Afghanistan has been much in the news in recent times, particularly since the attack on the World Trade Centre in New York. But long, long before that there were Afghans who struck terror in the hearts of people right here in Colombo.

The Afghans were a small community in this country too, over fifty years ago, and a community of men, mostly, whose size, stature and mode of dress struck terror in the hearts of little boys like myself, and also, for another reason, in the hearts of indigent public servants and other employees in the mercantile service.

The Afghans of Colombo lived mainly in Slave Island, in places like Mews Street and Java Lane. Several of them ‘clubbed’ together in a small house, sharing the expenses of rent, food and so on. Whether they had wives here was rarely known, for these Afghans were a reticent lot, rarely socialising with others of other communities. Nevertheless, they were an essential ingredient in the day-to-day life of people as a whole.

White collar workers, in those bad old colonial days, were an underpaid lot. A clerk would be paid anything between thirty to fifty rupees a month, and this was barely enough to keep the wolf from the door. To augment this meagre income, many of them turned to horse-racing, which at that time was called "The king of sports and the sport of kings".

Of course, the odds were always against the punter, else the ‘bookie’ would not be in business for very long.

The only alternative available to the white collar worker, apart from winning a ‘double’ or a ‘treble’ at the races, was recourse to the Afghan money-lender.

The Afghan, once he came to know where you worked, in what capacity, and for how much, would readily lend you money, provided you were recommended by one of his clients, you signed a promissory note, and you paid him every month the interest due on the loan, which varied from 10 to 25 percent per month.

Of course, few white collar workers realised that once they borrowed money from the Afghan, it was like catching the tiger by his tail. You could not let go and you could not hold on to it.

On his monthly salary, the white collar worker could not pay more than the monthly interest on the loan. The only way to repay the whole loan would be to win a "windfall" at the races.

So the poor borrower could get deeper in debt.

It used to be said in those days, that even an exalted personality like the Auditor General had fallen into the clutches of the Afghans, for he was, like many others, a gambler at the Turf Club. It was bruited around that every pay-day, he would sneak out of his office in Union Place through the back door because Afghans were hovering around the main entrance, waiting to collect their ‘interest’ on loans given to him.

The Auditor General eventually got his ‘windfall’ when world war II broke out, and settled all his debts, but that is another story.

A colleague of mine, and a close relative, now gone to his eternal rest, was one of those unfortunate white collar workers who fell into the hands of an Afghan. The money-lender, when the interest had not been paid for some months and the debtor had changed his place of work, had managed to find out where he lived and had called there one day.

His wife, that evening, greeted her better half with the words: "There was an Arab who came to see you today. He did not say why he wanted to meet you, but said you will understand."

Needless to say, the man somehow raised the money to pay off the loan plus interest and get the Afghan off his back.

No wonder his wife, who had never seen an Arab or an Afghan, except perhaps in an illustrated magazine, mistakenly called him an Arab.

The Afghan generally wore a loose baggy pair of white cotton trousers, an equally loose fitting, equally baggy long sleeved shirt with a multi-coloured sleeveless waistcoat over it. On his head he wore a pointed white cap around which was wrapped a white cotton turban. No wonder then that the poor lady mistook him for an Arab!

Shortly before the Afghans of Slave Island disappeared from our ken, I had the good fortune to pal up with one of them. He told this scribbler that they were not really Afghans.

"We come from Baluchistan," he said. But to us they will always be Afghans.