Two Rivers - pt. 1

September 2005

Night in the valley was dark and peaceful. Frigid in the winter and chilly in the summer. You didn’t see the moon too often; it hid behind mountains. Enormous black silhouettes, jagged and uneven and never the same as one another. But I had all of their shapes memorized. The colour and outline of their rocks. The trees, all of the different types and where they were on the hill, which way they leaned from being blown by the wind. 

So even at night, I could look at a mountain and see it as clear as day. I could imagine the path I would take to the top, long and winding and never obvious. Of course, I couldn’t actually do it. I’d get tired half way up the smallest ones. Once you were actually on the mountain, it loomed over you a million times bigger than it was from a distance. 

My favourite nights were when Abu gathered wood and started a fire in the clearing in front our house; the same place where he slaughtered chickens and goats. I would watch as blood ran down the little gutter he’d dug out and drip into the rushing river, disappearing in the blue and white of the rapids. I’d listen as the animal kicked and struggled and shrieked, trying to escape even as it bled out. The entire time, Abu would hold it down and pray. But that was a daytime thing. It never happened at night. After dinner, after the blood had dried into the ground, Abu would start his fire. 

Then Jamal, Mina and I would go into our house and into the biggest room, the one with rugs and pillows on which we all sat on cold nights. We’d call out “Nano, are you awake?” 

She would reply, “Oh, come here come here.” And we’d run to her to be kissed and hugged. 

Then Mina would say “Nano, come outside! Abu's starting a fire!” 

Nano would laugh and say “Sorry Mina my love, but I can’t walk.” 

And then I’d say “We’ll take you!” Mina would find an extra blanket to keep her warm and all three of us would carry her charpai through the door and set it down close to the fire. 

Once the fire was bright enough, Uncle Rehmat would walk from his farm down the road with Bilal running in front. They’d come sit with us. Uncle on the other charpai with Abu and Bilal on the ground with the rest of us. Ami wouldn’t come until much later; she always had to put Maryam to sleep. Maryam was only one, so she slept a lot. 

The night would almost always start with an argument between Abu and Uncle Rehmat. And it was always Uncle Rehmat that started it. He would complain about the road that bordered our farms, the only road in the valley. Muddy, broken and bumpy it was dug out of the mountains, meters above the river; and it ran all the way down to Mingora, not that I had ever seen that city. I’d been as far as Kalam, the road following Ushu as it wound between the mountains and met with Gabral to make the Swat River. 

From a distance, Kalam was like nothing I’d seen before. With hundreds of houses, it was so much larger and more crowded than Matiltan, the small village close to our farm. There were tall buildings in the city, almost as if someone had taken our house and stacked three other houses on top. Bilal said that tourists would come and spend nights in those buildings, taking to their jeeps and driving further north in the day. We’d see them all the time. Strange looking people from all over the country, and from other countries, sitting happily in their cars with big black cameras poking out of the open windows. Bilal often got us to chase after the cars for a while, until the driver shooed us away. Sometimes they’d stop at the farm. Abu would net a couple of trout from our fish farm, and Ami would cook them and give them to the strangers for lunch. 

While they ate, they often spoke to us. I understood some of them; we had to learn Urdu in class. But usually, they spoke so fast and quickly that I just nodded and smiled. Sometimes they had white skin or small eyes, and Abu said they weren’t from the country. I only knew a few words in English, so I didn’t understand those ones at all. But I was always sure to point and shout “mountain!” and then repeat the word in Pashto. 

Uncle Rehmat would complain that there weren’t enough tourists anymore. He’d say it was because of the road. Because cities like Lahore and Peshawar had such beautiful roads that all the tourists went there instead. He described those roads to me once. Smooth and paved with gray stone. I imagined what that would have looked like replacing the road we have now; like a long dirty snake winding its way through the mountains, poisoning the green with its gray. Personally I thought it would ruin the scenery, and that our road was just fine. 

