"Youdon'tknowwhatitmeans?"Isaid,grinning."Nay,Amiragha.""Butit'ssuchacommonword!""Still,Idon'tknowit."Ifhefeltthestingofmytease,hissmilingfacedidn'tshowit."Well,everyoneinmyschoolknowswhatitmeans,"Isaid."Let'ssee."Imbecile.'Itmeanssmart,intelligent.I'll useitinasentenceforyou.Whenit comestowords,Hassanisanimbecile.!""Aaah,"hesaid, nodding.I would alwaysfeel guilty about it later.So I'd try to make up for it by giving him one of my oldshirts or a broken toy.I would tell myselfthat was amends enoughfora harmless prank.Hassan'sfavoritebookbyfarwasthe_Shahnamah_,thetenth-centuryepicofancientPersianheroes. Heliked all of the chapters, the shahsof old, Feridoun,Zal, and Rudabeh.But his favoritestory,and mine, was"Rostamand Sohrab,"thetale ofthe great warrior Rostam andhis fleet-footedhorse,Rakhsh.Rostammortallywoundshisvaliantnemesis,Sohrab,inbattle,onlytodiscoverthat Sohrabishislong-lostson.Strickenwithgrief,Rostamhearshisson'sdyingwords:Ifthouart indeedmyfather,thenhastthoustainedthysword inthelife-bloodofthyson.Andthoudidstitofthineobstinacy.ForIsoughttoturntheeuntolove,andIimploredoftheethyname, forIthoughtto behold in thee thetokens recountedofmymother.ButIappealed untothy heart in vain, and nowisthetimegonefor meeting..."Readitagainplease,Amiragha,"Hassanwouldsay.SometimestearspooledinHassan'seyesasIreadhimthispassage,andIalwayswonderedwhomheweptfor,thegrief-strickenRostamwhotearshisclothes andcovers his headwithashes,orthedyingSohrabwhoonlylongedforhis father's love? Personally,I couldn'tsee the tragedy in Rostam'sfate.After all, didn'tallfathers intheirsecret hearts harboradesiretokill theirsons?
“You don’t know what it means?” I said, grinning. “Nay, Amir agha.” “But it’s such a common word!” “Still, I don’t know it.” If he felt the sting of my tease, his smiling face didn’t show it. “Well, everyone in my school knows what it means,” I said. “Let’s see. ‘Imbecile.’ It means smart, intelligent. I’ll use it in a sentence for you. ‘When it comes to words, Hassan is an imbecile.’” “Aaah,” he said, nodding. I would always feel guilty about it later. So I’d try to make up for it by giving him one of my old shirts or a broken toy. I would tell myself that was amends enough for a harmless prank. Hassan’s favorite book by far was the _Shahnamah_, the tenth-century epic of ancient Persian heroes. He liked all of the chapters, the shahs of old, Feridoun, Zal, and Rudabeh. But his favorite story, and mine, was “Rostam and Sohrab,” the tale of the great warrior Rostam and his fleetfooted horse, Rakhsh. Rostam mortally wounds his valiant nemesis, Sohrab, in battle, only to discover that Sohrab is his long-lost son. Stricken with grief, Rostam hears his son’s dying words: If thou art indeed my father, then hast thou stained thy sword in the life-blood of thy son. And thou didst it of thine obstinacy. For I sought to turn thee unto love, and I implored of thee thy name, for I thought to behold in thee the tokens recounted of my mother. But I appealed unto thy heart in vain, and now is the time gone for meeting. “Read it again please, Amir agha,” Hassan would say. Sometimes tears pooled in Hassan’s eyes as I read him this passage, and I always wondered whom he wept for, the grief-stricken Rostam who tears his clothes and covers his head with ashes, or the dying Sohrab who only longed for his father’s love? Personally, I couldn’t see the tragedy in Rostam’s fate. After all, didn’t all fathers in their secret hearts harbor a desire to kill their sons?
