The Watch Read online

  ALSO BY JOYDEEP ROY-BHATTACHARYA

  The Storyteller of Marrakesh

  The Gabriel Club

  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF CANADA

  Copyright © 2012 Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2012 by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, and simultaneously in the United States of America by Hogarth, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited.

  www.randomhouse.ca

  Knopf Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Permission credits appear on this page.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Roy-Bhattacharya, Joydeep

  The watch / Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-40252-3

  I. Title.

  PR9499.3.R596W38 2012 823′.914 C2011-908136-9

  Jacket design: Tal Goretsky

  Jacket images: (Chinook helicopter): © Pool/Reuters/Corbis; (U.S. Marines with the Female Engagement Team): Lynsey Addario/VII; (Afghan shepherd girl): Reuters/Arko Datta; (U.S. soldier): Reuters/Goran Tomasevic; (members of the security detail for Eikenberry in front of Chinook helicopter): Reuters/Tim Wimborne

  v3.1

  This book is dedicated to the people of Afghanistan

  And to

  Chris Hedges,

  Preceptor, Exemplar

  Rick Sullivan,

  Officer, Gentleman

  &

  Jonathan Shay

  Physician, Healer

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Combat Outpost Tarsândan

  Antigone

  Lieutenant

  Medic

  Ismene

  Second Lieutenant

  First Sergeant

  Lieutenant’s Journal

  Captain

  Coda

  Acknowledgments

  Permissions

  Notes and References

  About the Author

  I know that I must die,

  E’en hadst thou not proclaimed it; and if death

  Is thereby hastened, I shall count it gain.

  For death is gain to him whose life, like mine,

  Is full of misery. Thus my lot appears

  Not sad, but blissful; for had I endured

  To leave my mother’s son unburied there,

  I should have grieved with reason, but not now.

  —SOPHOCLES, Antigone

  COMBAT OUTPOST

  TARSNDAN

  KANDAHAR PROVINCE

  AFGHANISTAN

  ANTIGONE

  ONE.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four. I count the moments and say the Basmala in my head.

  In the Name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful …

  It’s up to me now. I’m scared: my hands are shaking, my mouth is dry. I cast a look back at the mountains where I have spent my life, where I was born, where my family died. All my family, that is, except my brother, Yusuf. I remember what Yusuf said before he set off to storm the fort: There are moments when, in order to be master of a situation, you have to go mad and keep your head at the same time.

  I remember this as I turn the wheels of my cart and trundle down the sloping track to the square field and the fort. They’ve leveled everything here: there are no trees, and there’s no vegetation, not a semblance of shade; the earth is dry and cracked and already scorching hot despite the early hour. Dust swirls about me; the sun blazes down on the drab earthworks of the fort. The ground is scored with boot marks and the tracks of many vehicles. Piled up on one side of the fortifications is a jumble of rubbish: discarded oil cans, bent iron posts, and plastic bags and buckets. The only signs of life are occasional metallic glints reflecting the rising sun, and a vertical line of smoke. This arid landscape could not be more different than the fertile green valley I started out from. It’s a desolate prospect, and yet I’ve spent my entire overnight journey across the mountains waiting for this sight.

  As I push against the ground with my hands to propel the cart forward, I think of the precarious mountain trails and can hardly believe I’ve made it here with nothing more than the strength of my puny arms and shoulders. Some of my muscles are raw to the touch, like open wounds; others are dead to all sensation. The stumps of my legs, only recently healed, have begun to bleed; the constant thrusting forward required by my journey has rubbed the sutures raw. I ignore the pain; I ignore everything except the fact of my being here. I tell myself that I am here because my heart is huge and my tenderness real. I am here to bury my brother according to the tenets of my faith. That is all there is to it.

  A body covered with buzzing flies bars my path. I feel the bile rising up my throat. With a sense of unreality, I lean out of my cart and turn the body over. It isn’t Yusuf, but a youth lying with his face down and a bullet hole through his forehead. Blood has congealed over one eye; the other is closed. I let him go and recite the Janaza over him. Some distance away, another body lies huddled. It’s Rehmat, one of Yusuf’s men, his black turban unraveling in loops as I raise his head. Rehmat was immensely strong: he could lift an entire felled oak with one hand. Now the lifeless hand rests limply against mine. I let him go and sit back in the cart. A flock of crows wheels impatiently in the air. High overhead a vulture flaps its wings and prepares to land. A flag at one corner of the fort snaps like gunshot in the breeze. Already I feel worn out. My brother was a fool to attack here: behind its multiple barriers of barbed wire, sandbags, and mud-and-stone walls, the fort looks impregnable.

  I move forward and approach the third, and last, body lying in the field. It’s Bahram Gul, the oldest of Yusuf’s companions, who once brought me a posy of mountain daisies when I was a child. His open mouth is unnaturally red, his hennaed beard encrusted with crimson muck. Bahram loved to sing; then the Talib came and he fell silent and tended to his fields. But lately he’d taken up singing again. His voice echoes through my head as I leave him behind. Bahram’s daughter Anisa was my closest friend before she died in childbirth. Now they will meet again. I envy them the good fortune of their reunion.

