The Wandering Falcon (10 page)

To start with, he accepted the fact that a gang had been formed in the hills and was heading for his district. In fact, gangs were already overdue this late in the season. Kidnappings usually started in October, with the onset of winter, but it was already late November, and no kidnappings had been reported. The number of people in the gang was, of course, exaggerated, as a large gang was formed only for holdups on the roads. He doubted whether any man in his right mind would plan a holdup on the roads in winter, when the district could be sealed tight with checkpoints at the few roads free of ice and snow. He reflected for a while on the information.

“Tor Baz,” he asked, “where would they find the targets? At night, families huddle together for warmth. During the day, the traffic is very light. The winter makes it difficult for the kidnappers to scurry back into the hills as fast as they would like to. You know the city dwellers will slow them down.”

“The paths may be icy, the springs frozen, the hostages lethargic and obese, but the men from the hills, although equipped only with patched shoes, will manage to get them into the hills before they are checked. Once embarked on this venture, the gang will not be deterred, even if rain and snow makes walking difficult.”

The deputy commissioner caught the hint and counted out forty rupees for a new pair of shoes and another twenty for the expenses of the journey. The scene drew to a conclusion, as always, with Tor Baz expressing great indignation and then reluctantly accepting the payment when the deputy commissioner told him that he would be deeply hurt if Tor Baz refused it.

As Tor Baz turned to leave, the deputy commissioner's voice stopped him: “Tor Baz,” he said reflectively, “tell me one thing. Who are you? You live with the Wazirs, but you are not one of them. With your looks, you could be taken for a Mahsud, which you are not, because your accent and your way of speaking are different. I have been trying to place you, but I have failed. Who are you, and where do you come from?”

Tor Baz's hands went to his heavy woolen cap, on which a small silver amulet had been stitched. He pulled the cap off and started twisting it in his strong hands. As he removed the cap, his jet-black hair and the shaved nape of his neck showed clearly in the fluorescent light of the room.

“Sahib,” he spoke after a while, “you have asked me a question I have not been asked for a long time now.” His eyes started crinkling, and all of a sudden he was laughing. Heavy, gusty laughter filled the room. Then he spoke: “It is true, I am neither a Mahsud nor a Wazir. But I can tell you as little about who I am as I can about who I shall be. Think of Tor Baz as your hunting falcon. That should be enough.”

As Tor Baz closed the door of the office behind him, the deputy commissioner heard him loudly spit on the veranda floor.

The gang was already in town. In fact, they had been there for more than twenty-four hours and had spent most of this time checking on the various choices of victims available. The owner of a tobacco warehouse had been rejected as a prospective prize because there were too many women in his household. One of the gang members had scouted the house and informed them that the women were in the habit of chattering till the early hours of the morning. Another good target had to be abandoned because there were too many lights around the house; another because the man was a tribesman himself. Finally, they agreed on a group of schoolteachers, six in number, who lived by themselves in one of the rooms of a school building.

Schoolteachers, doctors, and street cleaners were always attractive targets for kidnappings. These groups went on strikes so promptly after every kidnapping that the ransom was usually quickly forthcoming from one quarter or another, even if the relatives of the men did not or could not pay up.

It was well after dawn when the excited superintendent of police telephoned the deputy commissioner and informed him that six schoolteachers appeared to have been kidnapped during the night from a room in which they had been sleeping. The door had been broken open, and there were signs of a struggle. The rest of the story was familiar. The people in the hundreds of houses around claimed to have heard no dogs bark, no sounds of the building being broken into, nor sounds of any struggle or calls for help. The people had kept quiet during the night but were making up for it now, when they were sure that they were safe. There were loud recriminations against the police for not protecting them, protestations at being treated like women by the tribesmen, demands for arming them at government expense with weapons deadly enough to counter the marauding tribesmen—the usual cacophony that followed the descent of hill men into the plains.

The officials were informed, and they calmed the people by explaining to them that the response to the crime would be according to the law and the procedures laid down a century ago, which were as effective then as they were today.

The relationship between the tribes and the government was based on a formal treaty entered into by two contracting parties. The treaty stipulated in precise terms the payment of a regular yearly stipend to the tribe and noninterference in their customs and management of their affairs. The obligation on the part of the tribes was the good conduct of each member of their community and of those residing in their area of responsibility. This was formally termed as “collective tribal and territorial responsibility.” The tribe or its members could be chastened for any lapse or infraction in this responsibility through the authority of an instrument called the Frontier Crimes Regulations. Punishment could range from detention of any member of the tribe, whether or not directly responsible, to the institution of a blockade and even suspension of the yearly payment. The ultimate punishment was a punitive expedition by the government.

Orders were issued to set in motion the first response under the Frontier Crimes Regulations. The men of law were called on to comb the bazaars, to spot any Tori Khel Wazirs and pick them up, to seal their shops and confiscate any vehicle owned by their tribe. This action would, it was hoped, provide a counterpressure, and would persuade the tribe to release the hostages.

Such action was most effective if a close relative of the kidnappers was caught, which was not likely. They would make sure to stay away from the area for some days. The captives would now be released under only two circumstances: either the ransom was paid, or the district officials and the relatives of the hostages were prepared to remain indifferent to their fate, to the point of establishing that no ransom would ever be paid. The latter attitude, which demanded patience of the highest degree, was easier for a tribesman than it was for a city dweller. Therefore, there appeared to be a very fair prospect for a sizable return to the men of the winter's first gang.

