"Iknow,Iknow.But he's alwaysburied in thosebooksor shufflingaroundthe houselike he'slostinsomedream.""And?""I wasn't like that"Baba soundedfrustrated, almost angry.Rahim Khan laughed."Children aren't coloring books. You don'tget to fill them with yourfavorite colors.""'m telling you,"Baba said,"I wasn't like that at all, and neither were any ofthe kidsI grewupwith.""Youknow, sometimesyouare themost self-centered man Iknow,"Rahim Khan said.He wastheonlypersonIknew who could get awaywith sayingsomething likethatto Baba."Ithasnothingtodowiththat.""Nay?""Nay.""Then what?"Iheard theleather of Baba's seatcreaking as he shifted on it.Iclosedmyeyes,pressedmyearevenharderagainstthedoor,wantingtohear,notwantingtohear."SometimesIlook outthiswindow and I see him playing on the street with the neighborhood boys.I see how they pushhimaround,takehistoysfromhim,givehimashovehere,awhackthere.And,youknow,heneverfightsback.Never.He just...dropshis head and...""Sohe'snotviolent,"RahimKhansaid
“I know, I know. But he’s always buried in those books or shuffling around the house like he’s lost in some dream.” “And?” “I wasn’t like that.” Baba sounded frustrated, almost angry. Rahim Khan laughed. “Children aren’t coloring books. You don’t get to fill them with your favorite colors.” “I’m telling you,” Baba said, “I wasn’t like that at all, and neither were any of the kids I grew up with.” “You know, sometimes you are the most self-centered man I know,” Rahim Khan said. He was the only person I knew who could get away with saying something like that to Baba. “It has nothing to do with that.” “Nay?” “Nay.” “Then what?” I heard the leather of Baba’s seat creaking as he shifted on it. I closed my eyes, pressed my ear even harder against the door, wanting to hear, not wanting to hear. “Sometimes I look out this window and I see him playing on the street with the neighborhood boys. I see how they push him around, take his toys from him, give him a shove here, a whack there. And, you know, he never fights back. Never. He just. drops his head and.” “So he’s not violent,” Rahim Khan said
"That's not whatImean,Rahim, and youknowit,"Baba shot back."There is somethingmissinginthatboy.""Yes,amean streak.""Self-defensehasnothingtodowithmeanness.Youknowwhatalwayshappenswhentheneighborhood boysteasehim? Hassan steps in andfends themoff.I'veseen it withmyowneyes.Andwhenthey comehome,Isayto him,'HowdidHassangetthat scrapeon hisface?'Andhesays,"Hefell down.'I'mtelling you,Rahim,there is somethingmissing in that boy.""Youjustneedto lethimfindhisway"RahimKhan said."Andwhereisheheaded?"Babasaid."Aboywhowon'tstandupforhimselfbecomesamanwho can't standupto anything.""Asusualyou're oversimplifying.""Idon'tthinkso.""You're angrybecause you're afraid he'll never take over the business for you.""Nowwho's oversimplifying?"Baba said."Look,Iknowthere's afondness between you andhimand I'm happyaboutthat.Envious,buthappy.Imean that.Heneeds someonewho..understandshim,becauseGodknowsIdon't.Butsomething aboutAmirtroublesme in away that I can't express.It's like.."I could see him searching,reaching for the right words. Helowered his voice, but I heard him anyway."ifI hadn't seen the doctor pull him out of my wifewith myowneyes, I'd never believe he'smy son."THENEXTMORNING,as he was preparing mybreakfast, Hassan asked if something wasbotheringme.Isnappedathim,toldhimtomindhisownbusiness
“That’s not what I mean, Rahim, and you know it,” Baba shot back. “There is something missing in that boy.” “Yes, a mean streak.” “Self-defense has nothing to do with meanness. You know what always happens when the neighborhood boys tease him? Hassan steps in and fends them off. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And when they come home, I say to him, ‘How did Hassan get that scrape on his face?’ And he says, ‘He fell down.’ I’m telling you, Rahim, there is something missing in that boy.” “You just need to let him find his way,” Rahim Khan said. “And where is he headed?” Baba said. “A boy who won’t stand up for himself becomes a man who can’t stand up to anything.” “As usual you’re oversimplifying.” “I don’t think so.” “You’re angry because you’re afraid he’ll never take over the business for you.” “Now who’s oversimplifying?” Baba said. “Look, I know there’s a fondness between you and him and I’m happy about that. Envious, but happy. I mean that. He needs someone who.understands him, because God knows I don’t. But something about Amir troubles me in a way that I can’t express. It’s like.” I could see him searching, reaching for the right words. He lowered his voice, but I heard him anyway. “If I hadn’t seen the doctor pull him out of my wife with my own eyes, I’d never believe he’s my son.” THE NEXT MORNING, as he was preparing my breakfast, Hassan asked if something was bothering me. I snapped at him, told him to mind his own business
RahimKhanhadbeenwrongaboutthemeanstreakthingFOURIn1933,theyearBabawasbornandtheyearZahirShahbeganhisforty-yearreignofAfghanistan,twobrothers,youngmen froma wealthyand reputablefamily inKabul,got behindthe wheel of their father's Ford roadster.High on hashish and_mast_ on French wine,theystruckandkilledaHazarahusbandandwifeontheroadtoPaghman.Thepolicebroughtthesomewhatcontriteyoungmenandthedeadcouple'sfive-year-oldorphanboybeforemygrandfather, who was a highly regarded judgeand a man of impeccable reputation.After hearingthe brothers'account andtheir father's pleafor mercy,mygrandfatherorderedthe two youngmen togotoKandaharat onceandenlist in thearmyfor oneyear--this despitethefactthattheirfamilyhadsomehowmanagedtoobtainthemexemptionsfromthedraft.Theirfatherargued,butnottoovehemently,andintheend,everyoneagreedthatthepunishmenthadbeenperhaps harsh but fair.Asfortheorphan,mygrandfather adopted him into his ownhousehold,and told the other servantsto tutor him, but tobekind to him.That boywasAli.Ali and Baba grew up together as childhood playmates--at least until polio crippled Ali'sleg--justlike HassanandIgrewupa generation later.Baba wasalwaystelling us aboutthemischiefheand Ali used to cause, and Ali would shake his head and say,"But,Aghasahib, tell them whowasthearchitectofthemischiefandwhothepoorlaborer?"BabawouldlaughandthrowhisarmaroundAli.But in none of his stories did Baba ever refer to Ali as his friend.The curious thing was,I never thoughtof Hassan and me as friends either.Not in the usualsense, anyhow.Nevermind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands, orto buildafullyfunctionalhomemadecameraoutofacardboardbox.Nevermindthatwespententirewintersflyingkites,runningkites.Nevermindthattome,thefaceofAfghanistanisthatofaboywithathin-bonedframe,ashavedhead,andlow-setears,aboywithaChinesedollfaceperpetuallylitbyaharelippedsmile.Nevermindanyofthosethings.Becausehistoryisn'teasytoovercome.Neitherisreligion.Intheend,I wasa Pashtunand hewasa Hazara,I was Sunniand hewas Shi'a,andnothing wasevergoingtochangethat.Nothing
Rahim Khan had been wrong about the mean streak thing. FOUR In 1933, the year Baba was born and the year Zahir Shah began his forty-year reign of Afghanistan, two brothers, young men from a wealthy and reputable family in Kabul, got behind the wheel of their father’s Ford roadster. High on hashish and _mast_ on French wine, they struck and killed a Hazara husband and wife on the road to Paghman. The police brought the somewhat contrite young men and the dead couple’s five-year-old orphan boy before my grandfather, who was a highly regarded judge and a man of impeccable reputation. After hearing the brothers’ account and their father’s plea for mercy, my grandfather ordered the two young men to go to Kandahar at once and enlist in the army for one year-this despite the fact that their family had somehow managed to obtain them exemptions from the draft. Their father argued, but not too vehemently, and in the end, everyone agreed that the punishment had been perhaps harsh but fair. As for the orphan, my grandfather adopted him into his own household, and told the other servants to tutor him, but to be