Uncle Rehmat was always going on and on about the big cities. We had a map of Pakistan in our classroom. It was faded and worn, but I could make out the borders and the little stars with words next to them “Islamabad,” “Peshawar,” “Lahore,” “Karachi.” I always thought it was sad that there was no star in the section of the map labelled “Swat.” The closest was a little dot that marked Mingora. 

Uncle Rehmat talked about how in the cities a man could be anything he wanted to be, and that the government took care of the cities and only the cities. He told us that our education was useless, and how by studying in Lahore you could go work anywhere in the world. He said that if you lived in Islamabad, you’d never need to look for a job, that the government would give you everything you needed. They would give you food, and a house and servants and everything. 

Though I didn’t understand a lot of what he said, I knew that Abu disagreed. Once Uncle had left, Abu would complain about how he was just a bitter and useless farmer. Abu would say that the man doesn’t know what he’s talking about, that he’s never even stepped foot outside the valley. I wondered why Uncle didn’t just leave and live in a city if he liked them so much. 

Ami once told me that Abu and Uncle Rehmat had been born on these farms, and lived next to each other their entire lives. She said that Uncle Rehmat was to Abu what Bilal was to me, which is friends for life. I wondered if that’s why uncle didn’t move away, so I asked Ami why Abu didn’t go with him. She said “They tried.” And that was that. 

So on these nights, when Abu and Uncle argued, us kids would sit close to the fire and near Nano. Nano would ask us about our day. And Mina, being Mina, would always tell on Bilal and I, even when we didn’t do anything wrong. “Nano, Alam and Bilal were throwing rocks at the fish in the farm!” or “Nano, Alam lied to Ami about changing the baby!” But Nano would just laugh. She never beat us or yelled at us. 

Then we’d say “tell us a story Nano!” And she would. She would tell us stories of when she was young, and how she married Nanabu in Mingora. She would tell us about him, and Abu's parents. Of how they decided that Ami was a good match for Abu. She would tell us of how the farm was different, how there were new rooms now. And how there were never any tourists or cars when she was young, everyone travelled like Uncle Zafran on his donkey cart. She told us of how Swat wasn’t a part of Pakistan when she was young, how Swat had its own Wali. How he took care of his people. 

Nano would always tell us stories about the Prophet Muhammad and his companions. Of how he was raised by noble Abu Talib, and his life as a merchant. She would tell us of how god spoke to him in the cave Hira, and made him a prophet. Or of how even though he was the purest man in the world, the Kuffar stoned him. 

Mina would interrupt and ask questions and pretend to know all sorts of things. It was annoying how she was like that. I mean she was only two years older than the rest of us. Bilal and I would make fun of her behind her back, but Jamal never joined in. He had to listen to every word she spoke.

To be honest, I usually didn’t pay that much attention to Nano’s stories, especially the ones about the prophet. That’s not because I didn’t believe in god. It’s just that I already knew that the prophet was wonderful and I followed his teachings, and we also learned a lot about him in class. I just really liked sitting by the fire. I liked its warmth, and I liked being together with my family and friend. I liked when Nano told me I’m a good boy for taking care of her, and I liked when Bilal and I started playing games or drawing in the sand by our feet. Sometimes, I even liked to sit back on my hands, close my eyes and listen to everyone’s voices, the wind and the crackling of the fire join the never ending churn of the river. 

I’m not sure why I was thinking about those nights as I squatted in wet soil and pulled golden rice crop out of the ground, piling them onto the growing stack to my right. Sahar, one of the boys from Matiltan that helped us during the rice harvest, would take them to the drums where we would beat them against steel to get the grain out. 

Our farm had four terraces for rice, and I was on the lowest one. Just a meter or so below the terrace, the ground was covered in bright gray pebbles, with little streams of water running between them. These separated the river from our farm by several meters. The Ushu River itself was a cascade of bright blue and white, meandering between the mountains. In spring, it would swell to the point that I could stand at the edge of the terrace on which I squatted now, and reach my hand down to feel cold water flow across it. 