The tracking party, led by a young assistant commissioner, followed the tracks up to the border of the district where the tribal area began. In their path lay the Bhittani tribe. They halted there for a while and sent some men to summon the
jirga
of that tribe, an assembly of elders and leaders. After a few hours, the
jirga
assembled and sat down on their side of the boundary line. This was not merely a point of honor, it was also a mark of caution—for once they stepped across the boundary, they would become subject to the laws of the settled district and could be arrested by the police—a thought that was anathema to every tribesman. When the
jirga
had assembled, the assistant commissioner got up and addressed them formally.

“Elders and graybeards of the Bhittani tribe,” he said, “an offense has been committed in your neighboring district. During the night, a gang of outlaws has kidnapped some schoolteachers from a village a few miles away and has taken them by force. All the signs and the reading of the tracks prove to us that this gang, both while moving into the district and also while escaping, did so through your area. As proof, we can show you the trail which we have followed, right to the edge of your territory.”

He paused for a while and then continued: “You are familiar with the treaties between you and us. Under the terms of the treaty, not only is a tribe responsible for the action of its people but it is also responsible for any act which takes place in its area or through its area. This, of course, is apart from the stigma on your honor, which such an act is bound to attract. I, therefore, call on you to accept this responsibility. I require of you to apprehend and surrender the outlaws and the captives. If you fail in this, you would be considered by us as having broken our agreement and shall be responsible for the consequences.”

As the assistant commissioner finished, a heavy murmur arose from the assembled
jirga
. They realized that they were indeed in a fix. The terms of the treaty were clear enough, and yet theirs was a small tribe that could not conceivably take upon itself the task of forcing the Mahsuds, of all people, to return the captives or to surrender the accused.

After talking among themselves for a while, they signaled that their reply was ready. When the men had quieted down, an old Bhittani tribesman—the most senior of all the elders present—got up with the help of a long wooden staff that had small studs hammered into it as decoration.

“Sahib,” he started off in a thin, quivering voice, “you are right. The treaties are clear enough, as also is our obligation under them. Indeed, we are deeply impressed that you, who look so young and tender in years, should have taken so much pain and spent so much labor in studying them.”

He stopped and let his glance rest on the upturned faces around him. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes at the quip he had just made against the young official. This was immediately appreciated by his audience, which chuckled and grinned openly. The officer flushed with anger and embarrassment.

“Sahib, we also acknowledge the shame brought upon our tribe by the outlaws who used our land to seek access to your area. It is indeed a terrible insult to us. But”—he paused again before adding—“let me narrate to you a story.”

The crowd went silent, listening intently to the old man's voice, which had now become clear and sharp, like the sound of plucked strings from a musical instrument.

“The story goes, sahib, that a young boy and girl eloped and were running away from their homes, when they suddenly found themselves surrounded by a pack of ruffians out for mischief. These rascals, men of no honor, surrounded the couple and, threatening them with death, dishonored the girl. Not finding enough satisfaction in it, they asked the young man to strip and had their sport with him. After doing all this, these terrible and wicked fellows left the couple and went away. As their oppressors disappeared, the young man and girl calmed themselves and put on their clothes. The young man, after his fear had died, became furious with the girl. He accused her of having proven untrustworthy, disloyal, and faithless. He also charged her with possessing no sense of shame or modesty, as she had let so many men violate her body.

“The girl thought for a while. Then she squared her shoulders, looked at the young man, and replied. Do you know what answer she gave him?”

“Tell us, tell us,” cried the audience, spellbound by the story.

“Well, the girl spoke thus: ‘My love,' she said, ‘you are right. My body has been violated, but think of one thing. My body has been fashioned by nature for this very purpose. What was done to me was indeed wrong, but truly speaking, it is, as it were, only what nature has intended for me when it created me. Now look at yourself, you are a man. You were not made to be used the way these rascals used you. Yet you did not resist them. You allowed yourself to be violated just as I did. What reason do you offer?' ”

The old man stopped to let the effect of his story sink in before he continued: “So, officer sahib, that is what we say to you. We, the Bhittanis, are a weak tribe as compared to the Mahsuds. Yet nature has placed us on their borders. Because of this, the Mahsuds have to use our land when they go out of theirs or cross back into it. We do not like it but cannot stop them. We do not have the force that they command.

“But what about you? What about all your police and your people in the districts who allow themselves to be kidnapped? You are like the man in the story. What the Mahsuds do to you, and the impunity with which they do it, was not intended by nature. Your nature should compel you to see that such things do not happen. Yet you let them do it, and when the deed is done, you rush out and vent your fury on others.”

The old man's story and its irrefutable logic had the whole assembly rolling with laughter. Even the police party and the group of officials from the district could not resist, and they, too, joined in the hilarity.

Only the young officer stood crestfallen, realizing that he had performed poorly in his first battle of wits with the tribesmen. He could offer no story to counter the old man's logic, and therefore his own case, though it had appeared to rest on such a sure and solid foundation, now stood demolished. There was no option available to him for the moment but to gracefully accept defeat. He hoped that his colleagues would not hear of the story.

 

 

O
n approaching the hills, the band of men rested for a while near the spring. They baked bread and shared it with their captives, and also arranged for a few mules to carry the footsore teachers the rest of the way. Their destination was the house of an old man, Mandos, who was going to care for the captives and negotiate their ransom in return for a share of the proceeds. They reached the house after dark and found the old man finishing his midnight prayers. A room had been prepared for the captives. Since such a large number had not been expected, quilts had to be shared, two men to one quilt.

When the morning came, one of the schoolteachers was asked to write a letter addressed to his relatives, indicating their fair state of health and the name of their host, and including, most important of all, fervent pleas for meeting the terms of their kidnappers and securing their early release. They were then served a breakfast of fried chicken, wheat cakes, and tea. From now on until their release, the hostages would be looked after with greater care and diligence than a tribesman can spare for his own sons.