Fear and death along mountain trails
Syed Badrul Ahsan reconnects with bits of history
The Wandering Falcon, Jamil Ahmad, Hamish Hamilton/Penguin Books
Let me begin with a confession. I have been drawn to The Wandering Falcon because of what I share, even if to a limited extent, with the writer. Jamil Ahmad, as a member of the Civil Service of Pakistan, has served, among other places in his country, in Baluchistan, Quetta to be precise. I spent the first seventeen years of my life in Quetta and finished school there. Almost a quarter of a century after 1971, I went back to Quetta on New Year's Eve in 1995 and ended up walking around the old familiar places for the next five days. Quetta, indeed the mountains of Baluchistan, its desolation and the many tribes who have called it home for centuries, have always held magic charm for me. And it is magic which Jamil Ahmad recreates in this softly spoken tale of how tribesmen, and women, defined and pursued life in the times before the whole region stretching from Baluchistan and all the way up to the North-West Frontier Province (these days known as Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa) was laid low by religious fundamentalism typified by the Taliban and then made worse by al-Qaeda. The Wandering Falcon is the story of the boy Tor Baz, which in English means black falcon. He has no other name, but in his wanderings through the wildernesses of the vast deserts and through dusty little towns seething with suspicion and hostility engendered in one tribe for another, Tor Baz comes to symbolise the traditions which have for ages defined life in Pakistan's frontier regions. Indeed, such life goes beyond Pakistan and spills well over into Afghanistan. The spectacle of shepherds, of tribesmen trekking down to the cooler regions straddling the border in summer and then making their way back into the mountains before winter can stop them dead on their tracks is an image that has come down to us through the ages. And yet that is but one aspect of life. The far bigger one is the sorrow which Tor Baz, even as he grows into a strapping youth, symbolises through the narrative. Which narrative of course begins with a young couple making their way through the scorching desert to what they think will be safety. It does not help, for men on horseback, one of them the husband of the woman eloping with her lover, track them down. Tribal justice, as you can imagine, is soon at work. The lover, obviously disturbed by thoughts of what their pursuers might do to Gul Bibi (stoning to death for adultery?), shoots her dead, but not before she tells him, 'Do not kill the boy. They might spare him.' The lover then shoots his camel. Gul Bibi's father, sardar of the Siahpad tribe, has a simple question: 'Who is the boy?' The man's equally matter of fact answer is, 'Your daughter's son.' You could slice through the anger in the men on camel back with a knife. Gul Bibi's wronged husband, in that company of pursuing Siahpad, barks a question: 'Whose son is he? Yours or mine?' There is no response. And then the stones come flying. They will not stop until the man falls dead. The boy is spared. Riding away from the scene, the sardar has second thoughts. He should have brought the boy, he tells his men. His son-in-law has a caustic response to that: 'Death would be best for the likes of him. The whelp has bad blood in him.' More tragedy is hinted at in the exchange between the sardar and the son-in-law. It comes full circle with the sardar, divided in his love for his dead daughter and his sense of shame at her elopement, loudly proclaiming: 'Let me tell you all now. My daughter sinned. She sinned against the laws of God and those of our tribe. But hear this also. There was no sin in her when she was born, nor when she grew up, nor when she was married. She was driven to sin only because I did not marry her to a man.' That last bit proves fatal. The son-in-law, humiliated by the reference to the inadequacies of his manhood, slashes the old man to death with his sword. The tribesmen then scatter. The little boy, having overcome his fear, sits playing with some stones and quartz crystals. The story has just begun. Jamil Ahmad is set to take readers through the familiar landscape of desolation and fear. Men and camels in search of water journey through the night, knowing that the waterhole lies well within the region of the Mengals, a Brahui tribe in Baluchistan. There are struggles pursued through deadly sandstorms, battles which pit tribes against tribes and against the regular army. You get a glimpse of the evolving horror in the words of Jangu: 'Our crops have been burnt, our grain stolen and our animal flocks sold away or slaughtered. We have pointed our guns at them and they at us. We have killed and so have they. By now, even their aeroplanes hold no terror for us.' Something of history comes into the picture. Back in the 1960s but especially in the 1970s, Pakistan's central government bombed tribal positions throughout Baluchistan. Tens of thousands were killed; many simply disappeared. The killing of Nawab Akbar Bugti some years ago in a mountain cave perhaps was the biggest manifestation of how Pakistan's frontier tribes and its government have felt happy going after one another in tragic happiness. Reflect, if you will, on Dawa Khan. For days on end he waits at Fort Sandeman waiting for news from his compatriot known as the General. Is it safe to move on? Or will government soldiers put up resistance? In the end, it is Dawa Khan's wife Gul Jana who settles the matter. 'Dawa Khan', she calls out to him as he pleads with the soldiers for water for his camels. 'I am going forward. The camels must not die. I am going with a Koran on my head. Nothing can happen to me.' Moments later, bodies lie sprawled on the ground. Dawa Khan is dead; and the Koran could not save Gul Jana. Tor Baz moves along the uncertain trajectories of life. After years of being in the care of Ghuncha Gul, he is handed over into the safe custody of Mullah Barrerai. Existence becomes a tentative affair. Tor Baz, blossoming into youth, turns informant for the authorities. His conversation with the deputy commissioner reflects the fears and the hopes which keep life on its toes. 'There are strange doings and happenings beyond your border, sahib', the young man tells the official, whose response comes mingled with gratitude and trust. 'A dependable man alone makes a good friend, Tor Baz. Tell me what your eyes have seen.' Tor Baz speaks of a kidnapping conspiracy in the works. In the end, living is all about honour. Or is it? Tor Baz, for a hefty sum of three thousand rupees paid to Afzal Khan, buys Shah Zarina --- to have her as his wife. The twilight of the tale is telling: On one of the trails, Tor Baz walked along with Shah Zarina behind him, and fingered the small silver amulet that was stitched to the inside of his cloak. He was smiling, as he did most of the time. While he usually smiled about nothing in particular, this time he was smiling about Afzal Khan. 'It's almost incredible,' he thought, 'that Afzal Khan really believed I would marry this girl, to think of such an old veteran falling for the oldest trick in the trade…but, then …who but God knows what the future holds for me and for this land? Maybe it is time now to end my wanderings.'
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