Someone grips your shoulders from behind. You turn around in horror. Mirza Qadir, smiling his habitual smile, says, ‘Instead of the brains of our kids, Zohak’s snakes are eating their pricks.’
Terror seizes you. You want to free your shoulders from Mirza Qadir’s grip. But you don’t have the strength.
You open your eyes. Your body is covered in sweat. Your hands tremble.
In front of you are two kind eyes:
‘Father, get up. Your lift is here.’
Lift? For what? Where do you want to go? Where are you?
‘Father, a vehicle headed to the mine.’
You recognize Mirza Qadir’s voice and come back to your senses. Yassin sleeps quietly in your arms. You want to wake him.
Mirza Qadir says, ‘Father, leave your grandson here. First, go there on your own, speak to your son in private. Then come back here. There’s no room for both of you to spend the night at the mine. If your son sees his own child in this state, it’ll be even worse…’
It’s a good suggestion. Imagine what will happen when Yassin sees his father. He’ll throw himself into his arms and, before you are able to say anything, he’ll start shouting, ‘Uncle’s dead, Mummy’s gone… Qader’s dead, Grandma’s dead! Grandfather cries…’
Murad’s heart will stop when he hears Yassin. How could you make Yassin understand that he shouldn’t say anything?
You accept Mirza Qadir’s offer, but a sense of foreboding settles within you. How can you abandon your grandson, the only son of your only son, to someone you don’t know? You’ve known Mirza Qadir for no more than two hours. What will Murad say?
‘Old man, are you coming or not?’
It’s the guard’s voice. You remain silently where you are with Mirza Qadir, your eyes full of questions. What should you do? Yassin or Murad? Dastaguir, this is not the time for questions. Surrender Yassin to God and go to Murad.
‘Old man, your lift’s leaving.’
‘I leave Yassin to you and God.’
Mirza Qadir’s look and smile quell all your doubts and fears.
You take your bundle and head for the hut. A big truck awaits you. You greet the driver and climb in. The guard, who’s standing in front of the hut – slouched, dusty, drowsy, dressed in a makeshift uniform, with the same half-smoked cigarette between his lips – lifts the wooden beam blocking the road and waves the driver through.
The driver exchanges a few words with you. The guard yells angrily, ‘Shahmard! Are you going or not?’
Shahmard raises his hand in a gesture of apology and drives off.
The truck speeds onto the property of the mine. Through the rearview mirror, you watch the guard beside his hut disappear in a cloud of dust. You don’t know why but his disappearance pleases you. Come on, the guard isn’t a bad man. He’s grief-stricken, that’s all. You bless his father’s soul. May he excuse you if you’ve thought ill of his son.
Your heart pounds in anticipation of visiting Murad. Your reunion is close now. This very road will take you to your son. Blessed be this road, a road that Murad has travelled many times. Would Shahmard stop the truck, so you could step down and prostrate yourself on this earth, before these stones, before these brambles that have kissed your son’s feet? Blessed be the prints left by your feet, Murad!
‘Did you wait long?’
Shahmard’s question prevents you from kissing Murad’s footprints.
‘Since nine this morning.’
You both fall silent again.
Shahmard is a young man – about thirty years old, maybe even younger. But the blackened, smoked skin covering his bones and the lines and wrinkles on his face make him look older. An old astrakhan cap sits on his dirty hair. A black moustache covers his upper lip and yellow teeth. His head is pushed forward. His eyes, circled by black rings, dart about.
A partially-smoked cigarette rests behind his right ear. Its scent fills your nostrils. You imagine it is the smell of coal, the smell of the mine, the smell of Murad – the sight of whom at any moment now will light up your eyes. You’ll kiss his forehead. No, you’ll kiss his feet. You’ll kiss his eyes and his hands like a child reunited with his father. Yes, you will be Murad’s son. He’ll take you into his arms and console you. With his manly hands he’ll hold your trembling ones and say, ‘Dastaguir, my child!’
If only you were his son – his Yassin. Deaf like Yassin. You’d see Murad but you wouldn’t hear him. You wouldn’t hear him say, ‘Why have you come?’
‘Have you come to work in the mine?’ Shahmard asks. ‘No, I have come to see my son.’
Your eyes drift over the rolling hills of the valley. You take a deep breath and continue. ‘I come to drive a dagger into my son’s heart.’
Shahmard gives you a confused look, laughs and says, ‘Dear God, I’m giving a ride to a swordsman.’
With your gaze still lost in the valley, in its black stones, its dust and its scrub, you say, ‘No, brother, it’s that I bear great sorrow and sorrow sometimes turns into a sword.’
‘You sound like Mirza Qadir.’
‘You know Mirza Qadir?’
‘Who doesn’t know him? In a way, he’s a guide for us all.’
‘He’s a man with a great heart. I didn’t know him, but I just spent two hours in his company. I was won over. What he says is right. He understands sorrow. From his first glance, he instills trust. You can tell him whatever lies in your heart… In our day, men like Mirza Qadir are rare. Where is he from? Why is he here?’
Shahmard takes the half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear, puts it between his dry lips and lights it. He inhales deeply and says, ‘Mirza Qadir is from the Shorbazar district of Kabul. He has only had a shop here for a short time. He doesn’t like to talk about himself. He says little to those he doesn’t trust. It took me a year to find out where he came from and what brought him here.’
Shahmard falls silent again. But you want to know more about Mirza Qadir, the man to whom you’ve entrusted your grandson. Finally he continues: ‘He had a shop in Shorbazar. In the daytime he’d work as a merchant and, in the evenings, as a storyteller. Each night a crowd would gather at the shop. He was a popular man who commanded great respect. One day his young son was called up to serve in the army. A year later he returned. He’d been made an officer and trained in Russia. This didn’t please Mirza Qadir. He didn’t want his son to have a military career. But the son liked the uniform, the money and the guns. He ran away. Mirza disowned him. The sorrow killed his wife. Mirza left Kabul. His home and shop remained behind. He came to the coal mine, where he worked for two years. With his first savings he set up that shop. From morning to evening he sits there, writing or reading. He’s beholden to no one. If he likes you, he’ll respect you, but if he doesn’t like you, best not to let even your dog pass his shop… Some nights I stay with him till dawn. The whole night he reads stories and poems. He knows the Book of Kings by heart…’
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…’