You ask loudly, ‘He has received news?’
‘Yes, brother, he knows.’
Then why didn’t he return to the village? No, it can’t be your Murad. It must be another Murad. After all, your son’s not the only one with that name. In this very mine there are probably ten men with his name. The foreman hasn’t understood that you’re looking for Murad, son of Dastaguir. He must also be hard of hearing. Start again.
‘I’m talking about Murad, son of Dastaguir, from Abqul.’
‘That’s right, brother, I’m referring to him, too.’
‘My child Murad learned that his mother, his wife and his brother have died and he…’
‘Yes, brother. He even heard about you, that you… May God protect you.’
‘No, I’m alive. His own son’s alive too…’
‘Praise God
Why praise God? If only Yassin and Dastaguir had died as well! That way a father wouldn’t have had to witness the frailty of his son, and a son the helplessness of his father. What has become of Murad? Something must have happened to him. The mine has collapsed and he has been entombed in coal. Swear to God, foreman, tell the truth. What has happened to Murad?
Your eyes flit about. They seek an answer from every object: from the worm-eaten table; from the portrait in which the foreman is immortalized; from the pen lying lifelessly on the paper; from the ground that trembles under your feet; from the roof that is collapsing; from the window that will never be opened again; from the hill that has devoured your child; from the coal that has blackened his bones…
‘What has happened to Murad?’ you ask in a loud voice.
‘Nothing, thank God, he’s fine.’
‘Then why didn’t he come to the village?’
‘I didn’t allow him to.’
The bundle of apples falls from your knees to the ground. Once more, your eyes search the room before fixing on the dirty lines of the foreman’s face. Once more, your mind fills with questions – and with hate.
Who does this foreman think he is? What does he take himself to be? You’re Murad’s father. Who is he? He has taken Murad from you. There is no longer any Murad. Your Murad’s gone…
The foreman’s gruff voice echoes around the room:
‘He would have gone. But I didn’t let him. Had I, he would have been killed as well…’
What of it? Death would have been better than dishonour!
The servant brings two cups of tea and gives one to you and the other to the foreman. They begin a conversation. You can’t hear what they’re saying.
With trembling hands you hold the cup on your knees. But your legs are trembling too. A few drops of tea spill on to your knees. They don’t burn you. No, they do burn you, but you don’t feel it. You’re already burning within. Within, a fire burns that is more fierce than the tea. A fire stoked by the questions of friends and enemies, relatives and strangers:
‘What happened?’
‘Did you see Murad?’
‘Did you speak to him?
‘What did you tell him?’
‘What did he do?
‘What did he say?’
And how will you answer them? With silence. You saw your son. Your son has heard about everything. But he didn’t come for his dead mother, wife and brother. Murad has lost all his integrity, he has become shameless…
Your hands tremble. You put the cup on the table. You know that your sorrow has taken shape now. It has become a bomb. It will explode and it will destroy you too – like Fateh the guard. Mirza Qadir does indeed know all about sorrow. Your chest collapses like an old house, an empty house… Murad has vacated his place inside you. What does it matter if an abandoned house collapses?
‘Your tea will get cold, brother.’
‘It’s not important.’
The foreman continues:
‘Until two days ago Murad wasn’t doing well. He wouldn’t go near bread or water. He withdrew to a corner of his room. He didn’t move. He didn’t sleep. One night he went out of his quarters completely naked. He joined the group of miners who spend the night beating their chests in repentance around a fire. At dawn he began to run around and around the fire and then he threw himself into the flames. His companions came to his aid and pulled him out…’
Slowly you open your clenched fists. Your shoulders, drawn up to your ears, relax. You know Murad. Murad isn’t one to remain calm. He either burns or causes others to burn. He either destroys or is destroyed. He didn’t set fire to others this time, he burned himself. He didn’t cause destruction, he was destroyed… But why didn’t he come back and burn together with his mother’s corpse? If Murad were Dastaguir’s Murad, he would have returned to the village, he would have beaten his chest beside his lost ones, not around a fire… They told him that you too were dead. The day when you do die – and you will die, you won’t live eternally – what will he do? Will he see you have a proper burial? Will he lower your coffin into a grave? No, without shroud or coffin your body will fester under the sun… This Murad isn’t your Murad. Murad has sacrificed his soul to the rocks, the fire, the coal, to this man sitting before you, whose hot breath stinks of soot.
‘Murad is our best worker,’ the foreman says. ‘Next week we’ll be sending him on a literacy course. He’ll learn to read and write. One day he’ll hold an important post. We’re sending him because he’s a model mine worker who earns respect for being an enlightened, hard-working youth who’s committed to the revolution…’
You don’t hear the rest of the foreman’s words. You think of Mirza Qadir. Like him you must choose whether to stay or leave. If you see Murad now, what will you say to him?
‘Salaam.’
‘Salaam.’
‘You’ve heard?’
‘I’ve heard.’
‘My condolences.’
‘Condolences to you too.’
And after that? Nothing.
‘Goodbye.’
‘Bye.’
No, you have nothing else to share with each other. Not a word, not a tear, not a sigh.
You pick up the bundle resting on your knees. You no longer want to give it to Murad. The apple-blossom scarf smells of your wife. You stand and say to the foreman, ‘I am going. Please tell Murad that his father came, that he’s alive, that Yassin, his son, is alive. With your permission…’
Goodbye Murad. Head bowed, you walk out of the room. The air has grown thicker, heavier and darker. You glance at the hilltop. It seems bigger and blacker… The men coming down the hillside have faces that are even more tired and even more black. You don’t want to look at these faces, the way you did when you first arrived at the mine. What if Murad were among them?
You head towards the gate of the mine. You have only taken a few steps when a shout stops you:
‘Father!’
The voice is unfamiliar, thank God. You recognize the foreman’s servant hurrying stealthily to your side.
‘Father! What I say stays between us. They told Murad that it was the mujahiddeen and the rebels who killed his family… in retaliation for his working here at the mine. They terrified him. Murad doesn’t know you’re alive.’
You are now even more hopeless and forlorn. You glance back at the foreman’s building and grab the servant by the arm. ‘Take me to my child!’
‘It’s not possible, father! Your son is working at the bottom of the mine. If the foreman knew, he’d kill me. Go, father! I’ll tell him that you came.’
The servant wants you to release him. Confused, you place your bundle on the ground. You explore your pockets. You take out your box of naswar, hand it to the servant and request that he give it to Murad. He grabs the box and rushes away.
Murad will recognize your box of naswar. After all, he gave it to you himself, the first time he was paid. As soon as he sees the box, he’ll know you’re alive. If he comes after you, you’ll know Murad is your Murad. If he doesn’t, you will have no Murad anymore. Go, get Yassin and return to the village. Wait there a few days.