Fields Of Joy

The Afghan is known for his cunning, vengeance and hospitality.

Two lost Kandaharis, Opiumzai and Hashishuddin, were wandering aimlessly when they chanced upon something very special. To the side of Opiumzai was an empty field with a small patch of bad cannabis. To the side of Hashishuddin were 30 acres of mature opium poppies, domestic animals and a water-well.

And there was no one to lay claim on it!

Fate and war had made the academically gifted Hashishuddin a subordinate of poor Opiumzai and the latter, in the face of so much…well, you know what, couldn’t stop gleaming. The senior had the first choice but he maintained his composure, cleared his throat and fixed the turban on his head.

‘My dear brother,’ so began the speech of Opiumzai…

Being tribal men - in the name of honour, diplomacy and chivalry - their customs were riddled with weird and wonderful gestures. But behind the gestures of goodwill and order was sometimes a competitive spirit ready to outstrip the other.

It was customary for the senior to show generosity to those below his rank. It was customary for the juniors to reciprocate with humility and acceptance. Conventional wisdom stated that opium was more profitable than cannabis and though Opiumzai was cunning, Hashishuddin was no fool either. He knew that his master was about to pull an obscure custom – probably the ‘Koh-e-Noor’ custom – out of the hat.

What was the Koh-e-noor custom? Well…

‘My dear brother,’ Opiumzai placed his hand onto his subordinate’s shoulder. ‘We have fought many battles together. Is that not so?’

‘Khaji,’ said Hashishuddin. ‘Kha’ meant yes.

Opiumzai glided towards the fields but continued the oratory. ‘In the depths of despair we believed. We shared. We lived. Is that not so my comrade?’

Comrade Hashish rolled up his eyes and nodded. The senior plucked a poppy from the opium field, a star-shaped leaflet from the cannabis patch, and returned. He placed the expensive poppy into the turban of Hashishuddin and the moth eaten cannabis leaflet into his own.

‘I am only worthy of my turban,’ said Opiumzai humbly. His eyes moistened.

Hashishuddin suppressed a yawn. ‘My-leader,’ he raised his hands into the sky. ‘You-have-honoured-me-beyond-comprehension-and-I-am-ashamed-to-share-the-groun d-beneath-your-feet-for-I-am-not-worthy-of-such-tribute.’ He glanced at the cannabis. ‘For-as-long-as-I-share-the-honour-of-your-company-I-shall-not-wear-my-shoes.� ��

And so the pair exchanged slippers.

‘Oh Hashishuddin, my sword,’ the leader’s voice boomed. ‘In the ashes of despair you were my Phoenix.’ A fleeting glance at the opium field could not suppress his smile. ‘In memory of those times I give you my watch.’

Hashishuddin winced. ‘Oh-noble-master-and-commander-of-the-faithful! My-gold-plated-Chinese-Rolex-is-not-worthy-of-your-plastic-Casio. This-fire-bird-can-only-hope-once-more-that-you-shall-honour-him.’

Over the course of three hours the pair exchanged socks, trousers, tunics, guns, beard combs and sun shades. With each operatic exchange the leader’s voice grew louder, the words grander, the gestures melodramatic and the anticipatory glances at the opium lengthened into longing stares.

All the animals on God’s Earth gathered around the pair and awed at the loud obnoxious ape who would have fought the armies of Alexander, drank the Dead Sea, endured the Sahara and ascended the airless mountains of Mars for the other sulking biped who had folded his arms and looked bored.

The rivers were rendered restless, the winds speechless, the clouds waterless and Hindukush trembled. Surely, all the honour and respect of this world had kissed their brows.

Finally, at long last, they came to the matter of narcotics. ‘My dear Hasishuddin, we are surrounded by…erm…fields of joy. We have won wars and defeated every invader but we have lost so much also; now is the time for respite. But before I take what God has decreed as ours I want to honour you the way a King should honour another king.’

Opiumzai took off his turban – with the cannabis leaflet still stuck on – and feigned pain at having presented it to Hashishuddin. The pair swapped turbans and within this exchange was a tacit – albeit unfair - approval of who got to keep what.

Centuries before, a victorious Afghan King had ingeniously taken the Koh-e-Noor diamond from a defeated Mughal King – whom he knew to have hidden the gem within his turban – by saying it was an honour for two Kings to exchange turbans.

That was the Koh-e-noor custom.

Clutching needles, Opiumzai disappeared into the joyful field and did not return – or rather, was not discovered - for two seasons. The furious Hashishuddin was already plotting revenge. War had roughened the professor and killing that idiot Opiumzai, already gurgling delightfully, could have been so simple. A little bit of petrol, a spark from a match and that man would have met his hell.

