Earth and ashes Read online

  The shopkeeper hands the cup to Yassin and asks, 'Have you come far?'

  'From Abqul. My son works in the mine. I am going to see him.'

  You keep your eye on the guard's hut.

  'It was a bad state of affairs over there, wasn't it?'

  The shopkeeper tries to begin a conversation but you keep your eyes fixed on the hut. You remain silent, as if you haven't heard anything. If you are honest, you did not want to hear. Or rather, you don't want to answer. Come on, brother, let Dastaguir be!

  'I hear the Russians reduced the whole village to smoke and ashes last week. Is it true?'

  You'll have no peace. You came for water, not tears. A mouthful of water, nothing more.

  Brother, by the grace of God, don't pour salt on our wounds.

  What is this, Dastaguir? Moments ago your heart was heavy. You wanted to talk to anyone about anything. Now, here is someone who'll listen to what lies in your heart, whose look alone is a comfort. Say something!

  Without taking your eyes off the hut, you answer, 'Yes, brother. I was there. I saw everything. I saw my own death . . .'

  You fall silent. If you get involved in a conversation, you might forget about the vehicle.

  The shopkeeper takes off his glasses and pokes his head out the window to see what interests you so much. As soon as he sees the hut, he understands. He sits back behind his large pair of scales.

  'My good brother, it's still too early. A vehicle always comes by around two. You've got two hours ahead of you.'

  'At two? Why didn't the guard say anything?'

  'Probably because he isn't too sure himself. It's not his fault. The cars and lorries come at odd times. Besides, what's on time in this country that transport should be? These days . . .'

  'Grandfather, jujube fruits!'

  Yassin's words interrupt the shopkeeper. You take the copper cup from Yassin's hands. He hasn't finished it.

  'First drink your water.'

  'I want jujubes, jujubes!'

  You put the cup to Yassin's mouth and gesture impatiently for him to finish. Yassin turns his head away and continues in a voice choked with sobs, 'Jujubes! Jujubes!'

  The shopkeeper reaches out through the shop window and passes Yassin a handful of fruit. The child grabs it and sits down at your feet. And you, cup of water in hand, try to keep your temper. God help me. You sigh.

  'That child will make a madman of me.'

  'Don't say that, father. He's a child. He doesn't understand.'

  You sigh again, more deeply than before and say, 'I'm afraid, brother, the problem isn't that he can't understand . . . The child has gone deaf.'

  'May God heal him! What happened?'

  You finish the remainder of your grandson's water and continue, 'He lost his hearing during the bombing of the village. I don't know how to make him understand. I speak to him the same as before. I still scold him . . . It's just habit. . .'

  As you talk, you pass the copper cup back through the window. The man takes it and looks sympathetically at Yassin, then at you, then at the empty cup ... He prefers silence. Like a ghost, he withdraws into the shop. His hand reaches for a small bowl on one of the wooden shelves. He fills it with tea and hands it to you.

  'Take a mouthful of tea, good brother. You're exhausted. You still have plenty of time. I know all the vehicles that go to the mine. If one comes, I'll tell you.'

  You glance over at the guard's hut and, after a moment's hesitation, take the bowl of tea, saying, 'You're a man with a good heart. May your forbears rest in peace!'

  The sound of your sipping brings a kind smile to the shopkeeper's lips.

  'If you're feeling cold, come inside; your grandson also looks cold.'

  'God bless you, brother, it's fine here. There's sun. We don't want to disturb you any more. What if a car were to come. I'll drink my tea and we'll be gone.'

  'Father, I just told you. I'll let you know if a car comes. You can see them pass from here. Now, if you don't want to stay, that's another story.'

  ‘I swear to you, brother, it's not a matter of wanting or not wanting. That guard isn't the kind of man to make a car wait.'

  'Dear father, it takes a long time for him to issue a pass and then open the barrier. And he isn't a bad man, that guard. I know him. He comes here a lot. It's sorrow that has ruined him.'