Oneday,inJuly1973,IplayedanotherlittletrickonHassan.Iwasreadingtohim,andsuddenlystrayedfromthe written story.I pretendedI was reading fromthe book,flipping pages regularly,butIhadabandonedthetextaltogether,takenoverthestory,andmadeupmyown.Hassan,ofcourse,was oblivious tothis.To him,the words on thepage werea scramble ofcodes,indecipherable,mysterious.WordsweresecretdoorwaysandIheldall thekeys.After,Istartedtoaskhim if he'd liked thestory,agigglerising inmythroat,when Hassanbegan toclap."What areyoudoing?"Isaid."That wasthe best storyyou'veread me in a long time,"he said, still clapping.Ilaughed."Really?""Really.""That'sfascinating"Imuttered.Imeant ittoo.Thiswas...whollyunexpected."Areyousure,Hassan?"Hewasstill clapping."It wasgreat, Amir agha.Will youread me more of it tomorrow?""Fascinating,"I repeated,a little breathless,feeling like a man whodiscoversa buried treasurein his own backyard. Walking down the hill, thoughts were exploding in my head like thefireworksat_Chaman_._Best storyyou'veread mein a long time_,he"dsaid.I had readhima_lot_ofstories.Hassanwasaskingmesomething."What?"Isaid."What does that mean,"fascinating'?"Ilaughed.Clutchedhiminahugandplantedakissonhischeek
One day, in July 1973, I played another little trick on Hassan. I was reading to him, and suddenly I strayed from the written story. I pretended I was reading from the book, flipping pages regularly, but I had abandoned the text altogether, taken over the story, and made up my own. Hassan, of course, was oblivious to this. To him, the words on the page were a scramble of codes, indecipherable, mysterious. Words were secret doorways and I held all the keys. After, I started to ask him if he’d liked the story, a giggle rising in my throat, when Hassan began to clap. “What are you doing?” I said. “That was the best story you’ve read me in a long time,” he said, still clapping. I laughed. “Really?” “Really.” “That’s fascinating,” I muttered. I meant it too. This was. wholly unexpected. “Are you sure, Hassan?” He was still clapping. “It was great, Amir agha. Will you read me more of it tomorrow?” “Fascinating,” I repeated, a little breathless, feeling like a man who discovers a buried treasure in his own backyard. Walking down the hill, thoughts were exploding in my head like the fireworks at _Chaman_. _Best story you’ve read me in a long time_, he’d said. I had read him a _lot_ of stories. Hassan was asking me something. “What?” I said. “What does that mean, ‘fascinating’?” I laughed. Clutched him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek
"Whatwasthatfor?"hesaid,startled, blushingIgavehimafriendlyshove.Smiled."You'reaprince,Hassan.You'reaprinceandIloveyou."That same night,I wrotemyfirst short story.It took me thirty minutes.It was a dark little taleaboutamanwhofoundamagiccupandlearnedthatif heweptintothecup,histearsturnedinto pearls.But even though he had alwaysbeen poor, he wasa happyman and rarely shedatear.Sohefoundwaystomakehimself sad sothathistearscouldmakehimrich.Asthepearlspiled up,so did his greed grow. The story ended with the man sitting on a mountain of pearls,knifeinhand,weepinghelplesslyintothecupwithhisbelovedwife'sslainbodyinhisarmsThatevening,IclimbedthestairsandwalkedintoBaba'ssmokingroom,inmyhandsthetwosheetsofpaperonwhichIhadscribbledthestory.BabaandRahimKhanweresmokingpipesandsippingbrandywhenIcamein"What is it, Amir?" Baba said, reclining on the sofa and lacing his hands behindhis head.Bluesmoke swirled around his face. His glare made my throat feel dry.I cleared it and told him I'dwrittenastoryBabanoddedandgaveathinsmilethatconveyed littlemorethanfeigned interest."Well,that'svery good,isn'tit?"he said.Then nothingmore. Hejustlooked at methroughthe cloud ofsmoke.I probablystoodtherefor undera minute, but,to this day,it was one ofthe longestminutes ofmylife.Secondsploddedby,each separatedfromthenext byan eternity.Airgrew heavydamp,almost solid.Iwas breathing bricks.Baba wenton staringme down,and didn't offerto read.As always,it was Rahim Khan whorescued me.He held out his hand andfavored me with asmilethathadnothingfeignedabout it."MayIhaveit,Amirjan?Iwouldverymuchliketoreadit." Babahardly everusedtheterm of endearment jan_when headdressed me.Babashruggedand stoodup.Helooked relieved,as ifhetoohadbeen rescuedbyRahimKhan."Yes, give it to Kaka Rahim. I'm going upstairs to get ready." And with that, he left the room
