At the Court of the Amîr: A Narrative

by John Alfred Gray

The income of the priests is derived from their fees for performing the ceremonies of marriage and of burial, and from charitable donations.

A priest who is a Sêyid, or a direct descendant of the Prophet, is hereditarily a beggar. He can demand from anyone he pleases a sufficient sum of money for his wants. The Sêyids in Afghanistan do not seem to have the exclusive right of wearing green turbans: in fact, I never saw one with a green turban on, though I have often seen page boys and others not Sêyids wearing them. One of my servants, the mîrza, or secretary, was a Sêyid. He was a good sort of man in his way, and I quite liked him. However, he used to smoke Churrus, or Indian hemp, and it affected his intellect. At times he behaved like one insane. He never attempted any violence towards me; in fact, though I was warned against him, I think he was too attached to me to do me an injury: but, perhaps, I am wrong in this; however, he never did do any harm. If he were upset he would cover his face with chalk and walk about shaking his head in a dejected way, muttering, “Tobah, tobah,” Alas! alas! One day he removed all his clothing, and went out into the street with his beggar’s wallet only. I sent one of the military police to fetch him back, and asked him if he were not ashamed to behave in that manner. He said he was tired of work. I said, “You are earning an honest living and are able to send money to your wife and children in Jelalabad.” He said, Yes, but he had to write when he didn’t want to write. It was better that he should go out with nothing and beg for his few wants. As for his wife and children, God would take care of them. There seemed a certain amount of “method” in this. Occasionally, however, he was very violent, though not with me, and I could hear him raving like a madman.

The Hafiz who was Fined.

One of the compounders at the hospital was a Hafiz and a moolah; a Hafiz is one who from memory can repeat the whole Koran. He was a tall handsome young man with courtly manners. He lived at my house, and at daybreak I was often dreamily roused by his fine tenor voice as he was chanting his prayers. Once his early prayer was of considerable worldly service to me and the neighbourhood, for he found that the bathroom of my house was on fire; the beams were already alight. He summoned assistance, the fire was soon put out and the matter ended. If the house had been burnt the affair would have reached the ears of the authorities, and the neighbours would have had a fine imposed upon them unless they could produce the incendiary! This young man had asked permission to live at my house because he could do so cheaply. He was saving money to pay off a debt incurred in Peshawur, his native town. I thought, What an honest worthy young man! but I found the money had been borrowed to pay off a fine imposed upon him for a murder he committed in Peshawur. He escaped hanging because there was an element of doubt in the case, and possibly for the reason that his elder brother had been some years in the British service. He admitted to me that he had stabbed the man, but he did not regret it. The man was a “bad man” and had injured him.

“Surely the Koran does not tell you to commit murder,” I said.

“No,” said he, “the Koran is God’s book, but we are all sinners.”

One of the hospital assistants, a Hindostani, working under me, was also a Hafiz and a priest. He was a very gentlemanly man of about forty-six, and well educated. He had been in the Bengal cavalry. I liked him very much, but, unlike most Mahomedans, he was a dipsomaniac. For a fortnight or so he would be miserably drunk. He drank the native spirit made from raisins, methylated spirit, or any kind of intoxicant he could get hold of. He explained his condition to me by saying that “Shâitan” came to him occasionally and said, “You have drunk no shrâb for so long, now is a very good time to drink,” and so he listened to Shâitan and drank. He afterwards gave up alcohol and took to chloral eating and opium smoking. I was very sorry for the man. I think he was not such a scoundrel as some of them.

When I first entered the service I picked up a man in Kabul who could speak a little English, and had him to look after my clothes and wait upon me—my valet. He was a short thick-set man, with a shaven head, on which he always perched a little red fez. He was wonderfully gentle with sick children, who were brought to me to prescribe for. He was very lazy, but was cowed at once if I were angry. I found he was a hired assassin who had escaped from Peshawur into Afghanistan. When I discharged him he made a large sum of money by gambling in the bazaar, and then returned to Peshawur. The last I heard of him was that he had been apprehended and was in jail.

At one time, after I returned from Turkestan, I used often to go and dine at the workshops with the other Englishmen, and two of the military police who guarded my house came at ten o’clock with a lantern to escort me home. My interpreter did not like my doing this at all, because I had to ride through some narrow winding streets and across the large orchard or garden before I reached the shops. He said, “It is known that you often come home at that time of night, and you might easily be shot, and there be no possibility of finding the man who fired at you. In that case your guard would be killed, and probably I as well for not warning you.” However, it was too depressing to be always alone, and no one ever shot at me. One of these soldiers who came for me was a big, very handsome man, but he had a curious furtive look in his eyes. He used to pull my riding-boots off when I got home, and put out the candle. I remarked once upon the curious look in his eyes, and was told that all in his particular profession had that look.

A Strangler as a Valet.