Khosal

Khoshal was a well-regarded man in his community. Respectable, courageous, and above all, generous. It was especially this last quality that had won him many friends and earned him the esteem of even his adversaries. He lived in a part of the world where a man’s worth was not measured by his wealth, but by his ability to give it away. The assumption was that anyone could come into money, but not everyone could reach the spiritual height, or depth, required to truly understand that everything in this world is fleeting and impermanent. A generous man, therefore, had reached a higher spiritual plane than a miser. The hand that gives is not equal to the hand that receives.

That he was also courageous came as no surprise to anyone. Generosity and courage must surely go hand in hand, for what is generosity other than the bravery to stand up against that monster called fear of poverty? Is it not one of Satan’s tricks to scare the believer with poverty? Khoshal knew well that he was not responsible for his own provision and therefore could not be frightened by the thought of having nothing.

Khoshal had not always been wealthy. On the contrary, he came from very humble beginnings. Humble but not insignificant, for it would be wrong to describe a man like Khoshal in such terms. He had never regarded his life as insignificant. He had been grateful for what he had, even though objectively it was little. A mud-plastered hut, no bigger or smaller than his neighbor’s, had been his birthplace. Where Khoshal was born, there was no hospital. They had never heard of such a thing, so he was born on the floor in the middle of the mud-plastered hut, in the Women’s room. The hut consisted of only two rooms separated by a small courtyard. Khoshal came into the world surrounded by women, so it was perhaps no surprise that female company was what he longed for most of his life. In this dünya, the feminine energy was the first thing he was introduced to, and it is said that early childhood has a great influence on the rest of one’s life. It is also said that the older one gets, the more one longs for one’s childhood. Khoshal lived to be very old, and so it is quite natural that he ended up longing for his very first moments on this earth. The moment when he lay completely naked, surrounded by women. But before that time came, Khoshal lived a long and eventful life. The first years were spent on the dusty path between the mud-plastered huts. Here, Khoshal ran around barefoot. And it wasn’t only his feet that were bare. There was no money for trousers. There was not enough cloth, so he had to make do with a long shirt. It covered the essentials while Khoshal ran and played. His hair bleached by the sun and his eyes surrounded by dark kohl. Khoshal could not imagine his life being anything other than rich.

Khoshal had what he needed and more. When he grew a little older, he realized that he even had a wife waiting for him. The engagement had taken place when he was a newborn. It was a beautiful fate. To have secured from birth what others might spend a lifetime searching and chasing. Love. When he understood that his wife was one of the other barefoot, sun-bleached children he had played with, his joy only grew. To already know your wife before the wedding celebration. That must have been a blessing beyond the ordinary.

The wedding was held, and the night was even better than Khoshal could have dreamed. It was most likely that very night his firstborn was conceived, for what followed the act could only be explained as another destiny intertwining with his own. He had wondered whether it might be his and his wife’s fate to meet at that moment, but dismissed the thought since technically they had already been married from birth.

But now I must be careful not to stray too far from the story, for what follows next is essentially the core of Khoshal’s tale. After enjoying his wife and being drained of all energy, Khoshal fell into a deep sleep. A sleep that was both profound and, at the same time, opened up a dream world so vivid that he doubted whether he was truly asleep or fully awake.

Khoshal walked among graves. Unmarked graves. Tall with rounded stones on top. In the background, towering mountains rose up. He was aware of every single detail. He noticed which graves had weeds, which were surrounded by flowers, and especially which one gave off a sweet fragrance. The scent attracted Khoshal so strongly that, to his great horror, he reached his hand into the grave. A voice told him he could only withdraw his hand once. That he had to grasp everything he could because he was not allowed to put his hand into the grave again. Before he could pull his hand back, Khoshal woke up beside the most beautiful dark-haired woman. He looked at her naked, pale skin, forgot for a moment all about the treasure, and spent the rest of the night receiving and giving pleasure.

The next day, however, Khoshal could not forget the strange vision from his dream. He knew where the graveyard was. He also knew whose grave it was that he had reached his hand into. Seeking out a Pir, not to pray at his grave but to search for mammon, did not feel right to him. Especially since he had never lacked anything and now even had access to his beautiful wife. Khoshal considered sharing his vision with her, but concluded that she would think he was insane and that it would not be a good way to start married life.