“What was that for?” he said, startled, blushing. I gave him a friendly shove. Smiled. “You’re a prince, Hassan. You’re a prince and I love you.” That same night, I wrote my first short story. It took me thirty minutes. It was a dark little tale about a man who found a magic cup and learned that if he wept into the cup, his tears turned into pearls. But even though he had always been poor, he was a happy man and rarely shed a tear. So he found ways to make himself sad so that his tears could make him rich. As the pearls piled up, so did his greed grow. The story ended with the man sitting on a mountain of pearls, knife in hand, weeping helplessly into the cup with his beloved wife’s slain body in his arms. That evening, I climbed the stairs and walked into Baba’s smoking room, in my hands the two sheets of paper on which I had scribbled the story. Baba and Rahim Khan were smoking pipes and sipping brandy when I came in. “What is it, Amir?” Baba said, reclining on the sofa and lacing his hands behind his head. Blue smoke swirled around his face. His glare made my throat feel dry. I cleared it and told him I’d written a story. Baba nodded and gave a thin smile that conveyed little more than feigned interest. “Well, that’s very good, isn’t it?” he said. Then nothing more. He just looked at me through the cloud of smoke. I probably stood there for under a minute, but, to this day, it was one of the longest minutes of my life. Seconds plodded by, each separated from the next by an eternity. Air grew heavy damp, almost solid. I was breathing bricks. Baba went on staring me down, and didn’t offer to read. As always, it was Rahim Khan who rescued me. He held out his hand and favored me with a smile that had nothing feigned about it. “May I have it, Amir jan? I would very much like to read it.” Baba hardly ever used the term of endearment _jan_ when he addressed me. Baba shrugged and stood up. He looked relieved, as if he too had been rescued by Rahim Khan. “Yes, give it to Kaka Rahim. I’m going upstairs to get ready.” And with that, he left the room
MostdaysI worshiped Baba with an intensity approachingthereligious.Butright then,IwishedIcould openmyveinsanddrain his cursedbloodfrommybodyAnhourlater,astheeveningskydimmed,thetwoofthemdroveoffinmyfather'scartoattenda party.On his wayout, Rahim Khan hunkered before me and handedme mystoryand anotherfolded pieceofpaper.Heflasheda smileandwinked."Foryou.Read it later."Thenhepausedand added a single word that did moreto encourageme to pursue writing than any complimentanyeditor has ever paid me. That word was_Bravo_.When they left, Isat on mybed and wished Rahim Khan had been myfather.Then IthoughtofBaba and his greatbig chest and howgoodit felt when heheldme against it, how he smelled ofBrutinthemorning,andhowhisbeardtickledmyface.IwasovercomewithsuchsuddenguiltthatIboltedtothebathroomandvomitedinthesink.Later thatnight, curled up in bed,I read Rahim Khan'snoteover and over.It read like this:Amirjan,Ienjoyedyourstoryverymuch._Mashallah_Godhasgrantedyouaspecialtalent.It isnowyour dutytohone that talent,because a person who wastes his God-given talents is a donkey.You havewrittenyourstorywith soundgrammarand interesting style.But themostimpressivethingaboutyourstoryisthatithasirony.Youmaynotevenknowwhatthatwordmeans.Butyouwill someday. It is something that some writers reach fortheir entire careers and neverattain. You have achieved it with your first story.Mydoorisandalwayswillbeopentoyou,Amirjan.I shall hearanystoryyouhavetotell.BravoYourfriend,RahimBuoyed by Rahim Khan'snote,Igrabbed thestory and hurried downstairstothefoyerwhereAliandHassanweresleepingonamattress.Thatwastheonlytimetheyslept inthehouse,whenBabawasawayandAlihadtowatchoverme.IshookHassanawakeandaskedhimifhewantedtoheara story