  The man falls silent. He puts a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lights it. Then he goes on:

  'You know, father, sorrow can turn to water and spill from your eyes, or it can sharpen your tongue into a sword, or it can become a time bomb that, one day, will explode and destroy you . . . The sorrow of Fateh the guard is like all three. When he comes to see me, his sadness flows out in tears. If he remains alone in his hut, it becomes a bomb . . . When he steps out of the hut and sees others, his sorrow turns itself into a sword and he wants to . . .'

  You don't hear the rest of the shopkeeper's words. Your thoughts pull you inwards, to where your own misery lies. Which has your sorrow become? Tears? No, otherwise you'd cry. A sword? No, you haven't wounded anyone yet. A bomb? You're still living. You can't describe your sorrow; it hasn't taken shape yet. It hasn't had a chance to show itself. If only it wouldn't take shape at all. If only it would fall silent, be forgotten ... It will be so, of course it will ... As soon as you see Murad, your son . . . Where are you Murad?

  'Good father, where have you drifted off to?'

  The shopkeeper's question brings you back from your interior journey. You reply humbly.

  'Nothing, brother, you were talking of sorrow . . .'

  You finish the tea in one gulp and give the empty bowl back to the shopkeeper. You pat your pockets, take out your box of naswar and put a pinch into your mouth. Then you go and sit at the base of one of the wooden posts propping up the shop's corrugated-iron roof. Yassin plays silently with the stones from the jujube fruit. You take him by the arm and pull him to your side. You want to say something but the sound of footsteps silences you. A man in military uniform approaches. 'Salaam, Mirza Qadir.' 'Waleykom Salaam, Hashmet Khan’ The soldier asks for a pack of cigarettes and engages Mirza Qadir in conversation.

  At your feet, your grandson is busy playing with an ant attracted by the naswar you have spat out on to the ground. Yassin mixes the naswar, the earth and the ant together with a jujube stone. The insect squirms in the green mud.

  The soldier says goodbye to Mirza Qadir, and walks past you.

  Yassin digs with his jujube stone at a footprint left by the soldier.

  The ant is no longer there. Ant, mud and naswar are stuck to the boot of the departing soldier.

  Mirza Qadir abandons his spot behind the scales and withdraws to a corner of the shop to perform his midday prayers.

  It has been a week now since you've been to the mosque or prayed. So, have you forgotten about God? No, your clothes are not in a fit state for prayer. This same pair of clothes has been on your back day and night for a week. Yet, God is merciful. . .

  Whether you pray or not, the reality is that God isn't concerned with you. If only he'd turn his attention to you for a moment, if only he'd come to your side . . . No, God has forsaken his subjects. If this is how he looks after his subjects, you yourself, in your absolute ruin, could be lord of a thousand worlds!

  God help me! Dastaguir you're committing blasphemy. Damn the temptations of Satan. Damn you.

  Occupy your thoughts with something else. But what?

  Aren't you hungry? Spit out your naswar.

  'My good man, your tongue will wear out. Your insides will wear out. For days naswar has been your bread and water.'

  You hear the words Murad's mother would say to you before you sat down to eat. When Murad was in prison, you would make up excuses to avoid coming to the table. Naswar under your tongue, you'd disappear into the little garden saying that you wanted to catch the last rays of daylight or that you had weeding to do. You would sit among the plants, and open your laden heart to the earth and flowers. Your wife's
voice would boom out into the courtyard declaring that, after your death until the Day of Judgement, your mouth would fill with earth and your body would turn to earth from which a tobacco field would grow. In Hell you would burn in an inferno of tobacco leaves ... for ever.

  You have yet to face Judgement Day and you are already burning. Who needs the flames of Hell and a bonfire of tobacco?

  You spit out your naswar. You take a piece of bread out of the bundle and share it with Yassin.

  Your teeth aren't able to chew the bread. No, they are. It's the bread that is at fault. It is days old and hard. If there's one thing that's still all right, it's your teeth. You have teeth, but no bread. If only you had the right to choose: teeth or bread. Would that be free will?