I could hear Mina calling. Actually, she’d been calling for a while. “Alam! Uncle Zafran is coming! Hurry up!” I thought that it would be funny if she had to come and get me, since I knew that she’d already changed into her freshly cleaned shalwar kameez and wouldn’t want to step on the soil. So I ignored my sister and continued pulling rice crop. It wasn’t until a few minutes after she stopped calling that I noticed the quiet. And just as I did, Abu's voice boomed across the farm.

“Alam! Get over here!” 

I dropped the plants in my hand and sprinted. 

Uncle Zafran’s cart, loaded with peaches, was waiting on the road. Mina and Jamal were already sitting on the back, and Bilal waved to me from the front. Ami and Abu were talking to the old man.

“Sorry,” I said, quickly trying to move past Ami. 

She grabbed my shoulder. “For god’s sake Alam, look at your clothes,” She swiped at some of the dirt around my feet. “Go get changed. What’s your teacher going to say?” 

“Ami!” Mina shouted from the back of the cart. “Hurry up! We’re going to be late.”

“Let him go.” Abu said, and I managed to escape, grabbing my bag from Ami's other hand before running to the cart and sitting between Mina and Jamal. 

Mina was wearing a bright blue kameez and a white hijab, the same uniform that girls from schools in Kalam and Mingora wore. I knew this because she had asked Abu's friend Uncle Gulzar, who was a driver and tour guide, to buy her one when he was in Mingora. And she had whispered about it, because she didn’t want Bilal and I to know. I didn’t understand why she wanted to keep it a secret. It’s not like I didn’t already know that her school doesn’t need a uniform. “Why are you always late?” She said.

“Shut up Mina! You’re such a bookworm.” Bilal said, turning around and sticking his tongue out at Mina.  

 “Ami! Bilal called me a…”

“He’s coming!” Ami yelled back, interrupting Mina. Uncle Zafran broke away from her and Abu, grasping Abu's hand with both of his in a familiar handshake. The man was short and small of stature, bent over with age. He had a long wispy beard and a faded pakol that hid his balding head. 

“As Salam Au Alaykum kids,” he said, smiling and showing his yellowed and crooked teeth as he sat next to Bilal and whipped the donkey into trudging down the bumpy road. 

“Waalaikum as Salam,” we all repeated in unison.

“Why didn’t you say Salam to Uncle, Alam?” Mina asked.

“I did!” I replied. 

“No you didn’t!”

“She’s right, I didn’t hear you say it!” Jamal piped in. I glared at him. Jamal wasn’t actually my brother. His mother used to be really good friends with Ami. Right before he was born, his father ran away. Then his mother died giving birth. So Ami and Abu raised us at the same time. 

“You’re just saying that because Mina said it!” Bilal said. 

“No I’m not!” Jamal replied quickly. 

“Liar! Why do you like Mina so much?” 

“I don’t!”

“Yeah you do! Do you want to get married to Mina? Ew!” Bilal said. 

“I don’t!” Jamal cried desperately. 

“Stop it Bilal!” Mina said, “Leave him alone!” 

But Bilal started making kissy faces at Jamal. “Jamal loves Mina!” He chanted. 

Jamal reached across the cart to the pile of fruit, grabbed one of Uncle Zafran’s peaches, and with a groan of effort chucked it across the cart at the Bilal. He missed terribly. The peach arced through the air and smashed into the mountain before bouncing off and disappearing behind grass. We all gasped silently and stared at one another with wide eyes before simultaneously turning to Uncle Zafran.

The inattentive old man was whistling and paid no heed to us. Bilal started laughing. 

“Jamal has lousy aim!” He jeered. 

Before Jamal could reply, Mina reached across me, put a hand on his wrist and shook her head slowly. Of course this only caused Bilal to blow more kissy faces. Jamal didn’t respond. He turned his back and stared sulkily across the valley.

Our farm had disappeared around a mountain. It wasn’t a large farm or anything. We had our terraces, an apple orchard, persimmon trees, the fish farm by the river and a coop for chickens. Abu would load up the harvested fruits, fish, chicken and eggs in a cart like Uncle Zafran’s and take them all the way to Kalam where he’d sell them to stores. He once told me that our fruit is eaten all across Pakistan. Usually we saved most of the rice harvest for winter, and shared it with some of the families in Matiltan. After harvest we’d plant wheat that sleeps through the winter and grows again in the spring.  

