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were less inhibited. Their faces became ugly and contorted as the fight grew bloodier, and
they ran into the pit to shout bets and punch the air.
By the end of the second round, both birds were exhausted and bleeding. They hung off
each other, their necks entwined, before stepping back and launching themselves into the air,
kicking furiously. Some way into the third round, the black-flecked bird suddenly stumbled.
One of his wings rested on the ground. The men around me yelled, “He's blinded!”
I turned to Karim and asked, “Surely they'll stop the fight now?”
He shook his head. “Do you know how much money is riding on this? More than thirty
thousand dollars! They'll do anything to make sure he can fight on!”
There was pandemonium as the spectators milled around the pit and the
abdar
locked the
stricken bird between his legs and stitched a gash that had opened under the bird's darkened
eye socket. Then he rummaged through his pockets for a replacement for the bird's shattered
beak.Someoneloudlyaccusedthe
abdar
ofimproperlyinterruptingthefight.Othersretorted
that he was behaving within the rules.
The
abdar
cradled the black-flecked bird, who it was now clear had been paralyzed. His
singleeyestared,dyinganduncomprehending.Moneystartedchanginghands—moremoney
than I had ever seen in Afghanistan. The nephew of the famous warlord went off in his Land
Cruiser with his bodyguards.
At the end of the fight, Hafiz rose from his place at the side of the pit. It was getting dark;
his fight and several others would have to wait until the following day. He put his bird into a
boxonthebackofhisbicycleandpedaledoff.Butwhenhereappearedthenextmorning,the
bird's face was a shade darker than it had been, and his eyes were listless and dull. Wheth-
er from being kept the whole of the previous day in the chilly factory or from being moved
around in Hafiz's drafty box, he had caught a chill.
Later I learned that Hafiz's partners in the syndicate had urged him to withdraw the bird
and pay Zilgai the standard forfeit, but he had insisted the fight go ahead. Was it a kind of
madness, or the need to gamble, that led him to field a bird that was sure to lose? At times,
over the course of the three rounds he fought that day, Hafiz's bird came to life, and Hafiz
withhim,jerkinghislittlelimbs,his
dastmal
overhishead—afightingcockinaman'sbody.
But the bird with the white-flecked saddle landed only a few good hits. It was a battle of
attrition, which only the brothers' stronger, fitter bird could win.
That night Hafiz stayed up, sweating him, murmuring to him. At dawn he failed to crow.
It was a terrible omen. Hafiz brought him back to the tile factory. The bird's face was almost
black. The fight restarted.
A more futile, avoidable death cannot be imagined. The decisive blow, inevitably, was a
spur in the eye. Hafiz's bird staggered backward, and the assembled cockers turned on him
with their usual vitriol. The
abdar
brought the bird over to Hafiz, who looked down and ex-
claimed, “No! God! It's all gone bad!” Zilgai and Sabur smiled.