kind to him. That boy was Ali. Ali and Baba grew up together as childhood playmates-at least until polio crippled Ali’s leg-just like Hassan and I grew up a generation later. Baba was always telling us about the mischief he and Ali used to cause, and Ali would shake his head and say, “But, Agha sahib, tell them who was the architect of the mischief and who the poor laborer?” Baba would laugh and throw his arm around Ali. But in none of his stories did Baba ever refer to Ali as his friend. The curious thing was, I never thought of Hassan and me as friends either. Not in the usual sense, anyhow. Never mind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands, or to build a fully functional homemade camera out of a cardboard box. Never mind that we spent entire winters flying kites, running kites. Never mind that to me, the face of Afghanistan is that of a boy with a thin-boned frame, a shaved head, and low-set ears, a boy with a Chinese doll face perpetually lit by a harelipped smile. Never mind any of those things. Because history isn’t easy to overcome. Neither is religion. In the end, I was a Pashtun and he was a Hazara, I was Sunni and he was Shi’a, and nothing was ever going to change that. Nothing
But we werekids whohad learned to crawltogether,and no history,ethnicity,society,or religionwasgoing to change that either.Ispent mostof thefirsttwelveyears of my life playing withHassan.Sometimes,myentirechildhoodseems likeonelonglazysummer daywithHassan,chasingeachotherbetweentanglesoftrees inmyfather'syard,playinghide-and-seek,copsandrobbers,cowboysandIndians,insecttorture--withourcrowningachievementundeniablythetime weplucked the stinger off abee and tied a string aroundthe poorthing to yankit backeverytimeittookflight.Wechased the_Kochi,the nomads who passed throughKabul on their wayto themountains ofthe north.We would hear their caravans approaching our neighborhood, the mewling oftheirsheep,the_baa_ing oftheir goats,thejingle ofbells aroundtheir camels'necks.We'd runoutsidetowatchthecaravanplodthroughourstreet,menwithdusty,weather-beatenfacesandwomendressed in long,colorfulshawls,beads,andsilverbracelets aroundtheir wrists andankles.We hurled pebbles attheirgoats.We squirted wateron theirmules. I'd make Hassan sitontheWall ofAiling Cornandfirepebbleswithhisslingshotatthecamelsrears.WesawourfirstWesterntogether,_RioBravo_withJohnWayne,attheCinemaPark,acrossthestreetfrommyfavoritebookstore.IrememberbeggingBabatotakeusto Iransowecould meetJohn Wayne.Baba burstout in gales of his deepthroated laughter--asound notunlike a truckengine revving up--and, when he could talk again, explained to usthe concept ofvoice dubbing.HassanandIwerestunned.Dazed.JohnWaynedidn't reallyspeakFarsiandhewasn'tIranian!HewasAmerican,just likethefriendly,longhairedmen andwomenwealwayssawhangingaroundinKabul,dressed intheirtattered,brightlycoloredshirts.Wesaw_RioBravo_threetimes,butwesawourfavoriteWestern,_TheMagnificentSeven_,thirteentimes.Witheachviewing, we cried at theend when the Mexican kids buried Charles Bronson--who,asit turnedout,wasn'tlranianeitherWetook strolls in themusty-smellingbazaars of the Shar-e-Nausection of Kabul, orthe new city,westof the Wazir Akbar Khan district.Wetalked about whateverfilm we had justseen andwalked amidthebustlingcrowdsof_bazarris_.Wesnakedour wayamongthemerchants andthe beggars, wandered through narrow alleys cramped with rows of tiny,tightly packed stalls.BabagaveuseachaweeklyallowanceoftenAfghanisandwespentitonwarmCoca-Colaandrosewatericecreamtoppedwithcrushedpistachios.During the school year, we had a daily routine. By the timeI dragged myself out of bed andlumberedto thebathroom,Hassanhad alreadywashedup,prayedthemorning_namaz_withAli, and prepared mybreakfast: hot black tea with three sugarcubes anda slice of toasted_naan_topped withmyfavorite sourcherrymarmalade,all neatlyplaced on thedining table.WhileIateandcomplainedabouthomework,Hassanmademybed,polishedmyshoes,ironedmyoutfitfortheday,packedmybooksandpencils.I'dhearhimsingingtohimself inthefoyeras