Winter was quiet and lazy. Like the river in those months, life would slow down. And the world would shrink. Glaciers would grow down the mountains and block off the road, cutting our farm off from the rest of the country. It would just be us and Uncle Rehmat’s family with nothing to do. Bilal, Jamal and I would play in the snow that had draped the valley. We’d run back indoors late in the evening; wet, cold and shivering, to stand and rub our hands around the electric heater. Mina would get extra bothersome, complaining about how we can’t get to school or brooding over her activity books, even though she’d already done all of the problems a hundred times. She’d even make Ami make me do some. 

Uncle Zafran’s cart rounded a corner and we could see Matiltan. Behind it was Falak Sar, a huge and snow covered mountain. Abu had told me that it was the tallest mountain in Swat. The village itself was small, with brick houses that looked just like our own. Familiar faces waved in our direction as we approached, and we waved back. Uncle Zafran stopped his cart near the center of the village, where other merchants had already taken a place around the road. 

Mina and Bilal jumped off quickly. I followed but craned my neck to look at the small wooden sign that Uncle Zafran had leaned against his pile of peaches. “Fresh, 150 RS per kg” 

Matiltan was a collection of farms. There was the main road, which had some small stores and houses on it, and another road which went further into the village and led to the mosque where we came to pray every Friday. Everything else was just terraces and orchards. And in this season, people were busy stooped over harvesting or climbing up ladders to grab late apples. 

We walked together on the road, with Mina leading the way, until we reached a small building covered in peeling yellow paint. There was a blue sign over its door with “Sunshine Ages 6-12 Boy’s Primary School” written on it. Mina stood by the door and waited for us to catch up. Once we did, she wagged her finger. 

“After school, wait here for me and we’ll go back together. Okay? Don’t do anything naughty, and don’t get in trouble.” 

“Go away Mina,” Bilal moaned, and pushed past her into the building. I followed him. Mina smirked and ran down the road to join the two girls who were standing outside a much smaller unmarked building.   

Our classroom was depressing. It was the kind of room that sucked the energy out of you the moment you walked in. The window was set high in the wall and let in such a small amount of light that on rainy days I had to strain my eyes to make out what I was writing in my book, let alone what our teacher, the grumpy and retired policeman from Kalam, Uncle Dogar was writing on the blackboard. Which was crooked and chalk whitened and like everything else in the room, only just holding on to life. Our seats creaked and groaned, and Jamal’s folding desk had broken so he had to write resting his book on his leg. Uncle Dogar taught all of the students aged 8-12, all seven of us in this room. But only us three were here today – it was the start of the harvest and everyone else was helping at their farms.

“Teacher is probably gonna stay at home and eat sweets all day.” Bilal said with a grin, leaning back in his chair and resting his legs on the empty one in front of him. 

“Stop that!” Jamal whispered. “He’ll punish you,” his eyes flickered to the wooden cane which leaned against the board. 

The teacher chose that moment to throw open the door and storm into the room. Luckily for Bilal, he ignored us and started scribbling messy Urdu on the board. Even though no one in the valley spoke it, we learned in Urdu. I never understood why; it felt like a waste of time. But Abu liked that we did. He said it meant we could talk to any Pakistani. 

Also, even in Swat, no one wrote Pashto. Everything was written in Urdu. Unfortunately, I was really bad at reading. Sometimes I had to stare at a sign for several minutes before I could make sense of the characters. I didn’t understand why I needed to read signs though. Abu never did. It was easier to just ask the shop keeper. Even Uncle Dogar was not very good at Urdu. He’d often get frustrated and switch to Pashto while teaching. 

I watched carefully as he started writing, but halfway through his sentence sat back and relaxed. I almost laughed at Bilal and Jamal both squinting their eyes and staring at the board as the man worked. When he finally finished, he turned around and said, “read.”

“The river is blue, and so is the sea and sky.” I said loudly and confidently. I even paused and pretended to struggle with the word “sea.”  