But watching smoke rise from between the ravaged fields and pockmarked hills, he was aware of vengeance’s destructive tag. The Afghan had fought injustices for decades, sometimes committing it himself, but always at the cost to his own home and people. This field, he sighed, was now his home and the stray animals were his responsibilities. He questioned the destructiveness of vengeance. Could it not be creative?

…Perhaps it could.

…Perhaps it was time to mould an old tradition.

Paper is the tool of the intelligent man, thought Hashishuddin, who needed to plot, plan and prepare - but most importantly, to be recognised as Opiumzai’s equal - not just in words, but on paper. There was a ropeless bucket beside the water-well filled with scummy water.

‘O’ Malik,’ he called out. ‘What if another party came here and laid claim to your land? How’d you prove that the fields were yours?’

‘I don’t know,’ the reply came from the bushes. ‘We have guns?’

‘But no bullets. Wouldn’t it be better if your assets were marked on paper?’

‘I suppose so…and where’d we get the paper from?’

‘From the pulp of my cannabis…I just need a little water to wash it. There’s some dirty water wasting away in your bucket.’

Who knew that hemp could make three times as much paper as wooden pulp? He crushed, washed, bleached and pressed the pulp into sheets.

‘What’s this,’ asked Opiumzai ‘On one sheet is my claim-’

‘And on the second is mine.’ Hashishuddin fixed his turban: ‘Two kings, right? All that’s on my land is rightfully mine.’

The next morning Hashihuddin called out: ‘O’ Khan, how will you pray and wash and drink water when there’s no rope to lower the bucket?’ When Opiumzai replied in ignorance, Hashishuddin pressed on: ‘How will you wash your needles?’

‘…Can you get rope?’

‘From the stems of my cannabis.’

And who knew that cannabis stems could yield strong ropey fibres? Hashishuddin stripped, dried, retted and wound the fibres into a rope and presented it to Opiumzai…along with a paper.

‘For my rope and daily duty of supplying you with water and washing your needles, I will have access to the well.’

Opiumzai was already showing signs of laxity. Unmoved by such superfluities, he pressed his thumb onto the sheet and toddled off.

On another day Hashishuddin said: ‘Opiumzai Jan, why do you want all that shit on your fields. Send the shit my way; I have more than enough empty space.’

The opium bush moved. ‘I’m not going to get off my back and physically move the shit into your field. Do it yourself.’

‘Then send me those things that shit in your field; they’re easier to move. I’ll look after them and send their milk over to you.’

It was done.

‘Hey Opiumzai,’ he said the next week. ‘Why don’t you let me look after your chicken, unless you want the charsi chicken to peck at your poppies?’

‘And how will you feed the hens?’

‘With seeds from my cannabis.’

And who knew that cannabis seeds were some of the most nutritious. The contract stipulated that for looking after his hen and cockerel and supplying him with the eggs, Hashishuddin would get two eggs a day

With most of Opiumzai’s assets in the hands of Hashishuddin, the professor roped his field and set about governing his kingdom. The water was enough for the perennial cannabis which – unlike seasonal opium - grew rapidly and abundantly all year round. The cow and sheep gave good milk and the dung gave fuel any Kuchi nomad would be proud of. Of the two eggs that Hashishuddin kept for himself, one he ate, the other he left to hatch. Soon he had a poultry farm. Within a season his fields were covered in cannabis - the leaves and stems of which he considered turning into paper and clothing - and the seeds which he considered for oil and food.

When Eid came, Hashishuddin suggested slaughtering Opiumzai’s hen and cockerel for they were close to death. Opiumzai, drugged and dirty, mumbled his approval.

With the money that came from selling eggs, Hashishuddin could hire a man to help him collect the seeds. And with the money that came from selling the seeds he could buy a ram and enough wood, mud and straw to build a house.

And now he was able to marry his employee’s widowed sister. The paper for the marriage contract? Why the cannabis of course!

Opiumza’s sheep gave birth near another Eid. The professor suggested slaughtering the animal for she was arthritic and her meat could pay for fresh needles, soap and new clothes. Opiumzai thumbed onto the paper and stumbled off.

One day the professor approached Opiumzai and handed him the rope to his cow. ‘I can’t take this anymore, Malik. Your cow stepped onto a mine and blew her leg off; now she’s dying slowly. All she ever does is eat my crops and shit on my ground all day long. I don’t want anything to do with her.’

Opiumzai had become so drugged and dependent that he immediately gave Hashishuddin a patch of his land.

‘There’s a reason no one ever claimed our fields before us. And you’re looking at the reason,’ Hashish pointed at the cow’s amputated leg. ‘I will only tie the beast by the water-well.’

‘Fine, fine, you can have that part of land as long as she doesn’t come near me.’

The next day Opiumzai didn’t receive anything.

‘What do you mean,’ he yelled at Hashishuddin. ‘What do you mean you don’t have to give me anything anymore? Give me back my cow!’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Wha- then I want my water back.’