  A puff of dust kicks up from the ground to my left. I see it out of the corner of my eye before I smell its burning scent and hear the high-pitched ringing sound. My brain dulled from my recent exertions, I keep pushing myself forward until a second puff kicks up fiercely to my right. That’s when it dawns on me that I am being fired at. When the third bullet shrills past, I come to a stop. The silence seems to last a lifetime. The shadow of a solitary cloud drifts across the land.

  I reach up and touch the taweez around my neck. Many years ago, Father brought back a written prayer from the shrine of a Sufi Pir near Zareh Sharan, and I’ve worn it sewn into a leather pouch ever since. Now the leather’s softness reassures me. Instead of looking at the fort to see who’s firing at me, I look behind at the mountains. They stand like faithful sentinels in the sky, their enormity dwarfing everything. W
hen I turn around again toward the fort, it seems shrunken in contrast and no longer as intimidating. I see it for what it really is: a rudimentary structure slapped together with adobe, sandbags, and drywall. An alien accretion.

  I hold up one of Yusuf’s white shirts and wave it in the air.

  Moments later, a metallic voice echoes across the field and asks me what I want. Tsë ghwâre? it asks. Although it speaks Pashto, the voice has a distinct Tajik ring to it. I am not surprised.

  The fort seems very far away. I make my own voice big and answer that I am here to bury my brother, who was killed in the battle yesterday. I am his sister, I call out. My name is Nizam.

  There is a lull, and then the voice asks: What is your brother’s name?

  I tell them. Once again, there is a silence. I try to picture how they must see me from their side: a small, shrouded figure in a wooden cart slung low on the ground. I imagine their surprise. I must take advantage of it.

  The voice breaks the silence. I detest its metallic gargle.

  It asks: Who told you that you could find him here?

  I reply: Those who survived the battle.

  What does he look like?

  I feel the weight of my answer as intensely as the burden of my brother’s death, but I manage to control my emotions and describe Yusuf, taking care to be precise.

  After a moment the voice returns:

  Your brother is being held for purposes of identification.

  I can identify him, I reply.

  You must leave. He will be identified by people coming from afar. Experts. Then he will be buried.

  When will they arrive?

  Soon.

  How soon?

  In two days.

  That cannot be, I answer, trying not to let my emotion choke my voice. Yusuf must be given a proper burial. That’s why I’m here. It is my right.

  Our business with him is not finished.

  He is dead. What business can you possibly have with him?

  He was a terrorist, a Talib, and a bad saray.

  That isn’t true! My brother was a Pashtun hero, a Mujahid, and a freedom fighter. He fought the Taliban. And he died fighting the Amrikâyi invaders. He was a brave man.

  You are as misguided as he was, Pashtana. You’ve no place here. Go away.

  I’ve brought a white shroud, I answer. I will ask you for water to wash him, as is my right. I will dig the grave and place him in it, with his body facing the Quibla. Then I will say a prayer, pour three handfuls of soil over him, and recite: “We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.” After that I will leave, I promise. Do not deny me this duty that I must perform.

  In the space of silence that follows, I lower my eyes and gaze at the stumps of my legs, wrapped in goatskins held together with puttees and rags. The goatskins have stained red. My legs, usually numb, have begun to burn and sting.

  Eventually the voice replies, sounding surprised but also slightly derisive.

  You are a woman. You have no role in a Muslim burial. We are many men here. We’ll take care of it. I’ve asked the Amrikâyi captain who commands the fort. He’s an honorable man. He gives you his word.

  I lower my improvised white flag.

  I will not leave, I answer. My voice shakes with fatigue and anger. I’m close to tears.

  There’s an electric crackle as the megaphone shuts off, and I’m left wondering. A crow flaps across my line of sight and I realize that I am surrounded by carrion birds. Then a shot rings out and a vulture keels across the sky and folds to the ground.

  The next time I look up I’m startled to see four men slip out of a gate embedded in the high walls. They come to a standstill behind the barbed wire barrier with their guns pointing in my direction. The only one of them not dressed in a uniform is a wild-eyed, gangling boy, not much older than me. He must be the Tajik interpreter. He’s the first to speak.

  What are you doing here, you stupid woman? he blurts out in a nervous, indignant voice that’s markedly different from its omnipotent metallic incarnation. Didn’t you read the signs? You could have been shot!

  I am not lettered, I tell him, forcing myself to be calm.

  He brushes off my reply with an exasperated wave of his hand. My sense of him is of someone trying to play an adult, manifestly out of his league.

  The captain, he says importantly, gesturing at a short, stocky man, would like you to know that he has no quarrel with you. But you’ve exaggerated your status and you must leave. This is a battleground. It isn’t a place for women’s hysterics.

