EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

and the evening notes of the Muezzin's voice floats up
in the still air to the hills, a man comes out of his rough
shanty and faces the sunset.

He listens intent, and bows his head to the ground.
Long minutes he spends on the ground, bowing till the
grey head touches the fringe of his mat. The palms of
the hand are laid flat on the ground, the knees are
drawn up to the chest.

Then he straightens himself, bows once with the head
only, and looks below him to the valley of Paghman.

The mullah, solitary and content with a satisfaction
unknown in the West, considers his time and his epoch.
He brings to the task a detached and independent view-
point unattainable by the irreligious. He calls on the
wisdom of a hundred years, the learning of one holy
book, the traditions of a rigid caste. He is of another
age, unchangeable.

He watches progress under the reign of King Nadir
Shah. Down below where the valley unfolds before his
old eyes, he has seen progress before. It was startling
enough, it brought strange noises and strange sights.
He saw motor cars come. He saw buildings rise with
a clatter of many workmen aided by many ingenious
devices.

He was interested, but never materially.

He remembers the time when the evening voice from
the Mosque was hard to hear, up the hill. Only the faint
echo of it came to his waiting ears. The long wailing
note reached him through the screech of motor horns, the
clatter of crowds, the clash of massed bands and the
tramp of marching feet.

There were flags in the valley, and before him a great
gross pink building arose, whose meaning he did not
trouble to inquire. He had heard it was to house a
modern invention for the amusement of the people* He

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