi, are you?”
“How did you know?”
The driver looked at Razaq’s eyes, his brown hair and mountain lambswool hat and said, “You did not check the price before you got in. I could have asked you for any amount. Have you not been in a rickshaw before?”
Razaq shook his head.
“It is free for you,” the man said, then added, “Not everyone will look after you, so think before you act when someone tells you to get in his rickshaw. Where are you going?”
“To find my uncle. He lives in a mohalla near Raja Bazaar.”
“This is Raja Bazaar—may Allah go with you.”
“Shukriya.” Razaq dipped his head and climbed out so quickly he stumbled over an open drain. A bicycle bell scolded him, and a beggar asked for money. Razaq made a mental note not to travel in a rickshaw again; even the beggars thought he was richer than them.
A food wallah shouted his wares in Razaq’s face as he pushed his cart: “Piazay! Onions! Five rupees.”
Nearby, two men in white shalwar qameezes broke into a fight. “You cheated me,” the older one cried. “Give me the proper change.”
Razaq stared, fascinated, as an old man came out of the shop and slapped the younger man over the head. The younger man reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. The aggrieved man took it and walked on toward Razaq.
Razaq thought someone who knew he’d been given the wrong change would know many things, like where Uncle Javaid lived. He stepped forward as the man came closer. “Janab, excuse me?”
The man slowed, but frowned. “I have nothing to give you,” he said.
What did he see, Razaq wondered: a boy in need of help or a street beggar? The man made to walk on, but Razaq said, “I just need to know where my uncle lives, Javaid Khan. He lives near here, behind Raja Bazaar.”
The man smirked. “You crazy kid, what God-forsaken place have you crawled out from? You know how many people live here? Thousands. You need an address—what street, what gali?”
Razaq had a sinking feeling in his stomach, but he tried again. “He works in a cloth shop in Moti Bazaar.”
The man laughed. “How many cloth shops are there in Moti Bazaar? How many hairs on a dog?” Then he looked at Razaq as if seeing him for the first time. He sighed. “Go to Moti Bazaar and ask there.”
“Where is it?”
The man gestured toward the south. “Go to Fawara Chowk, then turn east onto Iqbal Road.”
“Shukriya.” Razaq laid his hand over his heart as his father did at such times and walked on. He took a peek back at the man and saw him talking to another man who was smoking outside a shop. Both were shaking their heads.
People in the mountains were suspicious of new people coming into the tribal areas. Razaq was surprised to find city people were the same. He hoped he didn’t do anything to annoy someone. What if there were different rules here? Once, an Angrez had ridden a bicycle into Kala Dhaka. He didn’t wear proper clothes and much of his white skin showed. He stopped to speak to a woman and the woman’s husband shot him. He was obviously a dala; he’d be raping her next or taking her away. You couldn’t trust a man who spoke to a woman who wasn’t his relative.
Razaq reached the chowk. Six roads met at the intersection, and it teemed with cars, buses, bicycles, and rickshaws, all converging like a knot in six lengths of string. And just like a knot they found it difficult to unravel. The tooting of horns and shouting from car windows was deafening. There was even a buffalo in the middle of the chowk. It plodded on without concern as the drivers swerved around it. Razaq jumped out into the traffic. A car blared its horn; another braked with a squeal. He raced in front of a bus and reached the buffalo. She had a frayed rope hanging from her neck.
“A jao, come,” he murmured, “you need the side of the road.” The buffalo’s brown eyes met his, and he was shocked at how tired and listless she looked. Peepu’s eyes always glistened with humor. “Come,” he coaxed, pushing away the image of the ram lifeless on the ground. He finally navigated the lanes of traffic, ignor
ing the cursing from drivers, and got the buffalo to the mud footpath where there were blades of grass she could nibble.
A man in khaki trousers like a foreigner’s spoke to him. “And what do you think you are doing, boy?”
Razaq’s heart thundered in his chest. He must have broken a rule.
“We are trying to keep buffaloes out of the traffic in the city,” the man said.
Razaq noticed the badge on the man’s shirt, his hat, his stick to hit criminals with. He was either army or police. “That is what I was doing, janab. I was rescuing her.”
“So she is yours?”
Razaq shook his head.
“You were stealing her then.” The man’s hand rested on the baton in his belt.
“No, but I know about animals—they like fields best.”
The man smirked. “I am sure they do. Get going then.”
“The buffalo—”
“Its owner will find it.”
Razaq thought he shouldn’t argue anymore, but the buffalo wrung his heart. His goats and sheep at home had been fat and happy. This buffalo’s skin barely stretched across her ribs and haunches. He knew how to make her better, too—if only he could take her out of the city, she would find enough food to eat. But one more look at the man’s face, stiff and stern, made him walk away.
He asked a man selling shoelaces which of the roads was Iqbal Road.
“I can clean your shoes,” the man answered.
“No, thank you,” Razaq said. Did he look like someone who could waste his money on shoeshining?
“Then I cannot tell you which one is the road.”
Razaq moved on. Why would someone want money to give a simple direction? He asked at a shop, but got shooed away as if he were a beggar.
Finally, a boy about his age told him he knew, but his eyes were canny. “Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”
“I do not have money to give you,” Razaq said as a precaution.
The boy looked at Razaq’s feet. “Nice sandals.”
Razaq’s eyes flashed. “They are my dead father’s.”
“Teik hai, okay, don’t burst into flames. That one is Iqbal Road.” The boy indicated the busiest road. “I will take you there.”
Spirit of a Mountain Wolf Page 5
