So those men in Gilgit, he had no way of knowing who they really were. Nor the truth about the man who must have tipped them off in Andijan. It was what excited and exhausted him most about his trade. You were always passing through. You were always donning skins. And yet, to those Uyghur men from Kashgar — or so they said — he was entirely naked. They had known more about him than his relationship with the girl in the room at the top of the stairs, the one with the feather-smooth thighs. We know you have done worse, they had said. We know you have unfinished business. How did they know? And if they did, how did they not also know that he never had any intention of finishing the business, none at all? Because he did not have a country to finish it in. He did not have a city. He did not have a field. Nor even a buffalo. Or a friend.

All he had were handsome clothes and a wife who could beat him at everything.

He stood outside the forest inspector’s new villa. The old villa had burned down some years ago, when Ghafoor had been told to leave. He did not stand there openly, but behind a tree. The forest inspector did not allow the timber mafia to fell the trees near his home, only those further away.

All the way down his long, swooping driveway were parked a convoy of military trucks. The soldiers smoked cigarettes and drank tea and scratched their balls.

Every day since his arrival, Ghafoor had watched them surround his valley. His. Why were they here? To catch militants? If that were so, why did the training camps keep getting stronger as these men moved in? The answer was simple. Each and every one of them slept in two beds: the mafia with the government, the militants with the mafia, the government with the militants.

So what were they going to do next, choke his skies with their planes? His. What was this, Kashgar or Kashmir? Andijan or Afghanistan? It was bad enough that they had been tearing down the forests for as long as he had walked on two feet. Now they were even tearing into people’s homes, including Maryam’s.

If there was one thing he had learned in his years away, it was that nomads everywhere were treated much the same. What the Uyghurs were to the Chinese, the Kazakh cattle-breeders were to Kazakhstan and, in the past, to the USSR. And the Uzbek herders of Afghanistan — how badly they fared, both under Russia and the Taliban. No less pitiful was the condition of shepherds all over Pakistan. Look what was happening in the south, in Baluchistan, with Pakistan selling its coast to China, throwing people off their own land. Or giving it to America. And look at the north, where China built a road straight through the heart of the Karakoram Range, just to reach the coast it had already robbed!

But he was grown tired of everyone else’s wrongs. It was time to right his own. No one needed him more than those he had been told to leave. And yet, no one besides Maryam even wanted him here. He pulled away from the forest inspector’s villa, toward her hut. If he had not been able to avenge the suffering wrought on his people, he could at least avenge the suffering wrought on his woman. Even if she was not his woman.


Maryam spoke tenderly to the two horses tethered outside their hut. Ghafoor was again here this morning, still waiting to talk to her. He could keep waiting.

These were the only horses left, a mare and her filly, both Kaliani. In her father’s time, there had been the Nukra, Bharssi, even the Yarkandi breed, said to have come down from the Fergana Valley long ago, perhaps with her people. The way Ghafoor did now, by himself. Now all of those breeds were lost, forever. By the time Kiran was her age, the Kaliani breed too might be extinct.

She buried her head in the belly of the mare, inhaling deeply. Kiran will never be my age. The thought made her sick. She pushed down the sick, inhaling deeper, pulling her stomach high, all the way to her chest. The belly of the mare shivered. Then it moved two steps away, forcing Maryam to stand up straight.

The mare, Namasha, Kiran had named. After dusk: for the coat she threw around herself, dark and glossy. The coat was losing its sheen ever since their return from the highlands. When Maryam led her to water, Namasha did not drink. Her filly sucked at the waterhole; she merely watched. Maryam wondered if she should tether her again, or take her into the forest to feed. Everything was wrong this year. The animals were meant to graze high in the summer pastures, not down here in the plains. The lowland forests would be overgrazed, with no time to regenerate through the rainy season. And the rain was coming. They could sense it.

Sick of lowland grub, Namasha whinnied. She wanted the air of the mountains, the way it sweetened the grass. She wanted the crunch of snowmelt on her tongue. Why else did she wait for summer each year? Why else did she keep herself handsome, even at her age? Not for this pre-monsoon heat! Not for the flies around her eyes!

