Earth and Ashes (5 page)

Mirza Qadir’s words ring in your tired ears. He spoke about Rostam and Sohrab, and of the Sohrabs of our day … The Sohrabs of today don’t die, they kill.

You think about Murad. Your Murad isn’t a Sohrab who would kill his own father. But you …

You are a Rostam. You’ll go and drive the dagger of grief into your son’s heart.

No, you don’t want to be Rostam. You’re Dastaguir, an unknown father, not a hero burdened with regret. Murad’s your son, not a martyred hero. Let Rostam
rest in his bed of words; let Sohrab lie in his shroud of paper. Return to your Murad, to the moment when you will hold his black hands in your trembling hands and your wet eyes will meet his exhausted eyes. When you will have to seek strength from Ali, asking for help in saying what you must say:

“Murad, your mother gave her life for you …”

No, why begin with his mother?

“Murad, your brother …”

No, why his brother?

But then with whom should you begin?

“Murad, my child, the house has been destroyed …”

“How?”

“Bombs …”

“Was anyone hurt?”

Silence.

“Where’s Yassin?”

“He’s alive.”

“Where’s Zaynab?”

“Zaynab? … Zaynab’s … in the village.”

“And mother?”

Then you should say, “Your mother gave her life for you …”

And Murad will start to weep.

“My son, be strong! These things happen to all men one day or another … If she was your mother, she was also my wife. She’s gone. When Death comes, it makes no difference whether it is for a mother or a wife … My son, Death came to our village …”

And then tell him about his wife, tell him about his brother … And then tell him that Yassin’s alive, and that you have left him with Mirza Qadir because he was tired. He was sleeping … Don’t say anything about his condition.

The noise of a truck coming from the opposite direction disrupts your conversation with Murad. It passes at high speed, raising clouds of dust. Dust erases the lines of the valley. Shahmard brakes.

“Will you spend the night with your son?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there will be a place for me.”

“He’ll find something.”

“Anyway, I have to get back. I left my grandson with Mirza Qadir.”

“Why didn’t you take him with you?”

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Why should I upset you with all this, brother.”

“Don’t worry about that. Tell me.”

“All right, I’ll tell you.”

Shahmard stays silent. As if he doesn’t want to goad you. Maybe he thinks you don’t want to talk. How could you not? When the village was destroyed, with whom could you sit and weep? With whom could you share your grief? With whom could you mourn? Everyone mourned their own dead. Your brother sat next to a pile of rubble, listening hopefully for a familiar voice to rise from beneath collapsed roofs and walls. Your maternal cousin, weeping, picked through the rubble for a piece of clothing or a scarf to use as a burial shroud. Your brother-in-law, lying next to a dead cow in the demolished barn, laughed as he suckled milk from its stiffened udder …

But you had Yassin. He couldn’t hear your sobs, but he could see your grief. With whom did
you
sit? Whom did
you
comfort? You wanted to run from everybody. You were like an owl perched high on a ruin, or in an abandoned cemetery. If it weren’t for Murad, if it
weren’t for Yassin, you would never have left that place. Thank God for Murad, for Yassin. You’d have stayed amid ruins till you turned to dust …

Dastaguir, where have you wandered off to this time? Shahmard wants you to explain why you didn’t bring Yassin and you have drifted off into daydreams. Say something to him. Tell him about your people. Make an effort. They deserve some prayers. Who so far, apart from Mirza Qadir, has offered you their condolences? Who has prayed for the deliverance of their souls? Allow others to say the Fatiha prayer for your dead and to share your suffering. Say something!

And you speak. Speak of the ruins of your village, of your wife, your son, your two daughters-in-law, Yassin … And weep.

Shahmard is mute. His eyes dart, restlessly seeking appropriate words. He finds them. He whispers the Fatiha. He offers you his condolences and falls into silence again.

You continue. You speak of Murad. Of how to tell him about the death of his mother, his wife, and his brother. Still Shahmard remains silent. What should he
say? All of his rage at hearing your story has gone to his legs. His feet are heavy. You can tell from the speed of the truck.

You also fall silent.

The bouncing of the truck and the drone of the engine make you feel sick. You want to close your eyes for a while.

A military jeep appears behind the truck. It overtakes you, throwing up dark dust.

Within a black billow of dust, you see Murad’s wife running naked in front of the truck. Her damp hair streams behind her, parting the dust—as if she were sweeping away the dust with her hair. Her white breasts dance on her chest. Drops of water fall from her skin like dewdrops.

“Zaynab! Get out of the way of the truck!” you shout to her.

Your voice is confined to the truck. It doesn’t reach outside. It reverberates endlessly around the cab. You want to roll down the window and free your voice so it can reach Zaynab. But you don’t have the strength. You feel heavy. Your bundle weighs on your knees. You want to lift it up and put it beside you. But you don’t
have the strength. You untie it. Inside the apples have become black, they’ve turned to coal … Coal-apples. You laugh to yourself. A bitter laugh. You want to ask Shahmard about the mystery of the coal-apples. In place of Shahmard, Murad sits at the wheel. You can’t prevent yourself from crying out. You don’t know if it’s from fear, surprise, or joy.

