The Wandering Falcon (6 page)

By the afternoon, the caravan with its escort had reached the next fort, which was also the headquarters of the delousing party working on the caravans using this trail. These groups of paramedics were responsible for ensuring that the nomadic men, women, and children were rid of the vermin that were believed to be carriers of typhus fever.

This was the point where Ghuncha Gul and the platoon took their leave. Another two marches brought the caravan to the outskirts of the largest fort in the area, Fort Sandeman, around which a settlement of sorts had grown. With the progress of each day's march, the caravan seemed to shed its fears slightly, and, while maintaining their contacts with the
kirri
s following them, they gradually began to discount the rumors that had hounded them at the start of their journey. Except Dawa Khan. He could not relax totally—at least not until he had heard from the General. He felt it would be worthwhile to halt his people for a few days' rest at Fort Sandeman to wait for some news, to allow the women, children, and animals to recoup their vigor and to fulfill his commitment to the General to secure Torak Khan's bride price from his stepfather.

When he announced his decision to the
kirri
, there was considerable jubilation; the happiest were the women, who insisted on moving toward the nearest clump of trees. They wanted to have sturdy branches around them, on which they could hang their children's cradles. In their minds, home and permanency meant only a stay long enough to wash clothes or to affix the cradles to the trees.

On his way to the town the next morning, Dawa Khan and his companions took a detour up a narrow valley through a Kakar settlement, where he had another errand. He had sworn to avenge the murder of a cousin who had been killed by a Kakar tribesman years ago. The murderer had died a natural death soon afterward, leaving behind a widow and two young sons. As Dawa Khan turned the corner toward the house of the long-dead Kakar, he saw two tall, grown-up teenage boys sitting in front of the house. They were wearing only long shirts and had no trousers on.

“May you never be tired, Uncle!” they shouted in unison, as they recognized Dawa Khan. They were laughing as the greeting was given.

“May you never be weary,” responded Dawa. There was acute disappointment in his voice. He came up here every year, hoping that the boys would take to wearing shalwars, signifying their having grown up, so that he could avenge his cousin. The Pushtunwali, the traditional code of the Pashtuns, was clear that revenge could not be visited on women and children. The wearing of a shalwar signified a transition into manhood, yet year after year the boys cheated him by refusing to wear trousers. For all he knew, these perfidious Kakars might well refuse to wear shalwars in his lifetime.

“How they tempt me to break our traditions,” he said, and grunted, within hearing of the boys. The boys only laughed and were still laughing as the party turned the corner on their way back.

 

 

T
he General and his son had been on the road for days but remained as vague about the question in their minds as they had been when they had set out on their journey. In one village they would be welcomed as old friends; in another, someone would ask them what they were doing there, and their fears would return, for they had crossed the international boundary into Pakistan. However, since this was the first year of the new policy on the frontier, and the border posts were not yet familiar with its precise terms, the lines of demarcation between the tribal areas and the settled districts were confusing to all. So it was in the government offices, too. The reactions of the officials alternated between the familiar welcome and point-blank questions as to how they had managed to cross the border. Their bewilderment increased with each passing day, as did their worry about what was happening to the caravans behind them.

One day, after being made to wait for a few hours on a bench, they were allowed to meet with an officer who was dealing with the tribes and the administration of the border. If anybody knew, it would be him. Both father and son wanted to hear the truth, even if it was unpleasant, rather than endure further uncertainty.

They had known the officer for years. He looked up as the General and his son walked in, and invited them to sit down. They exchanged pleasantries for a bit, but their forced attempts at treating this as an ordinary visit petered out after a short time. The General kept marshaling his thoughts. He finally realized that there was no way but to put the question directly and frankly.

“Tell me, sahib,” he said, looking up, his face rigid with concentration, “do you know anything about this rumor of government orders against the Powindas?”

The officer held his gaze. “It is correct, Karim Khan, the government has indeed decided that there should be no movement between the countries without travel documents. And this affects you directly. A part of me is unhappy and sad at this decision, Karim Khan, but time passes, and events and men have to change with it. You and I cannot prevent this change even if we wish to.”

The General and his son looked steadily at the official. At last the son spoke: “How is it possible for us to be treated as belonging to Afghanistan? We stay for a few months there and for a few months in Pakistan. The rest of the time we spend moving. We are Powindas and belong to all countries, or to none,” he added reflectively.

“This argument has been used, and it did not count,” the officer remarked.

“What will happen to our herds?” the General broke in. “Our animals have to move if they are to live. To stop would mean death for them. Our way of life harms nobody. Why do you wish for us to change?”

“All these arguments and more have been put forward by your friends, General,” the officer told him. “They are not acceptable to the government. The decision has been taken and cannot be changed. You will now have to accept it and try to live with it.”

Father and son rose from their chairs. The General adjusted his cloak over his shoulders. His eyes seemed to be looking into the distance as he turned. “How is it possible? How could it happen?” He was addressing no one in particular. The son watched the father from two paces away, as he had done for most of his life. The General once again adjusted his cloak, and his son felt a stabbing pain as he realized that within the last few minutes this garment, which had signified grandeur, pride, and strength, had become an ordinary covering for an old man seeking to hide his mind and body.

The two men stepped onto the street feeling impotent and powerless, and began to walk along. Naim Khan broke the silence, which had dropped like a curtain around his father.

“Shall we send word to Dawa Khan?” he asked.

“What can we tell him?”

“The truth,” replied the son. “What else?”

“How will it help him? The animals are going to die. Hundreds of them.”