“Good, you next Bilal” The teacher said, and started writing another sentence.

I beamed at Bilal and Jamal, both of whom had quietly mumbled the sentence after me. Bilal gave me an incredulous look. “Help me!” He whispered. 

The trick with Uncle Dogar was really easy. He always used the same sentences. You just had to remember what it was the last time he’d written it on the board. Once I saw enough characters in a familiar arrangement, I could remember the day when he’d yelled at us about not being able to read it. And having been in his class for two years, I was pretty good at it.

There were two sentences in Urdu class that I didn’t recognize, but luckily Bilal was the one who got yelled at. After the sentences, Teacher started writing words on the board and translating their meaning to Pashto. That dragged on for what seemed like forever, and by the time Islamiat rolled around, I was falling asleep. It was just my luck that the one time I closed my eyes, and it really was for just a second, was the one time that Teacher happened to turn around and look at us. Then it was my turn for a scolding on how unappreciative I am of the Prophet and why the last sermon is so important and how Allah knows I don’t care.

Close to lunch time, and I knew it was close because of the way Teacher kept glancing at his watch, Bilal leaned over and whispered, “Hey, where do you wanna go?” 

I considered it for a second. “Doesn’t matter, you choose. But I have to talk to Teacher first.”

Bilal looked surprised, “what do you mean?” 

“Don’t worry about it.”

Finally, Uncle Dogar looked at his watch, put down his piece of chalk and said “It’s lunchtime. Be back in an hour” He swiftly walked out of the room. I stood up, leaving my bag behind, and caught him in the narrow hallway that connected our room and the other classroom. He was almost out on the road when I called out “Teacher!” 

He stopped abruptly. “What?” 

“I have a math question.”

“Math is after lunch.”

“I know, I just had a quick question.”

“Save it.” The man turned and walked away.

“Useless old man.” I cursed under my breath and kicked the ground. Bilal and Jamal, who was carrying my bag, walked up to me. 

“Let’s go,” Bilal said. 

“Wait, I have to talk to Mina.”

“What?! You can’t let her know.”

“I know, I won’t.” 

Mina was squatting on the road outside the single roomed building that was her school. Two girls younger than her had their notebooks out and were scribbling as Mina talked. 

“Mina, can I talk to you?” 

She stopped speaking Urdu and looked at me in surprise. “What do you want? Can’t you see we’re busy here?” 

“I have a math question.” I whispered, conscious of Bilal and Jamal standing close behind me. 

“So ask your teacher.” Mina said far too loudly. 

“Please?” 

She sighed, stood and walked a bit to the side. I followed hastily. 

“Okay, so if something costs 150 rupees per kilo, how much does each one cost?”

“What?”

“I mean, like you can buy apples for 150 rupees per kilo, how much is each apple?” 

“It depends on the weight of an apple.” 

“Oh…”

“But let’s pretend each apple is 100g.” She started scribbling numbers in her notebook. “See, 100g goes into 1 kilo ten times. So 150 by 10 is the price of an apple.” She finally wrote the number 15 and circled it. 

“Great, thanks!” I started walking away. 

“Wait, why? Where are you going?” 

“Don’t worry!” I yelled behind me.

“Alam!” I ignored her. My eyes met Bilal’s and we broke into a simultaneous grin. Then we started sprinting down the road. “Hey!” Mina called behind us.

As we ran, the call to afternoon prayer sounded, and people started walking in the direction of the mosque. I stopped abruptly in the center of the village, where all of the carts were setup, and thrust my hands into my pocket. 

“What’s wrong?” Bilal asked, skidding to a halt next to me. 

I pulled out a crumpled old bill for 10 rupees. “I need 5 rupees…” 

“Why?” 

“I just wanted to buy something.” 

“Jamal do you have 5 rupees?” Bilal asked when Jamal caught up. Jamal upturned his pockets and shook his head. 

“Come on, I’m sure we can find some.” I said. 

With most people gone to pray, the village market was more or less empty. We started scouring the ground for any dropped coins. Half an hour later, people were returning and we still hadn’t found anything. Bilal complained. “Come on, let’s just go.” 