Murad doesn’t look at you. He stares at the road, at Zaynab. You shout his name again. Still Murad doesn’t hear. It’s as if he too has gone deaf.

Zaynab continues to run in front of the truck. The dust gradually settles on her white, damp skin. A veil of black dust covers her body. She is no longer naked …

The jolts of the truck blur your view of Zaynab. She and the road disappear in a cloud of dark dust.

You take a deep breath and glance furtively toward the driver’s seat. Murad isn’t there. Thank God. You’ve woken up. You look around silently. Your bundle is at your side. An apple has rolled out onto the seat.

Nervously you look in front of the truck again. Zaynab is not there. Zaynab threw her naked body headlong into
the fire. She was burned alive. She was burned naked. She left this world naked. She burned to death before your very eyes … How will you tell all this to Murad? Do you have to? No. Zaynab is simply dead. Like everyone else. There’s nothing more to it. She died like all the others—in the house, beneath the bombs. She is bound for Paradise. We are the ones burning in the fires of Hell. The dead are more fortunate than the living.

What fine words you’ve learned, Dastaguir. But you know they’re of no use. Murad’s not the sort to ponder matters or withdraw calmly to a corner and cry. Murad is a man. He is Murad, son of Dastaguir. He’s a mountain of fortitude, a vast land of pride. The smallest slight to his honor and he catches fire. Then he either burns himself or causes others to burn. The death of his own mother, wife and brother won’t go unanswered. He’ll seek vengeance. He has to take revenge …

On whom? What could he do alone? They’ll kill him, too. Dastaguir, have you lost your mind!

All you have left is a son, and you want to sacrifice him? Why? To bring back your wife and your other son? Swallow your anger. Leave Murad alone. Allow him to live. Let my tongue be still! Let my mouth fill with dust! Murad, sleep in peace.

After exploring your pockets, you pull out your box of naswar and offer some to Shahmard. You put a small amount into the palm of his hand and place some on your own palm before putting it under your tongue.

Silence.

You watch the rocks and scrub race past. It’s not you who are passing them. No. It’s as if they are passing you. You’re not moving. It’s the world that’s moving. You’ve been condemned to exist and watch the world pass, to watch your wife pass, to watch your children pass …

Your hands tremble. Your heart flutters. Your sight goes dim. You roll down the window of the truck to refresh yourself. The air isn’t refreshing. It has become thick, heavy, and black. It’s not your sight that has gone dim, it’s the air that has grown dark.

“Dastaguir, what have you done with my scarf?”

It’s Murad’s mother. You see your wife at the base of the hills, running at the same pace as the truck. You untie the bundle and let the coal-apples fall out. Then you let the scarf blow out of the window. The cloth dances through the air. Murad’s mother runs after it, dancing as she goes.

“We’ve arrived.”

The image of Murad’s mother reflected in the pools of your pupils is lost to the ripples of Shahmard’s voice.

You open your wet eyes. The truck is nearing the mine. You sense that Murad is close. Your chest tightens, your heart swells, your veins constrict, your blood freezes … Your tongue has become a piece of wood, a charred piece, half-burned, an ember, a silent piece of coal … Your throat is dry. Water! You swallow your naswar. The smell of ash fills your nostrils. You take a deep breath. You smell Murad. You fill your lungs to their utmost with his scent. For the first time, you realize how small your lungs are and how big your heart is—as big as your sorrow …

Shahmard slows the truck and turns to the left. He comes to a halt at the entrance to the mine. A guard appears from a wooden hut, just like the one at the start of the road. He asks for papers from Shahmard, looks them over, and begins a conversation. You sit silently. You don’t move a muscle. Actually, you wouldn’t have the strength to do so if you wanted to. You hold your
breath. For a few moments, you’re nothing but a hollow shell. Your lifeless gaze falls through the grille of the mine’s large iron gate. You sense that Murad is waiting for you beyond the gate. Murad, don’t ask Dastaguir why he has come.

The truck passes through the gate and enters the grounds of the mine. At the foot of a large hill lies a line of concrete workers’ quarters. Which of them is Murad’s? Men with blackened faces, wearing metal construction helmets, come down the hill as others climb up. You don’t see Murad among them. The truck heads toward the small concrete buildings and stops in front of one. Shahmard suggests you get out and ask the mine’s foreman about your son.

You experience a moment of confusion and don’t react. There isn’t enough strength in your hand to open the door. You are like a child who doesn’t want to be separated from his father. You ask Shahmard, “Is my son here?”

“Of course, but you’ll have to ask the foreman where.”

“Where is the foreman?”

Shahmard points out a building to the right of the truck.

Your weak, trembling hand has difficulty opening the truck door. You put your feet on the ground. Your legs are of no use. They don’t have the strength to hold you up. But your body is not heavy. It’s the heaviness of the air that’s pressing down on your body. The air is weighty and thick. You rest your hand on your waist. Shahmard passes your bundle through the window and says, “Father, I’m heading back to town between five and six. If you want to come, wait for me at the gate.”