The filly, Loi Tara, taking a cue from her mother, tossed her mane haughtily. Then she nuzzled Maryam’s neck. “What do you want me to do?” Maryam asked, stroking first the filly, then the mother. A shudder ran down Namasha’s side again, loud as a thunderbolt this time. “We had to come back down early. To bury Kiran.”

Namasha stared at her, accusingly.

Loi Tara inspected Maryam’s palm. Kiran had named her too. Loi Tara. Morning star. The night and her morning star. Finding Maryam’s palm empty, Loi Tara allowed herself to explore Maryam’s fingers instead. Maryam teased the forelock; she smoothed the silken line of a perfect nose. It occurred to Maryam that her youngest child, Jumanah, had not yet found the words to name the creatures of her world, but when she did, would Maryam know? She was now with her father in the forest. She had been with him every day since their return because Maryam found it impossible to tend to her. Her husband folded Jumanah in his arms each morning as the sun began to stretch its own, at the hour when loi tara was still above their dera, and the girgiti too, pulsing together like a tribe.

The girgiti. The constellation of six stars she had looked for every morning since she could remember, till now, when it became so hard to get herself out of bed. Now she carried a rock around her neck, a rock even the legendary Maryam Zamani would not have known how to remove. So her husband did not wake her up; it would mean waking the rock. He took Jumanah with him without a sound, as he led the animals into the forest and returned them later in the morning, at which point he said that if she felt able, she could take them back to the forest at noon, for the second feed.

The rock lodged in her throat. It did not matter how frequently she swallowed it down. It kept growing, prickly and green, like guilt.

“He let her go in the boat,” she said, returning Namasha’s stare. She was suddenly livid with this animal for stirring the fury she had been holding inside. Now it threatened to spread through her veins faster than a snake bite, just as she struggled to find a routine again, by taking the horses into the forest for the second feed! “Do you think I could have stopped him?” She heard her voice give. “I tried. Do you hear me? I tried!” She stamped her foot, and the filly backed away. The mare stood her ground. “Who would listen to a wife over a flock of stupid foreigners? He said we could not refuse them. He said they were guests! They were not guests. They were thieves!”

Still the evil Namasha kept staring.

“What would you have done?”

The mare turned and walked herself indignantly into the forest.

“You better stay where you should stay!” Maryam shouted. “We are not going to pay any fines for a conceited old hag like you!”

The filly followed her mother, waving her thick brown tail like a taunt.

For a long time, Maryam watched them go.

She finally glanced again at the hut. It was good Ghafoor was inside, even if she was not ready to see him.


Early that morning, two policemen had torn through their hut.

She had been lying in bed listening to her husband move on one leg while Jumanah raced after him on two. He would take her to the forest that day, he said. She grunted in gratitude, though it was strange to feel gratitude toward a man who had given her older daughter away. It required all the effort in the world to sit up in bed. She sat up for her son, not her husband. Younis would need breakfast before he left for the shop. He was standing before an open curtain, the way Kiran had done each morning, gazing up at the sky. The light that poured through was a violet bleeding slowly to gold. Loi Tara would be there, high above his wide shoulders, and perhaps the six stars of girgiti too, in which case, the second from the bottom would be flickering the brightest. It was always the last to leave for the day.

Then came the boots and the police shoving Younis inside and the curtain pulling shut.

A bomber had blown himself up in the Balakot police station, they said, killing four policemen, putting four others in hospital, and leaving the rest in a rage. That last detail she found redundant. They kicked the stove and the bed where she still sat, her hair a mess, she had not braided it yet, and made Jumanah cry. They broke the teacups. “We will find him!” they declared. They took Younis by the ear and pulled him and shook him. “He is your friend, isn’t he? Where is he?”

She watched as her son cried for the second time this year, first when Kiran was buried, and now, as he trembled in their grip. Only when a trickle of urine stained his shalwar did they release him, laughing. Then they sat down for tea. Then they demanded teacups. Then they demanded eggs.