Even I was about to give up when Jamal cried, “Here! I found one.” Standing behind a meat stall, he held up a ten rupee note. 

“I thought I already checked over there!” I said happily, running up to him and grabbing the money. Uncle Zafran wasn’t back yet. I left the two ten rupee notes on his cart, right in front of his stool and anchored them down with a peach.

“Okay, where do you want to go?” I asked Bilal. 

“This way!” Bilal said and started leading the way down the road heading north. I knew he didn’t have a plan, but followed anyway. Walking in a random direction, I had decided, was how all adventures began.

And sure enough, once we had left the village behind, we found ourselves standing at the edge of the road overlooking the river. “There’s nothing to do.” I said. 

“Yeah there is! Come on!” Bilal cried and ran down the hill, skidding awkwardly to a stop on the pebble laden riverbank. By the time Jamal and I got down, he had taken off his kameez and was running across the bank. There was a pool of water that had been separated from the river and had carved its own stream across the bank. It moved slowly, and was deep enough to come up to our knees. Bilal jumped in, slipped on a rock, fell backwards and started laughing.

I ran in after him, more careful of the rocks and ignoring the numbing feel of the freezing water. Bilal splashed at me. “Hey!” I yelled the moment ice cold water slammed into my chest. And then I was splashing at him. Jamal stood at the edge of the water, slowly testing it with his toes. Bilal and I both splashed him, causing him to cry out in shock and retreat. We chased after him, and dragged him into the pool. 

That’s how the afternoon passed, with us splashing around at the riverbank. Eventually we left the water, shivering, and started throwing rocks, challenging to see who could throw further. We never really figured the winners though, because the rocks on the ground all looked the same, and you could never tell which one was yours. Then I found a thick, knurled branch, and we started trying to hit the rocks just like in cricket. 

At some point we decided to climb a mountain. That’s not really how it started. It was more like Bilal hit me with a rock, and I chased him when he laughed at me. He just happened to run back onto the road then onto the mountain that it cradled. I finally caught him part way up, both of us gasping and out of breath. Before I could do anything, he raised his hands and said, “Come on, help me find a way up.” 

It was true, climbing mountains was really easy near the bottom, all you had to do was sort of zig zag your way up and avoid the big rocks. But as you got higher, the rocks got bigger and bigger and sometimes there was no avoiding them at all. The ground got so much steeper and uneven. And sometimes, hidden behind grass and shrubs, it sloped so suddenly that you’d slip, your heart beating fast. But as long as you kept your wits about you, you could always find your feet again. 

Jamal caught up as we were scouting for a way around the rock that had us trapped. We climbed easily enough a long way up. High enough that more and more grass gave way to rocks, both big and small. We turned around at some point, our legs burning and slightly short of breath and realized that the sun would be setting soon. 

Down the road, heading towards Matiltan and our mountain, we could see a big army of goats. There were four herders walking alongside the goats, making sure they didn’t stop to eat or wander far from the road. The herders were nomads. They moved up and down the valley, finding food for their herd. Further north of our farm and dispersed around the valley, there were small houses built for them to stay in for a few months. 

“Let’s keep going!” Bilal said. 

“It’s getting late, maybe we should head back?” I suggested. 

“Come on, a bit further.” 

“Okay.”

So we climbed on, until we were starting to climb rocks bigger than us. Rocks we couldn’t walk around. I used my hands to pull myself up, following Bilal’s lead. Jamal was behind me, much slower than us. At some point he stopped and called up. 

“Alam, can we go home?” 

“Bilal, do you want to go down soon?” 

“Okay, come up here. We can watch the sunset!” Bilal said, holding out his hand to help me climb a steep portion. It was flat where he was standing. He sat and pointed. 

The sun had started to set, painting the sky an orangey red that transitioned into blue. Long shadows fell over the valley. The goat herders were directly beneath us, the bleating of their animals lost at our height. “Jamal, come here and take a look!” I called

But Jamal didn’t reply. He’d started walking sideways along the mountain and the wind was blowing.
“I bet I can hit one of them with this,” Bilal said, holding up a small rock. 

