Elissa Bogos 10/28/09
Through centuries of conflict, fortunetellers have been a steady source of consolation for Afghans. Some date their practice to the time of Alexander the Great, whose army sought out soothsayers during its conquest of the region. Today, falbins, as they are known, operate in Kabul out of small shops, shacks or on street corners outside mosques and shrines. Their popularity is persisting, despite the occasional police sweep and criticism from mullahs, who believe their practices to be un-Islamic.
A small row of falbin shops lines a quiet side street near downtown Kabul’s Shaw-e-Du-Sham-Shera Mosque. Said Reza, who has been practicing fortune telling for 15 years, sits in his small shop surrounded by books and stacks of paper bearing charts with Arabic numerals written in red ink. The charts, he says, are to help determine which Koran passage is appropriate for a client. Many of Said Reza’s customers come to him for health reasons, and he can readily locate Koran passages that will assist those suffering from stomach aliments, toothaches and migraine headaches.
For stomach problems, Said Reza says he submerges a piece of paper with a verse of the Koran written on it that roughly translates, “You are the crown in the world and the afterlife.” After drinking the water, the customer places the wet scrap of paper somewhere, often in a nook in a wall in their home. “Then, they become better. The Koran is better than a doctor,” Said Reza says.
Norandorseng, a Sikh who was born in Afghanistan and says he worked with the Afghan government in security during the Communist era back in the early 1990s. Now, he spends most days sitting on the floor of his shop in Kabul’s Karte Parwan neighborhood where he sells traditional Indian medicine and tells fortunes. “Muslims come to me with their problems because they trust Indians,” he says.
Norandorseng, a Sikh fortuneteller with a shop in Kabul's Karte Parwan neighborhood, says Muslims come to see him for help because people trust Indians. He admits he himself doesn't believe in his work but does it to make a living. (Photo by Elissa Bogos)
“The first question I ask customers is whether or not they trust me. If the answer is yes, I begin work and give them a verse from my book that they will then put under their pillow. If they say no, I tell them to leave my shop,” Norandorseng added.
His book, written in Punjabi and full of numerical charts, is not a holy one, he said, going on to express disapproval of falbins who use the Koran. “The Koran is so holy. When they give a Koran verse to a customer to help them with, for example, a heart condition, if the customer is not cured, then he becomes angry and will curse the falbin and throw the piece of paper with the holy verse on the ground.”
Norandorseng suddenly takes on a serious look. “I don’t actually believe in what I do; only Muslim people believe in this. I’m just forced to do it to make a living,” he admitted.
For 75-year-old Mullah Matghaus of Kabul, falbins are not to be trusted. Though the bedridden mullah writes Koran verses for people suffering health and psychological ailments, he emphasized that he uses only the Koran — no dice or other objects — to help a visitor. “If I go to the mountainous Panjshir Valley and I ask a falbin to tell me which mountains are full of emeralds and gold, they won’t be able to do it. No one can. These men who are working as falbins are doing wrong,” he said.
Said Ahmad, a native of the Panjshir, has worked as a falbin for 30 years. Over a cup of dark tea, he said that he entered into his line of work because his grandfather was also a falbin. Out of his six brothers, Said Ahmad is the only falbin. “My father chose me because of my memory,” he said.
Said Ahmad confesses that he owns a restaurant and doesn’t need the income from being a falbin, but that he continues to practice because he likes it. Some would say he is good at it.
Ramin, a spiky-haired teenager, says he has been coming to Said Ahmad with his mother since he was a young boy. “My mother had a baby last month, and the child is very small. But we keep coming to Said Ahmad for help, and my little brother is getting better. I believe in his work 100 percent,” he says. Said Ahmad’s eyes become bright as he again recites the Koran passage that he gave Ramin for his little brother, the words tumbling rhythmically from the falbin’s lips.
When another customer enters the shop, Said Ahmad asks him his name and hands him a set of old, bronze dice inscribed with Arabic letters. The customer throws the dice and the two men look at the upturned letters and laugh. Putting on his glasses, Said Ahmad matches the letters to a mathematical table and then consults the Koran. He raises his eyebrows, his customer staring at him intently. “Listen well,” he begins.
Editor’s Note: Elissa Bogos is a journalist and photographer based in Kabul.
Afghan Hindus and Sikhs 
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