But we were kids who had learned to crawl together, and no history, ethnicity, society, or religion was going to change that either. I spent most of the first twelve years of my life playing with Hassan. Sometimes, my entire childhood seems like one long lazy summer day with Hassan, chasing each other between tangles of trees in my father’s yard, playing hide-and-seek, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, insect torture-with our crowning achievement undeniably the time we plucked the stinger off a bee and tied a string around the poor thing to yank it back every time it took flight. We chased the _Kochi_, the nomads who passed through Kabul on their way to the mountains of the north. We would hear their caravans approaching our neighborhood, the mewling of their sheep, the _baa_ing of their goats, the jingle of bells around their camels’ necks. We’d run outside to watch the caravan plod through our street, men with dusty, weather-beaten faces and women dressed in long, colorful shawls, beads, and silver bracelets around their wrists and ankles. We hurled pebbles at their goats. We squirted water on their mules. I’d make Hassan sit on the Wall of Ailing Corn and fire pebbles with his slingshot at the camels’ rears. We saw our first Western together, _Rio Bravo_ with John Wayne, at the Cinema Park, across the street from my favorite bookstore. I remember begging Baba to take us to Iran so we could meet John Wayne. Baba burst out in gales of his deepthroated laughter-a sound not unlike a truck engine revving up-and, when he could talk again, explained to us the concept of voice dubbing. Hassan and I were stunned. Dazed. John Wayne didn’t really speak Farsi and he wasn’t Iranian! He was American, just like the friendly, longhaired men and women we always saw hanging around in Kabul, dressed in their tattered, brightly colored shirts. We saw _Rio Bravo_ three times, but we saw our favorite Western, _The Magnificent Seven_, thirteen times. With each viewing, we cried at the end when the Mexican kids buried Charles Bronson-who, as it turned out, wasn’t Iranian either. We took strolls in the musty-smelling bazaars of the Shar-e-Nau section of Kabul, or the new city, west of the Wazir Akbar Khan district. We talked about whatever film we had just seen and walked amid the bustling crowds of _bazarris_. We snaked our way among the merchants and the beggars, wandered through narrow alleys cramped with rows of tiny, tightly packed stalls. Baba gave us each a weekly allowance of ten Afghanis and we spent it on warm Coca-Cola and rosewater ice cream topped with crushed pistachios. During the school year, we had a daily routine. By the time I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered to the bathroom, Hassan had already washed up, prayed the morning _namaz_ with Ali, and prepared my breakfast: hot black tea with three sugar cubes and a slice of toasted _naan_ topped with my favorite sour cherry marmalade, all neatly placed on the dining table. While I ate and complained about homework, Hassan made my bed, polished my shoes, ironed my outfit for the day, packed my books and pencils. I’d hear him singing to himself in the foyer as
he ironed,singing old Hazara songsin his nasal voice.Then, Baba andIdroveoff in his black FordMustang-a carthat drew envious looks everywhere becauseit was the same car SteveMcQueen had driven in_Bullitt_afilmthatplayed inonetheaterfor sixmonths.Hassan stayedhome and helped Ali with the day's chores: hand-washing dirty clothes and hangingthem to dryintheyard,sweepingthefloors,buyingfresh_naan_fromthebazaar,marinatingmeatfordinner,wateringthelawn.Afterschool, Hassan andImetup,grabbeda book,andtrotted upa bowl-shapedhill justnorthofmyfather'spropertyinWazirAkbarKhan.Therewasanoldabandonedcemeteryatopthehillwith rows ofunmarked headstones andtangles ofbrushwood clogging theaisles.Seasons ofrain and snow had turned the iron gaterustyand left the cemetery's low white stone walls indecay.There