Hashishuddin showed him the contract. ‘Whatever’s in my land belongs to me. That makes the water well my property.’

‘Namak haraam,’ sneered Hashishuddin. ‘Where’s my sheep? She’s not your property.’

‘We slaughtered her to pay for your needles. Those other sheep were born on my land.’

Opiumzai whined. ‘My chicken?’

‘We slaughtered them for Eid. Those other hens hatched on my land, feeding from my grains.’ Opiumzai showed him teeth but Hashishuddin was quick to remind him of him being outnumbered. ‘O’ Malik, I’ve been feeding you freely for a very long time but from now on you’ll have to pay.’

‘But how?’

‘I’ll buy your land from you.’

Little by little Hashishuddin began to buy off Opiumzai’s land until his fields, his fortunes, his workers and his family, had doubled. But resentment had rooted into Opiumzai who had taken to living underneath an apple tree in the far distance. Once a handsome charismatic youth with dreams of greatness, the war had taken everything away. And now there was no heroin to fill the losses.

One day the professor came over with some food. Sitting by Opiumzai he placed an arm over his shoulder. ‘Malik, you have no more land,’ he spoke gently. ‘What will you do now?’

Opiumzai moved his bony shoulder away. ‘I have nothing; what can I give.’

‘Perhaps,’ the professor said tentatively, ‘and there is honour in work. Perhaps if you… perhaps if you worked for me - with me, I’ll be able to...’

At this Opiumzai shot up. ‘I don’t need your charity!’

‘Can’t you see, I can’t be charitable to my workers,’ there was pleading in the professor’s tone. ‘It’s in my own interest to see them healthy. I need you, that’s why I came.’

‘Are you blind, old man? I have no reason to work,’ saliva shot out of Opiumzai. ‘All the reasons I had to sweat for are gone.’

Hashishuddin wanted to discipline Opiumzai the Pakhtun way but the man was as fragile as the spine of an autumn leaf. Instead he pressed his palm against Opiumzai’s heart. ‘But you’re only 33, Turan Jan. This is not like you; this is not the man who’d led our band of old men…I’ve had losses too but look at me now.’

A long pause later Turan nodded. He sat onto the charpoy and the pair ate together for the first time in years. Then he thumbed onto the papers which made him the employee of Hashidhuddin. The professor’s vengeance was complete.

After washing Turan calmly laid himself onto the charpoy and had his limbs tied firmly to the posts. Hashishuddin placed his hand onto his fellow’s brow which had begun to sweat. ‘I’ll visit you every few hours, Turan Jan.’

‘Gag me, Mehmud.’ Turan said to Hashishuddin. ‘I don’t want anyone hearing my screams.’

Mehmud returned home to his wife, Firuza, anxious but full of energy. ‘He’s going to make it!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘These will be some of the most painful days of his life but he’s a fighter. I tell you, Firuza,’ Mehmud slapped his chest. ‘He has downed Hind helicopters. When the mines blew off, he cut his own foot off without any medicines.’

Mehmud visited Turan every few hours and returned optimistically.

‘What are you doing to him?’

‘You’re a woman,’ he snapped covering a bruised eye - possibly from a head butt. ‘What would you know about his pain? He’s fighting and he’s winning.’

But two days later Firuza managed to get an explanation.

‘In English they call it a cold turkey.’ And then he was off again with clean clothes, food and a bucket of water.

Yet when he returned, the furrows were deeper than the gorges of tange gharu. ‘The body,’ he began without provocation. ‘The body, Firuza, is always in a state of awareness. That’s why it’s alive. But sometimes it’s too aware and that’s when it hurts. That’s why your mind produces substances to numb the pain. And these substances are real: they have weight, you can handle them; they’re slippery like oil - like the milk from an opium poppy.

‘How is he?’

But Mehmud was in a trance: ‘It’s a delicate balance, all this pain and awareness. Turan became too aware. These fields were too quiet for him: no roaring jets, no bullet fires or commands and yells. They used to drown out the voices but here there were no sounds. There was no purpose here; no gurgles or demands for toys or demands for money or meat and vegetables. There were no arguments over stupid things, simple things.’

Mehmud’s eyes began to water. ‘I was so busy with vengeance I never saw what he was going through. I thought it was greed when in fact he was trying to unburden me from his self. He’d made up his mind the day we swapped turbans because only opium can do this. He knew this day would come.’

Firuza felt nauseous from Mehmud’s babble. She grabbed at his sleeves. ‘What did you do to him?’

‘The mind becomes dependant upon opium,’ continued Mehmud, ‘and stops producing its own painkillers. When you stop taking heroin it takes days for the brain to produce its own. Until then there’s nothing to buffer you from the reality. I took a broken man and exposed him to the full torrent of his past.’

‘You killed him?’

‘His heart stopped beating.’ Mehmud broke down. ‘That was my gift to him; I made him aware of how pointless his life had been.’