“No way.” I replied. 

Bilal chucked the rock in the direction of the goat herd, but in the light neither of us saw where it went. 

“There’s no way it reached them.” I said and grinned. 

“As if you can do any better.” Bilal said. 

“I can!” And I tried, to the same result. 

Then we heard a loud crash, and a tumble and more crashes. We turned to the sound, and there was Jamal, his arms high in the air as if he’d just lifted something from the ground. And he had, because rolling down the hill in front of him was a giant rock, almost as big as he was. 

“Oh no…” I whispered, watching the rock’s unstoppable course down the mountain. 

“Quick, hide!” Bilal yelled, jumping off our flat area and ducking behind a boulder. I followed suit and found my own hiding spot. 

“Jamal, hide!” I yelled. 

But Jamal didn’t budge. He simply stood there staring at the tumbling rock.

“Hide you idiot!” I yelled, running out to him. 

I could hear shouting from the base of the mountain as the herders tried to dodge the rock. Something made me stop on the way to Jamal and watch it as it cleared the bottom of the mountain. I watched as it smashed into the side of a little goat, sending the animal flying off the road and onto the riverbed. 

I snapped out of it, grabbed Jamal and ducked behind some bushes. It was too late, and I knew it. I had felt the eyes of the herders on me, on Jamal. 

“Jamal, what’ve you done? Do you know how much trouble we’re going to be in?” I cried. 

But his eyes were glassy and empty. I knew he wasn’t listening. 

We stayed hidden for a long time. The goat herders didn’t leave the base of the mountain until well after the sun had set. Then we had a perilous journey down, guided by nothing but starlight. And the mountain wasn’t all that close to home. By the time we turned a bend in the road and could see the dim, orange light outside our farmhouse, I was just about ready to tuck into my warm blanket and sleep.

We hadn’t spoken much since hitting the road. Jamal, who was walking several steps behind Bilal and I, was so silent that I turned around often to make sure he was still there. We knew we were in trouble. Mina would have told Ami and Abu that we skipped class. We skipped class often, but usually Mina never knew. We avoided her, and were home before dark. 

As we approached the house, I noticed two figures standing outside the doors. 

“Is that your Abu?” I asked Bilal.

“I don’t think so…” He replied. He was right. The man talking to Abu was too lanky and tall to be Uncle Rehmat. 

We reached the point in the road where a thin dirt trail led to our house. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Bilal said, continuing down the road. 

“I hope so…” I mumbled, and slowly with my head cast down made my way to the two figures. I knew there was no sneaking past Abu now, but I hoped that he was too distracted by the other man to be angry.  

Then, in the dull orange glow of the lightbulb, I saw the man more clearly and my heart leapt out of my chest. The goat herder turned at our footsteps and pointed a long, wrinkled finger at Jamal. “That’s the one.” He said simply. 

Abu had his arms crossed. “Did you do it?” He asked Jamal. 

Jamal nodded. 

“Sorry Abu…” I managed. 

“Get inside.” Abu said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and started to count rupee notes. The herder smiled and patted my hair. 

“Boys will be boys.” He said. 

Jamal and I walked into the house, where Mina and Ami were sitting on pillows eating dinner. “Where were you?!” Ami cried, getting up and embracing us. She started wiping dirt, and possibly tears off our faces. 

“Sorry.” I said. 

“You had me so worried. Are you hungry?” She asked, while walking to the kitchen. 

Mina cocked an eye brow. 

“Shut up.” I said.

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Good.” I sat down on a pillow across from her. 

“So…Who’s that man outside?” 

I didn’t reply. 

“You know; you guys should have just stayed in class. You’re in real trouble now. Abu looked furious. What did you do?” 

Before I could say a word, Abu threw open the door. He stormed across the room and into the bedroom that he shared with Ami. “Jamal!” He shouted.

Jamal looked at Mina and I. His fear filled eyes were so different from those on the mountain. There were shuffling noises coming from the bedroom, and I knew what Abu was looking for. “Jamal!” He yelled again. 