  I decide to ignore him and focus on his companions. I watch them without expression as they stand there, burdened with their guilt and lies.

  The officer steps out in front, flanked by two helmeted soldiers. All three wear bulky jackets and dark glasses, and I imagine they must be stifling in this heat. I’m too far away to make out their features, and as the captain turns away from me and addresses the Tajik, the soldiers raise their guns and aim at me. The captain’s terse voice, the jittery interpreter, and the two wary soldiers all suggest the cautious bearing of a group of fighting men caught in an unprecedented situation. Clearly, I am a dilemma for them. I am a woman in their man’s world, and they do not know how to proceed.

  They look at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak, but I remain silent.

  The Tajik addresses me again, and it’s my turn to be surprised.

  Listen to me carefully, Pashtana, he says. The captain says you are free to stay here and rot in the sun. But if you move even a single gaz toward the fort, you’ll be shot on the spot.

  Can I bury the men lying in the field? I ask.

  The Tajik turns to the captain, who speaks irritably, gesturing with both hands.

  That’s between you and the vultures, the Tajik says. It’s none of our business.

  They turn and begin walking back toward the fort, but the Tajik calls out to me over his shoulder. Remember the captain’s orders, he says. One gaz toward the fort, and it’s all over for you.

  The dust from their retreating feet ascends slowly into the sky.

  Sensing a small but crucial victory, I have a mad desire to laugh, which I manage to suppress. I have not, after all, been killed out of hand, which might easily have happened. I turn my cart around and roll it in the direction of Bahram Gul. The heavy wooden wheels drag over the cracked earth; the metal joints squeak and squeal. The sound must carry up to the fort, but I don’t care.

  When I reach Bahram Gul, I take out my shovel and chase the crows away. Apart from these accursed birds and the plague of flies, there isn’t a living thing in sight. I take a deep breath and, turning my back to the fort, raise the veil of my bughra. It’s going to be hard work, and it must be done quickly. My poor dear Bahram kaka is beginning to smell. I remember the flowers he gave me, say a short prayer, and begin to dig. Fortunately, the ground is soft and yields easily to my shovel.

  Hours later—how many hours?—my work is done. Three raised humps of freshly dug soil mark the final resting place of my brother’s faithful companions. On top of each grave I place a stone. Against the bare ground, the sparseness of the mounds embarrasses me: they should have been marked with gravestones, and poles at the head and foot decorated with green flags, as befits their status as heroes. But I hadn’t expected to be doing this work, and the only flag that I’ve brought is reserved for my Yusuf.

  I hobble back to my cart. My back is almost rigid with pain, my hands are scratched and bleeding, but I feel at peace with myself. I put down the shovel and clean my hands with dust. Then I drink some water from my goatskin bag. I’m so exhausted, the water swills out of my mouth. When I lower my veil and turn to face the fort, there is a line of soldiers watching me in silence. Some of them carry guns slung over their shoulders; others point theirs in my direction. One of them takes off his helmet and mops his face with a red handkerchief. He stuffs it into his pocket when he’s done and, turning to me quite deliberately
so that there can be no mistaking his gesture, makes the sign of a cross. It’s a small indication of humanity. And yet, all afternoon, I smell the inhuman scent of their guns.

  Dusk comes later on the plains than I am used to in the mountains. Crickets crawl out of the fissures in the ground and trill in the cooling air. The sunset fans across the sky in a play of glorious light. It soaks into the mountains with a crimson glow. Thousands of stars emerge to replace the melting sun. They make up for the absence of the moon. The fort hangs suspended in a swirl of evening fog, its sloping roofs slowly fading into the darkness. The spiderweb of trails I’ve had to traverse to get here, with their long and precarious stretches studded with mines, already seem part of another life.

  In my cart I have a burlap bag filled with food: naan, walnuts, pistachios, dried fruit—enough to last me a couple of days. I eat some of the bread, tearing it into bite-sized pieces, but my mouth is dry and I have to chew for a long time before I can swallow. As I drink some water, lights come on inside the fort, but out here in the field, all is in shadow. Somewhere a hyena sets off on its nocturnal rounds with a mocking cry. I shiver involuntarily. I’ve never spent a night outdoors on my own, but I’m too tired to dwell on it. Besides, the heavenly garden of stars consoles me. When it’s completely dark, I crawl away from the cart and attend to my bodily needs.

  Soon the night turns cold and I draw my blanket over my shoulders. I reach for my rebaab, which Father taught me to play after he lost his sight. He was an expert at the lute, and I learned quickly, graduating from simple expositions to more complex melodies until he said I sounded better than him. As I pluck the strings, they vibrate through me and fill up the boundless emptiness all around. The fort seems to fall silent in response, but that must be my imagination. I think of Father as I play, but later on, after I curl up in my cart, it is Yusuf’s smile that colors my sleep. I promise him I will not leave this place until I’ve given him the burial he deserves. I am determined to be implacable.