| Book Name | The Pathan(English) |
| Author | Ghani Khan |
| Publish Year | 1947 |
| Publisher | University Book Agency, Peshawar |
| Language | English |
| Genre | Pashtun Culture |
| ISBN | NA |
| Download | Link |
The Pathan English Version Review:
This is the English version of Ghani Khan's book 'The Pathan', The folk-songs of a nation are its spiritual self-portraits, provided the race is primitive enough to be honest. It is easy to be honest in feeling __ one cannot help it __ but extremely difficult to be so in the expression of it, specially as men become civilized. When custom begins to dictate to instinct, when the eyes look more at the listeners than the face of the beloved, that is time when convention overcomes music, ethics overcome passion, and desire is substituted for love. So if you find the Pathan folk-songs too brutal and naked direct, do not forget that he lives a straight and primitive life in a lonely valley or small village, and is too busy worrying about the next thing to shoot, to find time to be civilized.
Let us go to his valley in Dir. There he is__ walking towards us, of medium height and sensitive build. He has long locks, neatly oiled and combed, wrapped in a red silk kerchief which is twisted round the head like the crown of Caesar. He wears a flower in his hair and collyrium in his eye. His lips are dyed red with walnut bark. He carries his sitar in his hand and his rifle at his shoulder. You would think he is very effeminate until you looked at his eyes. They are clear, manly and bold. They do not know fear, and won’t live long enough to know death. He pays the most lavish price for the made-up eyes and painted lips. This son of the bravest tribe of the Pathans never takes cover in
a fight and always laughs and sings when he is frightened. He will soon die fighting, a man as brave and strong and handsome as he, for he knows only how to love and laugh and fight and nothing else. He is taught nothing else. Let us listen to his song:
O the flowers are lined
In your hair
And your eyes, O my beloved,
Are like the flowers of Narcissus.
O my priceless rare treasure,
O my life, O my soul,
O my little mountain poppy,
You are my morning star,
You the flower on the slope,
You the white snow on the peak.
Your laughter is the waterfall,
Your whispers the evening breeze.
O my branch of apple-blossom,
Who split moonlight in your eyes?
O my little butterfly,
Come and live in my heart.
