The Wandering Falcon (5 page)

A family also meant the accompanying herd of camels and flocks of sheep. These were usually kept together, and the animals of a
kirri
could number up to a few thousand sheep and a few hundred camels. Being kept together did not mean that the ownership was common, nor did it cause any confusion of identity. Not only the owner but also his five-year-old child could pick out their own animal from the herd without the slightest hesitation. While the General was the unchallenged head of the entire tribe, each
kirri
would also informally choose a leader to make the decisions for their group as they traveled.

It was the second day of the march, and Dawa Khan's
kirri
was settling down for the evening. The black woolen tents, open on all sides, had been pegged down and looked like rows of black bats resting on the ground. The smoke from the fires was swirling up into the folds of the tents, rolling out and drifting away with the light evening breeze.

The men were busy unhitching the panniers from the animals and bringing their loads to the tents, mostly carpets, dried fruit, and nuts, which they carried with them to sell in the cities. The women, too, were busy, cooking and milking the she-camels and sheep, or suckling their babies. Only the dogs were relaxed. They had done their day's work, ambling with the caravan, rushing sometimes to the front, sometimes to the rear, keeping the flock of sheep in order, traveling two miles for every one traveled by their masters. They were tired and needed their rest before they began their responsibility of guarding the camp during the hours of darkness.

Dawa Khan and his son carried in the last load and placed it in the tent of his younger wife. It was Gul Jana's turn to cook for the family that evening, but the other wife was helping her by baking the bread. The youngest child had crawled onto the dog, which had come with Gul Jana in her dowry. Gul Jana tasted the stew and added some more water.

Suddenly, the dog reared up, throwing the plump child onto the grassy floor. His haunches tensed, and the ruff of his neck bristled. Dawa Khan and his son looked in the direction that the dog was staring.

The sun had not fully set, and while some areas were in shadow, the top of the mound in front of them was still covered with sunlight. As they watched, two figures gradually rose into view: an old man wearing a purple-and-gold cloak, with a black-bearded younger man behind him.

“The General and his son are here,” Dawa Khan addressed his wives. “Prepare for their dinner tonight.” As he started walking toward the mound, other men emerged from the hundred black tents and followed him. They met the visitors at the foot of the mound. For a few minutes, there was such a lively exchange of salutations and greetings that no one could actually hear what the others were saying.

After this tumultuous welcome had died down, the group of men started moving toward the tents, with Dawa Khan and the General in the lead. Most of the other men gradually fell back in ones and twos, returning to their own tents, till only Dawa Khan and four others remained.

At Dawa Khan's tent, some carpets had been spread on the ground, and two animal packs lay on the edges to serve as backrests. The men took off their shoes and sat down. The General, who, as always, kept his cloak on, looked at the men around him. They were old, familiar faces. He had known these middle-aged men since they were toddlers and had known their fathers before them. He smiled wryly at a hulking mustachioed figure sitting opposite him—this man, Torak Khan, had been so short in his childhood that he could not reach a camel's tail till he was thirteen.

“What is this story I hear about you?” the General inquired of him. “That you are suing another Kharot in the courts of the government?”

Torak grinned sheepishly. “The case is against a man who has left the fold,” he replied defensively. “It is against a Kharot who is now settled in the city. He cannot really be considered a true Kharot any longer. The devil married my mother after my father's death and did not pay any bride price. As the eldest son, the money is due to me, and the man refuses to pay it. I have to get it out of him. My mother agrees with me.”

“You are right, son,” agreed the General. “No man respects his wife or her family unless he pays a price for her. But you should be able to get your due without seeking the help of other people's laws.” He looked at Dawa Khan. “You will help him, of course.”

“We will get his money,” promised Dawa Khan.

The light faded away, and there was a sudden drop in temperature with the setting of the sun. A fire was started, and the sitting figures moved closer to it. As the dishes of stew and platters of bread were brought to them from the tents, the General turned to Dawa Khan.

“Your
kirri
is to lead the caravan this year.”

“Yes, General.”

“Be very careful and circumspect. There is to be no quarrel either among yourselves or with other tribes. No disputes with the authorities. I have heard a rumor that the authorities are going to demand travel documents from our people. You will continue moving while I go to the government officials to get a sense of things. Use your tact to the utmost, but also keep in touch with a few
kirri
s in the rear. Which are the
kirri
s nearest to you?”

“My father and brothers are leading the nearest, a day's march away,” interjected Gul Jana, who was standing in the shadows, suckling her two-year-old. “Abdullah Khan and Niamat are following behind them.”

“Very well. Ask Abdullah Khan to fall back. I want Niamat to be the third in the line.”

The General then rose from the carpet and walked around the encampment, from one tent to the next. He had a word for every person, praising a man's rifle before his young sons at one tent, admiring a woman's son before the mother at another. He liked to see his people laughing and, as always, exchanged sallies with the women he knew in the various tents, including his granddaughter, who was resting after a difficult childbirth. But while the laughter was there, it sounded a little subdued to his ears. It did not sound like the open and unrestrained laughter that his ears were used to. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he even detected a small element of sadness and uncertainty in it. The words he had spoken on the carpet had by now, he was sure, spread to every tent. He only hoped he could come back to them and tell them that the rumor was false. But until he was able to do so, it was better for them to worry a little.

 

 

E
arly the next morning, while it was still dark and before the
kirri
was ready to move, the General and his son departed on foot, as usual. A few stars were still visible in the sky when they left, but the camp was humming with activity. The tents were already down and were being packed onto the animals. Some of the fires were being doused after the preparation of the morning meal, and the snorting of the camels intermingled with the barking of the dogs as they readied themselves for the journey. The caravan was to cross the border that day. The next day, they would know the attitude of the authorities.