  You take an apple from the bag and recommence your conversation with God. You request that He lower himself from the heavens. You untie and spread out the apple-blossom scarf as if to invite him to share your dry bread. You want to ask him what it is you have done to deserve such a destiny.

  'The soldier says the Russians destroyed the village.'

  Mirza Qadir comes between you and God. You bless him for asking you a question that prevents you from continuing your argument with God. You ask for divine mercy and respond to Mirza Qadir.

  'Don't ask, brother. They didn't spare a single life ... I don't understand why God saw fit to punish us . . . The village was reduced to dust.'

  'Why did they attack?'

  'My friend, in this country, if you wonder why something happened, you have to start by making the dead talk. What do we understand? A while back a group of government troublemakers came to our village to enlist fighters for the Russians. Half the young people fled, the other half hid. On the pretext of searching the houses, the government soldiers wrecked and looted everything. In the middle of the night, men from the next village arrived and killed the government soldiers . . . The next morning they left with the men who had hidden to avoid serving under the red flag . . . Not even a day had passed before the Russians came and surrounded the village. I was at the mill. Suddenly, there was an explosion. I ran out. I saw fire and clouds of dust. I ran in the direction of my house. Why wasn't I killed before I reached home? What wrong had I committed to be condemned to witness . . .'

  Your throat is seized with sobs. Tears well in your eyes. No, they are not tears. Your grief is melting and overflowing. Let it flow!

  Mirza Qadir, stunned into silence in the entrance of his shop, looks like a portrait; as if he has become part of the scene on the wall behind him.

  'I ran towards the house through the dust and fire. Before I arrived, I saw Yassin's mother. She was running, completely naked . . . She wasn't shouting, she was laughing. She was running about like a madwoman. She had been in the bathhouse. A bomb had hit and destroyed it. Women were buried alive and died. But my daughter-in-law ... If only I'd been blind and hadn't seen her dishonoured. I ran after her. She vanished into the smoke and flames. I came to the house, not knowing how I'd found it. There was nothing left . . . The house had become a grave. A grave for my wife, a grave for my other son, his wife and their children . . .'

  A sob constricts your throat. A tear drops from your eye. With the loose flap of your turban, you wipe it away:

  'Only my grandson survived. But he doesn't understand what I say. I feel like I'm speaking to a stone. It tears me to pieces . . . It's not enough to talk, brother. If your words aren't heard, those words turn to tears . . .'

  You hug Yassin's head against your body. The child raises his eyes and looks at you. He stands and calls out, 'Grandfather's crying. My uncle's dead, Mummy's gone . . . Qader's dead, Grandma's dead!'

  Each time Yassin sees you crying, he repeats these words. Each time, he goes on to describe the bombing, miming it with his hands:

  'The bomb was huge. It brought silence. The tanks took away people's voices and left. They even took Grandfather's voice away. Grandfather can't talk anymore, he can't tell me off...'

  The child laughs and runs towards the guard's hut.

  You call to him. 'Come back! Where are you going?' It's useless. Let him play.

  Mirza Qadir, who has been silent till now, as if unable to find words to lessen your suffering, mumbles something under his breath and offers you his condolences. Then he starts to speak, in a calm, measured way:

  'Venerable father, these days the dead are more fortunate than the living. What are we to do? We're on the eve of destruction. Men have lost all sense of honour. Power has become their faith instead of faith being their power. There are no longer any courageous men. Who now remembers the story of the hero Rostam? Today, it is Sohrab, his son, who murders his very own father and, excuse the expression, screws his own mother. We are once again at the mercy of the tyrant Zohak's snakes - snakes which feed on the minds of the young. . .'

  He breaks off to light a cigarette, points to the scene painted on the wall and adds, 'Actually, it is today's youth who are Zohaks. They're on the same path as the Devil, pushing their own fathers into a pit. . . and one day soon their own snakes will devour their minds.'

