Earth and Ashes Read Online Free PDF Page A

do? Yassin or Murad? Dastaguir, this is not the time for questions. Surrender Yassin to God and go to Murad.
    “Old man, your lift’s leaving.”
    “I leave Yassin to you and God.”
    Mirza Qadir’s look and smile quell all your doubts and fears.
    You take your bundle and head for the hut. A big truck awaits you. You greet the driver and climb in. The guard, who’s standing in front of the hut—slouched, dusty,drowsy, dressed in a makeshift uniform, with the same half-smoked cigarette between his lips—lifts the wooden beam blocking the road and waves the driver through.
    The driver exchanges a few words with you. The guard yells angrily, “Shahmard! Are you going or not?”
    Shahmard raises his hand in a gesture of apology and drives off.
    The truck speeds onto the property of the mine. Through the rearview mirror, you watch the guard beside his hut disappear in a cloud of dust. You don’t know why but his disappearance pleases you. Come on, the guard isn’t a bad man. He’s grief-stricken, that’s all. You bless his father’s soul. May he excuse you if you’ve thought ill of his son.
    Your heart pounds in anticipation of visiting Murad. Your reunion is close now. This very road will take you to your son. Blessed be this road, a road that Murad has traveled many times. Would Shahmard stop the truck, so you could step down and prostrate yourself on this earth, before these stones, before these brambles that have kissed your son’s feet? Blessed be the prints left by your feet, Murad!

    “Did you wait long?”
    Shahmard’s question prevents you from kissing Murad’s footprints.
    “Since nine this morning.”
    You both fall silent again.
    Shahmard is a young man—about thirty years old, maybe even younger. But the blackened, smoked skin covering his bones and the lines and wrinkles on his face make him look older. An old astrakhan cap sits on his dirty hair. A black moustache covers his upper lip and yellow teeth. His head is pushed forward. His eyes, circled by black rings, dart about.
    A partially smoked cigarette rests behind his right ear. Its scent fills your nostrils. You imagine it is the smell of coal, the smell of the mine, the smell of Murad—the sight of whom at any moment now will light up your eyes. You’ll kiss his forehead. No, you’ll kiss his feet. You’ll kiss his eyes and his hands like a child reunited with his father. Yes, you will be Murad’s son. He’ll take you into his arms and console you. With his manly hands he’ll hold your trembling ones and say, “Dastaguir, my child!”
    If only you were his son—his Yassin. Deaf like Yassin. You’d see Murad but you wouldn’t hear him. You wouldn’t hear him say, “Why have you come?”
    “Have you come to work in the mine?” Shahmard asks.
    “No, I have come to see my son.”
    Your eyes drift over the rolling hills of the valley. You take a deep breath and continue.
    “I come to drive a dagger into my son’s heart.”
    Shahmard gives you a confused look, laughs, and says, “Dear God, I’m giving a ride to a swordsman.”
    With your gaze still lost in the valley, in its black stones, its dust and its scrub, you say, “No, brother, it’s that I bear great sorrow and sorrow sometimes turns into a sword.”
    “You sound like Mirza Qadir.”
    “You know Mirza Qadir?”
    “Who doesn’t know him? In a way, he’s a guide for us all.”
    “He’s a man with a great heart. I didn’t know him, but I just spent two hours in his company. I was won over. What he says is right. He understands sorrow. From his first glance, he instills trust. You can tell himwhatever lies in your heart … In our day, men like Mirza Qadir are rare. Where is he from? Why is he here?”
    Shahmard takes the half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear, puts it between his dry lips and lights it. He inhales deeply and says, “Mirza Qadir is from the Shorbazar district of Kabul. He has only had a shop here for a short time. He doesn’t like to talk