For a Pagan Song

<h1>Jonny Bealby's books</h1> <img src="images/forapagansongcover.jpg" alt="For a Pagan Song cover" /> For a Pagan Song: Chapter 13: Having just arrived over the pass from Afghanistan into the valleys of the Kalash, Northwest Pakistan… An extraordinary sound made me pull up short. Standing alone, I peered surreptitiously around the wizened trunk of a huge tree, which shaded the path from the late-summer sun. At first I couldn’t see where the strange sound had come from. Before me was an orchard and beyond that a river and an arid cliff. I could see no people at all. There it was again, floating like birdsong on the tranquil air. Remaining hidden, I followed the sound’s trajectory to the base of a tree. A young woman in a long black dress, her neck adorned with a multitude of red and yellow beaded necklaces and her wrists by jangling bracelets, sat rocking back and forth with obvious delight. On her head a beaded band rested like a crown. I stared captivated. Her peels of laughter were one of the most beautiful sounds I’d ever heard. To get a better view I moved quickly and quietly to the other side of the tree. From here I could see the outline of her friend. Older, maybe in her early twenties, her cheeks were also burning with merriment. She seemed to be telling a story. Reaching the conclusion, she slapped her hand hard against her friend’s leg, threw her head back – making her colourful head-dress tumble down her back – and fell forward on to the other. The giggling was so infectious I found that I was smiling too. In Nuristan Islamic traditions had run deep and the women had made a determined – and successful – effort to avoid letting their faces be seen. The last time I had cast my eyes on such a lovely image had been when passing the singing Passia girl in the fields above Dawlat Shah. Since then I had not so much as caught a glimpse of a young woman’s face, never mind heard her voice or laughter. For more than five weeks I had not heard a combustion engine, touched an inch of asphalt or seen a vehicle – all of which had given me much satisfaction – but until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me that all those days had passed without my seeing something as natural as the spectacle that now appeared before me. And now that it did, I couldn’t take my eyes from it. Like Mowgli at the water hole I was mesmerised. Suddenly, a young girl shrieked. Swinging skilfully from a low branch above the women she landed on her feet and pointed at me. Only six or seven she didn’t appear angry, just surprised. She wasn’t the only one. Watching the women, I’d failed to notice the child in the tree above and, lulled by the laughter, had allowed myself to be drawn into the open. Now, I’d been caught red-handed… a voyeur! In Nuristan, committing such a crime would have lead to a sorry conclusion. Greatly embarrassed, I hurriedly turned my face away. ‘Hey baya,’ called the woman who’d first caught my attention. She beckoned with her hand. ‘Kawa pariz?’ I didn’t understand the words but the gesture needed little translation. Smiling, she was indicating that I should join them. The idea, after living for weeks under strict Islamic code, seemed preposterous. I studied the ground. ‘Baya, baya.’ This time it was her friend who called and I looked up again. She had moved from under the tree and now stood with both hands on her hips; it was stance that said, ‘Come on, we won’t bite.’ When she waved again, I placed my bag on the wall and climbed over to the other side to join them.