  He gazes into your eyes. Your eyes are fixed on the entrance to the shop. The interior has become a spacious room at the far end of which your uncle sits by his water pipe. You are a child of about Yassin's age. You sit at your uncle's feet as he recites Ferdusi's epic, the Book of Kings. He speaks of Rostam; of Sohrab; of Tahmina ... He tells of the battle between father and son, of the talisman that saved Rostam, of the death of Sohrab . . . Your younger brother starts crying and rushes from the room to go and lay his head on your mother's lap.

  'No, Sohrab is stronger than Rostam!' he sobs.

  Your mother says, 'Yes, my child, Sohrab is stronger than Rostam.'

  And you cry, too, but you don't leave the room. In silence, with tear-filled eyes, you remain at your uncle's feet, waiting to know whether Rostam will go on fighting after Sohrab's death .. .

  Mirza Qadir's cough brings you back from your childhood.

  The shop returns to being small. Mirza Qadir's head appears in the window frame.

  'Are you going to the mine to work with your son?'

  'No, brother, I've come only to see him . . . He knows nothing of the misfortune that has struck the family. On the one hand there's the misery of the bombing, on the other, the misery of telling such a thing to my own son. How should I tell him? I don't know. He's not the type to take it quietly . . . You'd be able to take his life before you offended his honour. He has a temper. . .'

  You bring your hand to your forehead and close your eyes.

  'My son, my only son will surely go mad. It would be better if I didn't tell him.'

  'He's strong, father. You must tell him. He must accept it. One day or another he'll find out. It is better that he hear it from you, that you tell him you are with him and share the burden of his sorrow. Don't leave him alone. Make him understand that man's fate contains such things, that he is not alone, that he has both you and his son, that you are his source of strength and that he is yours. These hardships are everyone's fate, war has no mercy . . .'

  Mirza Qadir moves closer and lowers his voice.

  'The law of war is the law of the sacrifice. In sacrifice, there is either blood on your throat or on your hands.'

  'Why?' you ask naively.

  Mirza Qadir tosses his cigarette butt away. In the same soft tone, he adds, 'Brother, the logic of war is the logic of sacrifice. There's no 'why' about it. What matters is the act alone, not the cause or the effect.'

  He falls silent. He reads your eyes for the impact of his words. You nod your head as if you have understood. You wonder what the logic of war could possibly be. His words in themselves are well and good, but they're no cure for the troubles you and your son share. Murad is not a man who listens to advice or thinks about the law or logic of war. To him, blood is the only answer for blood. He'll take vengeance, even at the cost of his own neck. That's all there is to it. And he won't care too much if he has blood on his
hands either.

  'Old man, where are you? Come before your grandson drives me mad!' The guard's shouts alarm you. You jump up, shouting, 'Here I am, I'm coming!' as you run back to the hut.

  Yassin is standing in front of the hut, tossing stones at it. The guard has taken shelter and is roaring with fury. You reach Yassin, slap him smartly on his small head and take the stones out of his hands. The furious guard emerges.

  'Your grandson's gone mad. He began throwing stones at the hut. It didn't matter what I said to him, he didn't pay a blind bit of notice . . .'

  'I'm sorry, brother. The child is deaf. He can't hear a word . . .'

  You take Yassin back towards the shop. Mirza Qadir comes out and makes his way towards the guard, laughing. You take up your place against the wooden post again and hug Yassin's head to your chest.

  Yassin doesn't cry. As usual, he's bewildered. 'Have tanks come here, too?' he asks. 'How should I know? Be quiet!'

  You both fall silent. You both know that questions and answers are in vain. But then Yassin continues:

  'They must've come and taken the voice of the shopkeeper and the voice of the guard . . . Grandfather, have the Russians come and taken away everyone's voice? What do they do with all the voices? Why did you let them take away your voice? If you hadn't, would they've killed you? Grandma didn't give them her voice and she's dead. If she were here she'd tell me the story of Baba Kharkash . . . No, if she were here, she'd have no voice . . .'

  He falls silent for a few moments, then he asks again, 'Grandfather, do I have a voice?'