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Returning to the valley was always an emotional experience, even now when he was old and not easily swayed by emotions. He climbed a hill top, looked around, and was glad to see that the valley had not aged with him.
It was green and well-watered. Plenty of rain this year had washed away the end-winter haze that hides the mountains he loves so much. He looked around, saw the green hills and the mighty mountains behind them and took a deep breath.
“Now is the time to perform the ritual, to hand over the valley to the younger generation,” he said to himself.
Standing atop a hill called the Mount of Happiness, the old man stretched his hands and the valley shrank into a small box, fitting into his palms.
He handed it over to the children standing near him. “Here, go and unwrap it. It belongs to you now.” The boy clutched the box nervously and pledged to do as told. The girl held it lightly and smiled.
But the old man was not prepared for what happened next: a loud explosion, shrieks and police sirens shattered the peace he had come from his icy hideout to enjoy.
The children threw the box and ran away.
The old man did not go down to check. He was old enough to know without looking what had happened. So, he walked back to his cave with a heavy heart.
There was no explosion when his grandfather had handed over the valley to his generation. They garlanded each other and then the grandfather had walked to the cave of eternity, with a peaceful smile on his face.
A middle-aged couple was holding a blood-stained shirt and crying. “He was so young, not 15 yet. Why did he kill himself?” asked the mother.
“And he killed others too,” a man standing near them added angrily.
“Yes, others too,” the mother said.
“It was almost dawn when I had this dream,” said my Baloch-Sufi friend. “A dove flying effortlessly in the clear blue sky. It was about to cross my horizon when a hawk appeared and pounced on it.
“The battle for survival began: blood, feathers, pain. And then a soft light appeared from a corner, touching the hungry hawk and injured dove. They disengaged and I woke up.”
He heard a voice which did not address anyone in particular but comforted all. “Let there be peace when the night ends. And when the sun prepares to hide. Let there be peace at noon and when the night is split into two exact halves.”
There was pause as more light emerged from the womb of the departing night.
“There will be forgiveness for those who seek forgiveness. And revenge for those who seek revenge. But peace is better because revenge knows no end,” the voice said to my Baloch-Sufi friend from the deserts of Cholistan.
A man stood near the cave of eternity, with hands stretched in supplication and tears in his eyes.
The two children, who were asked to look after the valley, also stood nearby. They too had tears in their eyes.
A woman came and said: “Let’s find the old man so that we can complete the rite of passage.”
A guard appeared and tried to shoo away the man who was crying silently. But when he looked into the guard’s eyes, he withdrew.
“We follow the Sufis but cannot give up violence,” said my Baloch friend.
“And it is not our fault. It is the terrain: the river, the mountains, the desert that we live in.”
So when the chief of a rival tribe killed seven of his tribesmen, the Baloch-Sufi went with others and killed 14 from the rival tribe, along with the chief.
The other tribe put a large stone on the border and every morning their virgins wash the stone with blood.
There is revenge for those who seek revenge. But revenge does not bring peace. Big turbaned men, beat, flog, behead. People tremble in fear. They seek peace but do not strive for it.
“Hide under our chadors and let’s escape this valley,” their mothers said to the men who lived in perpetual fear. They did not.
As spring brought red flowers to Rohi, young virgins asked their lovers to caress them with love. They did but it did not help ease their tensions.
The lust for revenge prevented them from being true lovers. And they were not yet ready for the rite of passage.
The last time, they had a wedding in the valley; big turbaned men also sent a gift: severed heads on a large tray. They also took away dozens of boys with them, to teach them to kill, not to love.
On the mountains, a man with wild eyes and scary features shouted orders at trainee-suicide-bombers. “Pull the string but only when you are right in the middle of the crowd so that you can kill as many as you want,” he said.
“The more the merrier.”
“I am hungry. I want a plateful of pilaf rice and kebabs and I want them now,” said a 12-year old trainee. He broke into tears as the trainer slapped him across the face.
“It is a sin to eat such food in this world. Hereafter, is a different story,” he said.
“Stop the morning birds. They may wake up my lover. Let him stay with me a little longer,” sang a virgin.
“This is a sin,” said the trainer. “We must bring down the system that allows virgins to sing such songs.”
But the song touched the heart of my Baloch friend who follows Sufis but believes in revenge too.
“My beloved is prettier than the moon and I love her more than I love myself,” he said. “I can do anything for her, even kill.”
“Can you forgive a mortal enemy for her?” the voice asked.