Just outside the village my brother was met by an old greybeard who saluted in military style, and it turned out that he had been formerly in a Panjabi regiment, and had been sent into Turkestan with letters for Dalgleish, whose murder resounded through Central Asia a generation ago.
Merket is interesting as being the home of the Dulanis, supposed to be Kirghiz who settled on the land a couple of centuries ago when the Kalmucks ruled the province. These people are remarkable as being Moslems who mix freely with their women, the latter going about unveiled, and eating, dancing and singing with the men at entertainments which often last the whole night long. They have a great reputation as singers, and one morning we were favoured with a performance, the songster being a tall greybeard clad in a long red robe and a sheepskin cap. He beat on a tambourine-like instrument, throwing his head into the air and emitting tremendously long-drawn notes and then taking breath in deep gasps, much as the Germans sing their Lieder in Lutheran churches. His songs seemed full of repetition, he made fearful grimaces, and as he yelled at the top of his voice, I was not surprised that after a while he became hoarse. His companion played a rubab, a stringed instrument much like a mandoline, the plectrum being a bit of wood, and crowds of villagers gathered to hear the performance, to which they listened in enraptured silence; for we were told that the singer was renowned throughout the district.
Iftikhar Ahmad kindly translated for me two of his songs, which run as follows:
If I say that I am a Mohamedan and do not keep the commands of Allah
How shall I escape punishment when I am laid in the dark grave?
No young girls will dance at my bidding.
They have blackened their eyebrows with kohl and refuse to bow down before the youths.
The second is the lament of a love-sick maiden:
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Oh, my beloved, fresh coloured as an apple,