When the sun stood at its highest, despite all logic, Khoshal saddled his horse and rode out into the afternoon heat. The graveyard was just as in the dream. As he walked among the graves, Khoshal wondered if he had fallen asleep again. The reality and the dream were so alike that he could not separate one from the other. He let himself be guided by the scent. The Pir’s grave was also unmarked. On the surface, it was as anonymous as the others. But inside, it was clearly another world unfolding, for the scent from the grave enveloped the entire cemetery. Searching for the grave was like searching for the source of a spring. Khoshal approached the Pir’s grave with reverence. He greeted politely, knowing the Pir was aware of his presence. He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Then, naturally, he moved toward the grave and let his hand fall onto it. His hand met no resistance. Khoshal leaned forward as his hand sank deeper and deeper into the soft earth. He clearly remembered the order to grasp everything he could, as he was allowed to put his hand into the grave only once. His hand closed around something solid and cold. Not a single object but several. The sensation frightened Khoshal, who was otherwise not easily scared. He had never touched anything with that texture before. He withdrew his hand, and due to fear, he dropped a bit of what he was holding. When his hand came up, he suddenly could see nothing. Looking around, it was night. No stars in the sky. No moon to be seen. He did not understand how it had gotten so late. He had arrived long before sunset. The darkness was so dense he could not even make out what he was holding. He wrapped it in his patu, which he had brought to protect himself from the strong afternoon sun. Now it could have helped him against the night’s cold, but instead it was used as wrapping for whatever he had pulled from the grave.

Khoshal rode off with his bundle and was soon back home. His wife was asleep, and Khoshal had the feeling it was best not to tell anyone about his strange find. He went out to the small courtyard in front of the earthen hut where he was born. More huts had been built there now. Khoshal and his wife shared one of them. In the shelter of the night, in that courtyard, he buried his treasure.

Not long passed from that fateful day before Khoshal’s life changed drastically, and with it, the lives of everyone around him. The earthen hut was replaced by a proper house. The man who had grown up without trousers now wore the widest pants in the entire region. His wife was dressed in gold and silk. Khoshal had become a skilled businessman. He threw himself fearlessly into one business venture after another, usually with success. And if he ever lost money, he always found a way to bounce back. It was as if he had a hidden gold reserve somewhere. His livelihood was marked by abundance. This came as no surprise, for Khoshal was, as mentioned, both brave and generous.

Khoshal’s character didn’t change. He was still the same man everyone had always known. He had gone from having nothing to having everything in worldly terms, but he had always kept his dignity and still did. By now, he owned half the town. A town he spent less and less time in because his business kept him constantly on the move. He traded across all the Stan countries. When his goods arrived from one place to another, it was an event. He had spent his childhood playing. Now he spent his adult life doing the same. He just didn’t have as much time to play with his wife anymore. They were no longer barefoot. Their hair was no longer sun-bleached. They were well off. Financially.

Thus, the years went by. His hair was not even black anymore. Khoshal was called gray-bearded. He had grown old. Mina had as well. They had had a good life. A long life together. Sometimes they had more time together, other times less, but they were always connected on a spiritual level. They had been married since they were newborns. But Khoshal had grown old. He missed his first time on this earth. Wealth no longer interested him. The silk and gold meant nothing to him. He had put his hand in the grave once and received everything one could wish for in this life. But he missed being naked on an earthen floor surrounded by women. As he had come into the world, he apparently wished to leave it the same way.

At least Mina heard that Khoshal had married again. In Uzbekistan, they said. What Khoshal wanted with an Uzbek woman, she did not understand. What a gray-bearded man wanted with a young girl, she did not understand either. Khoshal, who had gotten everything, apparently wanted more, she thought.

When Khoshal saddled his horse to set out on yet another business venture, Mina, as usual, stood ready to say farewell to him. He was going to Uzbekistan. She said goodbye to her husband with the words: “May this be the last time I see you.” Khoshal was puzzled by the wording and thought long about what hidden meaning there might be in this prayer. He knew that one should not always take everything literally.

Khoshal rode away. The weeks passed as usual when Khoshal was gone. One day, a neighing was heard outside Khoshal and Mina’s house. She went down to open the gate. The horse was there. The owner was not. In the saddlebag lay a bundle. A patu was wrapped around some shapeless objects.

Ayaz Shah is a Danish-Pashtun writer and trained actor based in Copenhagen. His debut novel, La Victoria (Wadskjær Forlag, 2024), was recently adapted for the stage at Literaturhaus Copenhagen, where Shah also performed. He continues to work as an actor and storyteller, creating work that bridges cultures and challenges expectations.