“Go,” I told him, and he did. 

Without a word, we sat through what felt like hours of yelling. Ami came with two plates of food. She set one in front of me, but held the other close to her chest. Her hands shook, and she recited prayers. We heard each forceful crack of the cane, the explosion of wood against skin, and each scream of pain that accompanied it. Again and again. There was a pause, a single moment of absolute silence, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Surely that must have been enough. But then, another crack and the screams became whimpers.

When it finally ended, Ami nudged my plate towards me. “Eat, Alam.” She said. 

I shook my head. 

The door to the bedroom opened and a red eyed Jamal limped out. 

“Come here,” Ami said quietly, closing her arms around him. 

“Alam…” Jamal said between sobs. 

“I know.” I replied and forced myself to walk to the bedroom. 

Abu was sitting at the edge of the bed, stooped over and staring at the ground, he slowly slapped the cane against his resting hand. As I stood in the doorway and looked at him, I felt like I had seen him for the first time. Did he always have so much gray hair? Had his hands always been so swollen and calloused? When did his forehead get so wrinkled? Had he always looked so tired? And did he always bow his back? 

“Abu, it was an accident…” I began. “We didn’t see the goats, the rock was going to fall anyway…” 

“Jamal told me what happened.” 

“Oh.”

“Forget about the goat. Why weren’t you in class?” 

“Well Bilal wanted…”

“I don’t care what Bilal wanted. Damnit Alam, it’s the harvest season and I still sent you off to class. You know how many other farmers did that? None.”

“Bilal was there…”

“When will you understand? Do you think my Abu made me go to school? Do you know how hard life is when you can’t read? When you can’t even talk to half the people that come here because you don’t know Urdu? It means you have to keep good connections. Why do you think I paid that goat herder? I don’t want him going down to Kalam and spreading bad words about me. We won’t have the money to pay for electricity if he does.”

Abu hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t so much as looked up from the ground. But still, I felt ashamed. “Sorry, it won’t happen again. I promise.” 

He didn’t seem to be listening. He shook his head and mumbled. “It’s not good enough. Just not good enough.” 

“Abu?”

“Well, let’s get on with it.” He stood up and motioned for me to come closer. I did and leaned over. Then I braced for the sting of the cane. 

Author's Note: 

Back in 2013 I started a story that for some reason or another would be called The Saga of Zammar the Great. It was my first real attempt at writing, at creating a new world as it were, and as such it was an experience filled with mistakes and a general lack of direction. I spent a lot of time in that universe, trying and struggling to put the ideas in my head on to paper (well the digital sort at least.) I think I learned a lot from writing that story. 

But I realized that the only way I could make that story into the one that it eventually evolved into in my head was if I had the time and opportunity to go back and rewrite the whole thing. See, I started with no idea of where I was going or intended to go. Was this story meant to be funny and absurd? Then why was I making it so serious? If it was meant to be so serious, how could there be such lavish and absurd things taking place? 

And I realized that above all, I was burnt out. There were a million ideas for stories that I knew I would never get to if I trapped myself in this Saga. 

That's why I've decided to put the Saga on indefinite hold. For any person out there who read a single chapter of that story, know that I am truly grateful for your time. I know the ride was a bit wild, the writing quality extremely variable, and the time between chapters exceptionally long. 

I can only hope that you choose to give me another chance as I embark on a new adventure. 

I'm not much of an author. But I love writing, and I love exploring what it means to be human by putting yourself in the eyes of a character you've devised. "What would I be like if I had been born in this world so different from my own?" That's a question I've learned to ponder. 

I hope that I can take the lessons I've learned from writing the Saga and build on them. I hope that I continue to evolve and get better. And I hope that I can bring to fruition the wonderful story I have in my head. 

Please join Alam and I in this journey! And let me know what you think :) 

Also note: I plan to be a bit more free with this story, meaning I won't restrict myself from writing other things while working on it. I'm hoping I can put out some good SHORT stories (think < 2000 words) as well! 

Much love,
Zammar (still being Great)