Earth and Ashes - Atiq Rahimi [11]
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 …”
No, why begin with his mother?
“Murad, your brother …”
No, why his brother?
But then with whom should you begin?
“Murad, my child, the house has been destroyed …”
“How?”
“Bombs …”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Silence.
“Where’s Yassin?”
“He’s alive.”
“Where’s Zaynab?”
“Zaynab? … Zaynab’s … in the village.”
“And mother?”
Then you should say, “Your mother gave her life for you …”
And Murad will start to weep.
“My son, be strong! These things happen to all men one day or another … If she was your mother, she was also my wife. She’s gone. When Death comes, it makes no difference whether it is for a mother or a wife … My son, Death came to our village …”
And then tell him about his wife, tell him about his brother … And then tell him that Yassin’s alive, and that you have left him with Mirza Qadir because he was tired. He was sleeping … Don’t say anything about his condition.
The noise of a truck coming from the opposite direction disrupts your conversation with Murad. It passes at high speed, raising clouds of dust. Dust erases the lines of the valley. Shahmard brakes.
“Will you spend the night with your son?” he asks.
“I don’t know if there will be a place for me.”
“He’ll find something.”
“Anyway, I have to get back. I left my grandson with Mirza Qadir.”
“Why didn’t you take him with you?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Why should I upset you with all this, brother.”
“Don’t worry about that. Tell me.”
“All right, I’ll tell you.”
Shahmard stays silent. As if he doesn’t want to goad you. Maybe he thinks you don’t want to talk. How could you not? When the village was destroyed, with whom could you sit and weep? With whom could you share your grief? With whom could you mourn? Everyone mourned their own dead. Your brother sat next to a pile of rubble, listening hopefully for a familiar voice to rise from beneath collapsed roofs and walls. Your maternal cousin, weeping, picked through the rubble for a piece of clothing or a scarf to use as a burial shroud. Your brother-in-law, lying next to a dead cow in the demolished barn, laughed as he suckled milk from its stiffened udder …
But you had Yassin. He couldn’t hear your sobs, but he could see your grief. With whom did you sit? Whom did you comfort? You wanted to run from everybody. You were like an owl perched high on a ruin, or in an abandoned cemetery. If it weren’t for Murad, if it weren’t for Yassin, you would never have left that place. Thank God for Murad, for Yassin. You’d have stayed amid ruins till you turned to dust …
Dastaguir, where have you wandered off to this time? Shahmard wants you to explain why you didn’t bring Yassin and you have drifted off into daydreams. Say something to him. Tell him about your people. Make an effort. They deserve some prayers. Who so far, apart from Mirza Qadir, has offered you their condolences? Who has prayed for the deliverance of their souls? Allow others to say the Fatiha prayer for your dead and to share your suffering. Say something!
And you speak.