Lukman - the heart broken Pathan

My mother used to tell me that I was named after Hakim Lukman. As the title suggests he was a medicine man, an exceptionally gifted one at that. It seems that he would roam in the forests and the herbs and the plants would talk to him and tell him about the uses that they could be put to.

Unlike my brothers and cousins I was small built. My mother hoped that like my namesake I would one day become a famous doctor. I too harbored the same illusions and when I was young I used to walk in the small stretches of shrubs that dotted the vast barren, arid vastness that surrounds my hometown - Dara Adam Khail in Peshawar.

I would listen hard to the shrubs but they never talked to me. I concluded that the shrubs were not of any use and that’s why they had nothing to say. At times I imagined that they would talk to me. And my mind would convince me that it was indeed the shrubs that were talking, so I would pluck a few leaves and dutifully administer them to my younger sister who would often complain of stomach aches or to my dim witted neighbor, Majid who often got beaten up my the village bullies.

My father put an end to my medical aspirations one day when my sister started to vomit after I had fed her my magic potion. The entire village cracked up laughing at me when Majid earnestly volunteered to put my medicine on my back side to heal it. The mockery of the villagers and the beating given to me by my father squashed all my desires to heal any of them. They simply did not deserve it.

Dara Adam Khail lies in FATA (Federally Administered Tribal Areas). Federally administered means that there is no one to administer. My village comprises mostly of my relatives. All of us lived in a cluster of mud houses that was surrounded by a wall made of clay and brick. The design was such that the entire village could be sealed off by just locking the front doors of two houses. One large Afridi family we were, all living and quarrelling together.

The only thing that brought us together was our frequent fights with the neighboring clans. And that we did often. Once my uncle thought that a Pathan from a neighboring village had stolen his slippers so he decided to take him to task and started off a blood feud that continues to this day.

No reason was small enough to start a fight. It would usually start with individuals and before sun set would engulf the entire clan. The elders would pack their guns and were off to ravage the enemy. And any one old enough to hold a locally made rifle was considered an elder. 4 of my elder brothers, 13 cousins and 6 uncles died by the time I fought my first battle aged 11.

Since the area was so arid that it could not even support subsistence level agriculture, the primary occupation of most tribes is gun making and gun running. An occupation that has been relevant historically and contemporarily in the region. Being a region that gives very little, we are used to having and making do with very little. This makes us Pathans well suited to hard work.

A region that provides its young with very no options other than war mongering, those who have a peaceful nature have no option but to look for a livelihood elsewhere. That was my predicament by the time I was 18.

My distant uncle was working as a construction worker in Dubai and he offered to get me a job in his company. In exchange my father had to agree to marry off my younger brother to his not so pretty daughter without any dowry. I have since made it up to my brother. He was the first person in the entire village to own a mobile phone with a camera. Just one of the gifts that I gave to him and to my ugly sister in law the last time I went there.

I felt sad at leaving but at the same time was excited at the thought of going to a foreign land. My entire family came to bid me farewell at the airport. The plane lady showed me my seat. After sometime I could hear a voice but did not know where it came from. I thought that it must be someone talking on a wireless as it sounded similar to that.

The plane started and the passenger next to me did something to the belt that was in his chair. The plane lady went around looking at everyone’s crotches. Why was she doing that? She came to me and I stiffened. She pointed to the belt and gestured something with her hands. I could not figure out what she was saying. So I just sat still and looked straight ahead. She bent down and tried to do something to my stomach and my crotch. I jumped up with a start and shouted, "Don't you have any shame, touching me like that".

The fellow in the seat next to mine told me that she was trying to tie my belt and showed me how to do it. I felt my face gleaming with embarrassment as I said, "Sorry madam".

I felt sad looking at the mountains as the plane took off from Peshawar airport. But then I realized that I had 9 glasses of Coca Cola. The most I have ever had at a stretch, beating my record of 7 that I had at my cousin Ismails wedding. I felt the urge to relieve myself but I was scared to ask the plane lady to open the door so I could do so. How could I bring myself to tell her what I needed to do? Also what if I fell down.

I looked out of the window realized that the skies above the clouds was just a vast stretch of blue, quite uniform and arid like the vast rubble stretches of my home land. From time to time I could hear a voice but did not know where it was coming from. After some time I could feel the plane going down. My heart sank. But then I looked out of the window and realized that the descent was gradual. I realized that I was about to reach my destination. Soon I could see the ground and what I saw and felt I cannot forget to this day. Barren, vast stretches of sand. My home was also dry and barren but the mountains were beautiful. And here I was about to land in a dead desert.