was a pomegranatetree nearthe entrance to the cemetery.One summer day,!used one of Ali's kitchen knivesto carve ournames on it:"Amir and Hassan,the sultans ofKabul."Thosewordsmadeitformal:thetreewasours.Afterschool,HassanandIclimbed itsbranches andsnatched itsbloodredpomegranates.Afterwe'd eatenthefruitand wiped ourhandson thegrass,I would read to Hassan,Sitting cross-legged,sunlightand shadowsof pomegranateleaves dancing on his face, Hassanabsently plucked blades of grassfromthe groundasIread him stories he couldn't read forhimself.That Hassan would growup illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided theminutehe had been born, perhaps even themoment hehad been conceived in Sanaubar'sunwelcomingwomb--afterall,whatusedidaservanthaveforthewrittenword?Butdespitehisilliteracy,ormaybebecauseofit,Hassanwasdrawntothemysteryofwords,seducedbyasecret worldforbidden to him.I read him poems andstories, sometimes riddles--thoughlstoppedreadingthosewhenIsawhewasfarbetteratsolvingthemthanIwas.SoIreadhimunchallenging things, likethemisadventures ofthebumbling MullahNasruddinand his donkey.We sat for hours under that tree, sat there until the sun faded in the west,and still Hassaninsistedwehadenoughdaylightforonemorestory,onemorechapter.Myfavoritepart of readingto Hassan was when wecameacrossa big wordthathedidn'tknow.I'dtease him, exposehis ignorance.One time,I was reading him a Mullah Nasruddin storyandhestoppedme."Whatdoesthatwordmean?""Whichone?""Imbecile
he ironed, singing old Hazara songs in his nasal voice. Then, Baba and I drove off in his black Ford Mustang-a car that drew envious looks everywhere because it was the same car Steve McQueen had driven in _Bullitt_, a film that played in one theater for six months. Hassan stayed home and helped Ali with the day’s chores: hand-washing dirty clothes and hanging them to dry in the yard, sweeping the floors, buying fresh _naan_ from the bazaar, marinating meat for dinner, watering the lawn. After school, Hassan and I met up, grabbed a book, and trotted up a bowl-shaped hill just north of my father’s property in Wazir Akbar Khan. There was an old abandoned cemetery atop the hill with rows of unmarked headstones and tangles of brushwood clogging the aisles. Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty and left the cemetery’s low white stone walls in decay. There was a pomegranate tree near the entrance to the cemetery. One summer day, I used one of Ali’s kitchen knives to carve our names on it: “Amir and Hassan, the sultans of Kabul.” Those words made it formal: the tree was ours. After school, Hassan and I climbed its branches and snatched its bloodred pomegranates. After we’d eaten the fruit and wiped our hands on the grass, I would read to Hassan. Sitting cross-legged, sunlight and shadows of pomegranate leaves dancing on his face, Hassan absently plucked blades of grass from the ground as I read him stories he couldn’t read for himself. That Hassan would grow up illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided the minute he had been born, perhaps even the moment he had been conceived in Sanaubar’s unwelcoming womb-after all, what use did a servant have for the written word? But despite his illiteracy, or maybe because of it, Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words, seduced by a secret world forbidden to him. I read him poems and stories, sometimes riddles-though I stopped reading those when I saw he was far better at solving them than I was. So I read him unchallenging things, like the misadventures of the bumbling Mullah Nasruddin and his donkey. We sat for hours under that tree, sat there until the sun faded in the west, and still Hassan insisted we had enough daylight for one more story, one more chapter. My favorite part of reading to Hassan was when we came across a big word that he didn’t know. I’d tease him, expose his ignorance. One time, I was reading him a Mullah Nasruddin story and he stopped me. “What does that word mean?” “Which one?” “Imbecile