Most days I worshiped Baba with an intensity approaching the religious. But right then, I wished I could open my veins and drain his cursed blood from my body. An hour later, as the evening sky dimmed, the two of them drove off in my father’s car to attend a party. On his way out, Rahim Khan hunkered before me and handed me my story and another folded piece of paper. He flashed a smile and winked. “For you. Read it later.” Then he paused and added a single word that did more to encourage me to pursue writing than any compliment any editor has ever paid me. That word was _Bravo_. When they left, I sat on my bed and wished Rahim Khan had been my father. Then I thought of Baba and his great big chest and how good it felt when he held me against it, how he smelled of Brut in the morning, and how his beard tickled my face. I was overcome with such sudden guilt that I bolted to the bathroom and vomited in the sink. Later that night, curled up in bed, I read Rahim Khan’s note over and over. It read like this: Amir jan, I enjoyed your story very much. _Mashallah_, God has granted you a special talent. It is now your duty to hone that talent, because a person who wastes his God-given talents is a donkey. You have written your story with sound grammar and interesting style. But the most impressive thing about your story is that it has irony. You may not even know what that word means. But you will someday. It is something that some writers reach for their entire careers and never attain. You have achieved it with your first story. My door is and always will be open to you, Amir jan. I shall hear any story you have to tell. Bravo. Your friend, Rahim Buoyed by Rahim Khan’s note, I grabbed the story and hurried downstairs to the foyer where Ali and Hassan were sleeping on a mattress. That was the only time they slept in the house, when Baba was away and Ali had to watch over me. I shook Hassan awake and asked him if he wanted to hear a story
He rubbed his sleep-clogged eyes and stretched."Now? What time is it?""Nevermindthetime.Thisstory'sspecial.Iwroteitmyself,"Iwhispered,hopingnottowakeAli.Hassan'sfacebrightened."Then I_have_ to hearit," he said, already pulling the blanket off him.I read it tohim in the living roombythemarblefireplace.Noplayful strayingfromthe wordsthistime;thiswasaboutme!Hassanwastheperfectaudienceinmanyways,totallyimmersed inthetale, his face shifting with the changing tones in the story. When I read the last sentence, hemadea muted clapping sound with his hands"_Mashallah_Amiragha.Bravo!"Hewasbeaming."Youliked it?"Isaid,gettingmysecondtaste--andhowsweetit was--ofapositivereview"Someday,_Inshallah_you will bea great writer," Hassan said."And people all over theworldwill read yourstories.""Youexaggerate, Hassan,"I said, loving him forit."No.Youwill begreat and famous,"he insisted.Then hepaused,as if on theverge of addingsomething. He weighed his words and cleared his throat."But will you permit me to ask aquestionabout the story?"he said shyly."Ofcourse.""Well.."hestarted,brokeoff
He rubbed his sleep-clogged eyes and stretched. “Now? What time is it?” “Never mind the time. This story’s special. I wrote it myself,” I whispered, hoping not to wake Ali. Hassan’s face brightened. “Then I _have_ to hear it,” he said, already pulling the blanket off him. I read it to him in the living room by the marble fireplace. No playful straying from the words this time; this was about me! Hassan was the perfect audience in many ways, totally immersed in the tale, his face shifting with the changing tones in the story. When I read the last sentence, he made a muted clapping sound with his hands. “_Mashallah_, Amir agha. Bravo!” He was beaming. “You liked it?” I said, getting my second taste-and how sweet it was-of a positive review. “Some day, _Inshallah_, you will be a great writer,” Hassan said. “And people all over the world will read your stories.” “You exaggerate, Hassan,” I said, loving him for it. “No. You will be great and famous,” he insisted. Then he paused, as if on the verge of adding something. He weighed his words and cleared his throat. “But will you permit me to ask a question about the story?” he said shyly. “Of course.” “Well.” he started, broke off