The sun had not yet risen when the caravan started moving. By mid-morning they were on the edge of the plateau that marked the boundary between the two countries. A vast, flat plain—featureless except for small outcrops of rock breaking through the crust here and there. There was no sign of man in this area except for the ruins of a few
karezes—
underground channels tapping springwater for irrigation—which had been patiently constructed by a people long since vanished, and destroyed by another, also forgotten.

Today, all signs of cultivation and all marks of habitation had disappeared. A few springs, however, still remained, and the
kirri
stopped at one of these for their evening halt. The day had been entirely uneventful, and the people, who had been morose and edgy during the day, relaxed as the caravan paused and broke for the night. The men gathered together and talked for a while among themselves. They agreed that tomorrow would be an important day, and it was necessary that the young hotbloods should be kept in the rear while the elder and wiser men moved to the forefront.

Each man also agreed to keep a close eye on his sons and nephews, and to put them on their best behavior, so that their youth or exuberance did not create trouble for them all, in the event that they came across any government authority.

Within less than two hours' travel the next morning, the plain had ended and the track they had been following joined the bed of a dry ravine with a range of cliffs, interspersed by narrow valleys, on either side. Perched high on the cliff, guarding this gorge, was a small fort. It was built like an aerie anchored to black rock but jutting out at an angle into space.

As the caravan came into view, a long line of soldiers poured out of the fort and started scrambling down toward the Kharots. Dawa Khan stopped his caravan with a wave of his right arm and stood, looking toward the soldiers as they approached, led by their subedar, who was a familiar figure to them all, and famous in the area because of his mustache, which measured twelve inches from end to end.

As soon as he was within earshot, Dawa Khan shouted a greeting: “May you never be tired, Ghuncha Gul.”

“May you never be weary, brother,” responded the subedar. “Are you moving straightaway? My men are ready to escort you, unless you want to rest.”

Dawa Khan's brow had cleared at the offer of the authority not only to allow them passage but also to protect them during their journey. Things sounded so normal that the rumors they had heard must indeed be wrong. Suddenly, Ghuncha Gul's voice broke in: “What is this I hear about the closing of the borders, Dawa Khan? One of my soldiers brought this rumor on his return from leave.”

“I have also heard a rumor of this kind, and it had worried me somewhat. Do you think there is something to it?”

“I imagine not. It would be impossible to do that. It would be like attempting to stop migrating birds or the locusts.”

They both laughed loudly for a while over this image. Dawa Khan then turned to Ghuncha Gul. “I did not forget my promise. I have brought a pup from my own dogs for your adopted son, as you had asked me. Where is the young lad? I would like to give it to him.”

“The boy is in the fort,” Ghuncha Gul replied. “He is going over his lessons with our mullah. I will hand him the pup on your behalf. He will value it.”

Dawa Khan went back toward the rear of the long line of camels and returned shortly, half dragging a savage-looking young puppy, who struggled to free itself from the thick woolen cord tied around its neck. It growled furiously as it was handed over. Dawa Khan looked affectionately at the pup as he was led away. “I think he will make a good dog,” he said. “He has got strength in his voice and a feeling of loyalty.”

Ghuncha Gul and his soldiers spread out and took up their escort duties on either side of the caravan. With a soldier walking alongside every fifty yards, the
kirri
s were now under the formal protection of the government. The presence of the soldiers was intended to discourage raids by other tribes on the caravan; raids, with their resulting bloodshed and feuds, could cause problems for the government. Each fort was responsible for a part of the route. Ghuncha Gul would hand over safe custody of the caravan to the soldiers at the next fort, and the escort would turn back to wait for the next
kirri
.

Most of the soldiers in the twenty-man escort were familiar faces who were known to Dawa Khan. He had seen them over the years, in either one fort or another. They were a special breed of men. Tribesmen themselves, they spent their entire lives, from raw youth to middle age, living and serving on one mountain crest or another.

Except for short spells of leave to go back to their homes, they never saw their families. The only events in their lonely lives were protecting government roads and installations, laying down the law among the tribes, stopping bloodshed when it threatened to spill over from a family dispute into a tribal war, and their own postings and promotions. The only two recreations they had were listening to their radios in the evening and talking to strangers who passed through their area.

Gul Jana was sitting astride a she-camel with her two-year-old. The caravan was moving at a slow pace for the convenience of the soldiers, and she liked this lazy progress. The movement of the camel at this pace was not frantic and jerky. It swayed smoothly, as the ears of wild grass sway with a light breeze. Her child was asleep, and she, too, was feeling drowsy with the hypnotic rhythm of the camel's movement. She looked down from the camel's back to the right. This was the third time she had done so in the last half-hour.

The young soldier, who had been walking beside her camel ever since the caravan started moving, was still staring at her. He was short and slender, and looked very young with his light growth of beard, which would turn dark and heavy in a few years. The soldier colored slightly but could not seem to take his eyes off Gul Jana's face.

Gul Jana checked her camel slightly and straightened her back. “You, there!” She put a hand to the side of her mouth. “You, there, who has been staring at me for a long time. Do you not know that you are smaller than my husband's organ?”

The women on the camels behind her and those in front erupted into boisterous laughter, as did the men, including the soldiers within earshot. Gusts of laughter swept the caravan as the story passed from camelback to camelback and man to man, and soon everyone was laughing, except the lonely soldier, who wanted only to sink into the ground and die.

Ghuncha Gul knew what the young soldier was feeling. His own wife in the village, whom he visited for only one month every year, was somber and staid, and smiled rarely. The women of the plains kept to themselves, and were severe and serious in their demeanor. He decided not to commiserate with the soldier. That gesture might hurt him all the more, and, in any case, it was better for the boy to suffer the jolt of the ribaldry and boisterous humor of the Powindah women before he made any serious mistakes.