“The Tiger”

Afghanistan (from Flash Fiction International)

It was market day. I had loaded a dozen sacks of potatoes onto a truck and we were taking them to Kunduz. It had been a long time since I’d been to the bazaar. Traveling the vast Shorao desert, the truck was raising clouds of dust. The desert was so flat that it was hard to believe we were on top of a mountain, and I saw no other vehicles for an hour.

As we descended to Kunduz some armed men in long brown velvet shirts signaled us to stop at a checkpoint. One of them, with his long hair tied back with a handkerchief, came forward. He hovered around the truck for a while, then stopped and wiped his sweaty forehead with a dirty sleeve.

“Who owns these goods?” he demanded, squinting through dusty eyelashes.

“Me,” I said.

“Come,” he said.

I got down and followed him to an old stronghold where a stream flowed through a courtyard. Silk rugs were spread out beneath large poplar trees. Five men sitting on velvet mattresses were playing dice on a checkered cloth.

Ten or fifteen brown-shirted gunmen sat apart from the game. One of them was puffing hard on a hashish cigarette. “Pull harder, harder!” his companions encouraged him. He puffed again, coughed six or seven times, waved his hands to thank them, then handed it over.

The long-haired gunman was kneeling on the rug now, watching the game.

“You have a lucky hand,” he said when one of the players reached in to collect his winnings on the cloth. The other gunmen on the bank of the stream turned their heads and repeated his words.

“Hand it out among the boys,” the winner said and threw two bundles of 10,000-Afghani notes toward the long-haired gunman. Then, when he saw me, he said, “Qaleech! Who is that?”

“Sir, he is the owner of the goods.”

“What are you carrying?”

“Some potatoes,” I replied. “Where to?”

“To the bazaar, for sale.”

“Then you have to pay the tax.”

“What tax? I grew these in my own field.”

“Qaleech, this man seems a stranger. Do you think he is a spy?”

“By God, I haven’t seen him before,” Qaleech said, fixing his gaze on me.

I was wondering where I had seen the commander before. His long hair, the beautiful white face, the red lips, the eyes skillfully darkened with kohl, and the soft feminine voice—all were quite familiar to me.

Then I remembered. This was Feroz. His thin moustache, the few hairs of beard on his chin, the long shirt, and the ammunition belt around his waist had changed him entirely.

Feroz had been Haji Murad Bai’s keeper and dancing boy. It had been a long time since I’d seen him. Years ago, Haji Murad would invite us to his house, where Feroz would appear wearing ankle-bells, a woman’s costume, powder on his cheeks, lipstick on his lips, henna on his hands, eyes darkened with kohl, and he would dance for us.

Five years ago, rumors spread that Feroz had shot Murad Bai dead and eloped with his younger wife with whom he was having an affair. Murad had won his younger wife, the same age as his daughter, in a partridge-fighting competition. I had heard rumors that Feroz then became a commander of a militant organization, but I didn’t know any details.

“I am asking who you are and for whom you are spying?” Feroz’s voice brought me out of my thoughts.

“I am Qadoos,” I said. “a friend of Murad Bai. Feroz, don’t you recognize . . . ” A hard blow hit my shoulder before I could finish. Suddenly I was flat on the ground, and then I was being beaten and kicked and hit with rifle butts.

After a few minutes the long-haired gunman pulled me up by my hair to face Feroz but I couldn’t. The pain was too fierce. Feroz looked at me furiously and chewed his words to make his voice hoarse.

“Who am I?” he asked.

“You are Feroz,” I said.

He hit my mouth with all his force. “No! I am a commander,” he shouted. “I am the Tiger!”

–Translated by Rashid Khattak

Related Posts
Filter by
Post Page
Essays/Articles (all) Featured Fiction New Fiction Why I Write Novel Flash Flash Talk Reviews
Sort by

“The Love for Writing”

I do not know why, but I do not see any demarcation line between classics and pulp fiction: both are, in my opinion,
2020-02-14 09:33:54


“Gilson’s Ex”

We’d been drinking and talking for an hour or so, on a Saturday night in the Dundee Brauhaus, when Lindy
2018-02-25 16:53:57


Beyond Show Don’t Tell: The Poetic Image in Fiction

A few years ago, I came across a memorable TEDx lecture by Dr. Joe Dispenza titled “Our Three Brains: From Thinking t
2018-01-11 11:45:37


“An Ark of Mimes”

Only those who were there during the storm have the understanding of what happened and why. —Tara A
2017-02-27 09:36:55


Why I Write: N.T. McQueen

  Recently, my wife asked me why I wrote. Though a majority of writers would have a default or
2016-07-14 06:02:03


“‘Every Barleycorn a King'”

—Frank R. Stockton On the other side of the blind we have a dog that w
2016-06-23 06:00:56


Novel Flash: Island of a Thousand Mirrors

It is 1948 and the last British ships slip away from the island of Ceylon, laboring and groaning under the weight
2015-02-23 06:03:52


“The Remarkable Reinvention of Very Short Fiction”

Is very short fiction a renaissance or a reinvention? Are these
2014-10-17 06:14:51


“Entering Susan’s Heart”

The trailer’s steel door slams shut like the cage I spent half my life behind.  I plop the freshly butchered cow he
2013-07-29 03:52:19


Mohibullah Zegham

About Mohibullah Zegham

Mohibullah Zegham was born in 1973 in Kabul, Afghanistan. He first wrote fiction in 2005 when he was working as a physician in Kajaki, a war-torn district of Helmand province in the south. A year later, his first collection of short stories was published by the PEN society of Afghanistan. He now has ten books.