“Yes, but Dawa Khan must know the truth.”

They walked along silently for a while, thinking about the effect the new policy would have on them and their people. There was no way for them to obtain travel documents for thousands of their tribesmen; they had no birth certificates, no identity papers or health documents. They could not document their animals. The new system would certainly mean the death of a centuries-old way of life.

Then Naim Khan spoke again: “Cheer up, Father,” he said. It was the first time in his life that he had addressed the General as such. “We shall go to the capital of this country and see their king. He will listen to you.” He paused. “Yes, he surely will, Father.” Naim Khan's voice was pleading. He wanted to conjure the General from this beaten and tired old man.

 

 

M
eanwhile, in Fort Sandeman, Dawa Khan kept waiting for a message from the General. He had used these days to good advantage. Torak's troubles had been sorted out. His stepfather had been made to agree to a handsome bride price. Collection of debts due from some local people had been carried out without trouble, and there were a number of successful sales of dried fruit and nuts in the local market.

During this time, three more
kirri
s had reached Fort Sandeman, and all around the settlement there was a girdle of camel herds and flocks of sheep. Dawa Khan was growing restive. With the increase in the number of animals, the grazing was depleting very fast, and already there had been occasional flashes of temper when the herds of one
kirri
encroached on the rights of another.

The message sent by the General reached Fort Sandeman late in the evening. A dusty old man, wheezing with asthma, brought it, descending from a ramshackle bus while people rushed off to fetch Dawa Khan. When Dawa Khan arrived, the messenger passed on the communication hurriedly, as the bus was waiting for him and the driver was blowing the horn impatiently.

After the bus left, the men started walking back to the encampment. Torak broke the silence: “Did you notice one thing, Dawa Khan? The General has sent no clear directions and no advice.”

“We all did,” replied Dawa Khan quietly. “He has left it to us to decide what to do. It is for us to make up our minds.”

“It is not like him to act thus,” Torak insisted. “The General has always made the decision.”

“I know, I know,” Dawa Khan soothed him. “But this time he wants us to decide. Let us not pass our own burden on to someone else. Let us decide for ourselves. We shall meet after the evening meal.”

When they assembled after the evening had turned into night, Dawa Khan told the men about the news he had received from the General's messenger. “The General has sent no word beyond what I have told you. He has sent no instructions and no advice, and he clearly wishes we make a decision ourselves. The decision is not an easy one, but decide we must, as we have overstayed our welcome in this town and the grass is giving out. We have to move, whether it be forward or backward. If we move back toward Afghanistan, we will be wandering aimlessly until the winter is over and the snow melts in our highlands. These winter months will be bitter for us and our herds. We will not earn anything, either through trade or labor, and our animals will have to go hungry, as they shall be denied the pastures in the plains.

“Then there will be those among us who will argue that we have traveled far and it should not be without purpose. They will say to themselves that the plains are only a short distance away, and once we, our herds of camels, and our flocks of sheep move into the plains, we can scatter and no one can round us all up and take us back. If we manage to do this, they will also think we will be able to pass one year, and who knows what might happen the next year. To them I will only say that we must think carefully. Our journey from now on will not be carefree and easy, like a farmer wandering in his fields or like an eagle wheeling in the sky. From now on, all eyes will be on us, and we shall be like a thief running in a city street with a mob after us. He cannot hide himself, because on either side of him are brick walls or closed doors. In such a case, friends, if the poor thief finds a brick wall standing in front of him, he dies. The mob kills him. This is the situation. Between us and the plains are two forts. They shall be waiting for us. They must have clear orders by now, and it shall be their business to stop us. What say you?”

There were indeed two options, but to the men sitting huddled together with the firelight flickering across their faces, the first option did not exist. Hope does not die like an animal—quick and sudden. It is more like a plant, which slowly withers away. There was no voice raised in favor of the first choice. If there was anyone who had doubts, he kept them to himself. So it was decided to move forward.

The next morning the caravan ostensibly turned back, on the road toward Afghanistan.

Then, a few miles outside the town, they wheeled back toward the route leading to the plains in Pakistan. The maneuver seemed to work, because they were not pursued. After two days of traveling, while still short of the first military fort, they found a line of soldiers drawn up in front of them, blocking their path.

“You cannot cross,” the soldiers told them. “We have our orders.”

“What happens if we try?” asked the Powindas.

“We have been told to shoot, if necessary. The orders are very clear,” said the subedar in charge dole-fully. “Don't make it difficult for us.”

“It is difficult for us, too,” remarked Dawa Khan.

“Our animals have been without water for more than two days, and they will not last if we turn them back now. Let us water them at the springs near the next army fort, and then we shall turn them back.”

“I cannot let you do that,” said the subedar. “I have to do as I am told.”

“But our animals will die without water. You don't want to kill them.”

“I tell you I have no choice. I cannot let you pass.”

“All right,” said Dawa Khan. “We have heard you, and you have heard us. We shall camp here for the night.”

That night the caravan rushed past the fort. The officer in charge was dismissed through a wireless message the very next day. There was now only one fort left between the Powindas and the plains, if only they could cross it. Dawa Khan's leading
kirri
reached the fort before first light, but the soldiers were ready for them. The moment they heard the movement of the herds, they started firing star shells.

A voice from an amplifier announced, “This is a warning. Turn back. Move forward at your own risk.”

“All right, all right,” Dawa Khan shouted back through cupped hands. “Let us water our animals and we will turn back.”

“Oh, no, you shall not!” returned the amplifier. “We will not be taken in by your tricks.”