‘One, they were my brothers too. Two, I didn’t achieve that honour because I was going to be besmeled. Three, I am not the one who has stayed behind and is being interrogated now; my soul is a dove who will fly away into the blue skies over our town after this formality. Four, my conscience is deeply wounded, and henceforth, until the end of the world, every day a drop of blood will fall from the throat of the dove that I am; a drop of blood will fall on the clay roof of this house. Five, I am a besmeled dove. Six, don’t send me to the lunatic asylum, please don’t!’
‘Lieutenant sir or Captain sir, or fellow soldier! Forgive my asking, but we’re mates now, right? Of course, you are the commander in charge, but … I’m curious since now and then you speak to yourself … for example, this “besmel”, you say this word more than any other, and along with that sometimes I hear the word “dove” too … dove … before all this I liked doves as well. But I didn’t like pigeon-fanciers. When I was a kid I heard one of them had sneaked up to the rooftop of his rival at midnight, into the pigeon loft or pen, and he decapitated all of his rival’s pigeons! Because, the day before that, one of his opponent’s racing pigeons had won the homing race. The races were run like this: they’d each take one of their racing pigeons to an unfamiliar town, and the accompanying referee would count from one to ten, and on ten the pair of pigeons were released and flew off. The poor birds had to fly back to their hometown and their nest from that unfamiliar town, covering eighteen or twenty leagues in the process. On the rooftops expert impartial referees were waiting along with the friends of the pigeon-fanciers, seated or standing, in the shadows. As soon as they’d released the pigeons, the owners and the referee would get back into the car and drive fast so that they’d be back in time to see the birds return. If the car didn’t break down on the way, they’d arrive at the same time as the pigeons. The competing pigeons were usually male, as they had a strong instinct to get back to the nest and the female birds. This time, as bad luck would have it, one of the pigeons still hadn’t reached maturity and on reaching the town he became confused and returned to his roof and nest a few minutes later than his winning rival. In situations like that, a bit of skulduggery is quite normal, if you can get away with it. It is a rule that no one else’s pigeons may fly on the afternoon of a race, but even so a crooked competitor may persuade one of his mates to fly his pigeons. So when the competing pigeons reach the town, if one of them isn’t mature and experienced, it’ll get caught up among the rogue pigeons and precious minutes will be lost before it realizes its mistake, detaches itself from the flock, and returns to its own loft. By which time the race will have been lost. The referees even count the seconds; anyway, that’s precisely what happened on this occasion between the two rival pigeon-fanciers. I don’t know exactly what the stake was in this instance … they could bet anything, money or something else … for instance, maybe the prize this time for the winner was his opponent’s best bird, which the loser would have to surrender without demur, as well as paying travel expenses and the referees’ fee. Of course, the defeated rival stood to lose a lot, but most importantly his honour and pride, since he’d no longer been seen as the town’s top pigeon-fancier. So at midnight, the loser had gone up to his rival’s rooftop, into the loft, and … decapitated all the poor birds!’
‘What a dreadful crime … how ghastly!’
‘I was very small when I heard about this. I didn’t cry. But I wanted to go with someone to the pigeon-fanciers’ hangout. I wanted to look into the eyes and faces of each and every one of them and find out which wicked bastard had had the heart to do such a horrible thing. But my family wouldn’t let me. They told me they were all cutthroats to a man. That same evening, late at night, word spread that the rivals had brawled and knifed each other, cut each other open. There was a policeman in our neighbourhood; his name was Nabi Sebil. He brought the news from the police station. “See?” said my family on hearing this, “We don’t belong to that world.” I see I’ve drifted away from the matter in hand, Lieutenant sir, but … they called them pigeon-fanciers. As in, they loved pigeons. Then how is it possible that someone who is in love with pigeons can bring himself to decapitate about eighty or ninety pairs of them in a couple of minutes?’
‘Madness! Excessive love is a hair’s breadth away from madness. There have been lovers who have killed their loved ones out of sheer love! Greed, greed and avarice are vile motives that can sometimes lead — indeed, often have led — to bigger crimes as well. Did you fill the flasks, all of them? Okay. I’ll take that spade, too. Give the giant some more water, and call him Saad! He won’t tell us his real name. We don’t need to know it, anyway. He’ll tell us everything when the time comes. I’ll take the flasks, these weapons, this spade and anything else that might be useful. You carry one of the two remaining bodies and Waqqas will carry the other one. There’s nothing else left here. Right, let’s get moving!’
‘Yes, sir! But just to satisfy my curiosity, please, I know it’s very forward of me to ask, but that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that phrase, that word.’
‘Which phrase?’
‘Besmel!’
‘Okay, up the hill we go. Saad first and you after him, but keep your distance and don’t walk immediately behind him. We don’t know if he’s mad enough to suddenly turn on you, hurl himself and what he’s carrying on you and set you all rolling down the hill. I’ll walk backwards in front of him and point his own gun at him, so he knows I can send him to hell with no chance of missing. Still, you shouldn’t walk directly behind him. Walk parallel to him! How long did it take you to get up the hill the previous time?’
‘Less than fifty minutes when I was carrying a body. This time it might take about an hour. The first time, when I went up with no load, it only took me seventeen minutes to go up and come back down again. But from Saad’s expression, I don’t think he’s capable of turning and moving nimbly. His hands are tied too. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t tumble down while he’s climbing anyway. I’m ready … but …’
‘I understand. Alright! Once we’re up there, out of this valley of doom, there in the trench I will tell you all about besmel. We’ll probably have to stay in the trench for the entire day and at nightfall find a way to break out, walk under cover of darkness and get ourselves to a friendly base. I’m not concerned on that score. Many’s the night I’ve stared at the stars, and I know how to navigate by them, like the caravan leaders of old. We’ll have all day in the trench for me to tell you the story of besmel, the story of becoming a dove, and the story of that lioness who has breasts filled with milk, who scours the desert for the lost ones who are dying of thirst and hunger. Immediately, without any delay or expectations, she feeds them her milk and shows them the way. Have you heard about that lioness? No! But … if we don’t manage to get out of this valley of hell, or if dark clouds come and cover the sky and the stars are no longer visible, and if clouds of fire rain down upon us, then we’ll see with our own eyes the meaning of the word you are seeking to understand. Right then, lift the body up onto his shoulders and fasten his legs to his neck with the cartridge belt. That way this Saad will know he’ll be in even more trouble if he tries to shed his load and do a runner. Anything else to report?’
‘Same as before, two or three petrol tankers parked beyond that bend in the road and no doubt there are other booby-traps concealed or buried all over the place! We didn’t have time to investigate thoroughly. This pass is known as the Pass of Hell and it’s been in enemy hands for months. Perhaps they’ve planted gunpowder in every grain of dirt. How can we tell?’