Part One
Life amid green nature and fruit-laden garden lanes had a peace of its own, but the life and civilization of Kabul city had long been
one of our dreams.
When my uncle Shafiq finished primary school in our distant village, Chahar Asiab, one of the districts around Kabul, my grandfather bought him a house in Shor Bazaar, in the heart of Kabul, so that he could continue his education.
Later, when my brother and I also completed primary school, there was still no higher school in Chahar Asiab. We too had to continue our education in the city. So our parents began living in Shor Bazaar with Shafiq.
When we woke in the village, the fresh air of nature, the songs of birds, the life-giving breeze passing through the gardens and orchards, and the fragrance of blossoms were our greatest comfort.
But now, waking in the city, everything had a different color, a different liveliness, and a different smell.
The voices of shopkeepers calling out their goods, the bustle of the tabang sellers, the hammers of blacksmiths striking against iron, and the fragrance of musk and amber drifting from the herbal and spice shops created an entirely different atmosphere.
There was also a remarkable sense of intimacy and solidarity among the people living in those narrow, crowded lanes. From Lahori Gate to Shor Bazaar, and from Hindu Guzar to Se Dukan-e Chandawal, the people had an unbreakable bond with one another, almost as though they shared the same blood.
My grandfather, who had spent his whole life in the open air, among gardens and fruit trees, did not particularly enjoy the crowds
and noise of old Kabul, nor the constant ringing of blacksmiths’ hammers.
But my brother and I had come to the city we had dreamed of.
We made many classmates and friends, although we were still intoxicated by the memories of our gardens and the beauty of nature. I had not yet grown accustomed to the old Kabulis, especially the formal manner in which they spoke, as though they were speaking in the language of offices and official records.
Little by little, however, we became accustomed to the noise.
In the mornings, as we walked to school, the shops opened one after another. The blacksmiths’ alley slowly came alive. The furnaces glowed like the hearts of lovers, and the warmth and intimacy among the people of old Kabul seemed almost magical to us.
Even those who had recently arrived did not feel like strangers there.
Boys and girls from the Hindu families, children of our own age, also went to school. But until then I had not made friends with any of the Hindu girls.
Then, in the ninth grade, a Hindu girl named Sonia became my classmate.
Sonia had large, beautiful eyes, with long eyelashes spread over them like a canopy. Her figure was slender and graceful, like a golden khamcha, and her well-shaped, pearl-like teeth added even more to the beauty that God had given her.
The girls in our class often joked and teased one another just to make Sonia laugh.
And when Sonia laughed, her pearl-like teeth and her attractive, wheat-colored complexion made her face captivating. Even the girls could not resist admiring her beautiful smile.
One day, after school, I saw my uncle Shafiq among a group of boys hanging around and playing in front of the girls’ school when the students were leaving.
He followed me for a few steps and then quietly made an excuse.
“Tell them at home that I will be a little late, so they won’t worry.”
I agreed.
Across from our house lived Sanju Lall, a famous merchant. People from our neighborhood—and almost everyone in Kabul—bought chili, spices, turmeric, cardamom, tea, herbal mixtures, musk, amber, camphor, and many other things from his shop.
Sanju Lall’s house was always filled with music and singing, especially on days when religious ceremonies were being held.
Whenever the music reached our house, my grandmother would repent and declare that such things were sinful. She would close the ursi—an old word for a window—to shut out the sound, saying that we lived in Kucha-e-Kharabat.
One day my brother Qasim was flying kites and playing marbles with some Hindu boys in our alley.
My grandmother came and disciplined him.
She said things about the Hindu boys that I could not understand at the time. But those words revealed to me how dark and closed her attitude toward Hindus was.
Without anyone in our family knowing, Sonia had already taken a place in Shafiq’s heart.
Whenever Sonia left her house, Shafiq would run after her. He had only two legs, but in those days it seemed as though he borrowed two more. Secretly, he would accompany her on her way to Asmai School, the school attended especially by the Hindus of Kabul.
Sonia became more beautiful with every passing day.
And Shafiq became more autumnal, more saffron-colored—his face revealing more and more clearly what love was doing to him.
Because of my grandmother’s words, he began calling Sonia “Mumtaz,” after the beautiful Mumtaz of the Indian films whom young Afghans admired so much.
Across from Sanju Lall’s shop was an ice-cream shop owned by Lala Mohsin.
Sonia often went there to buy things for her family.
Shafiq had become friendly with Lala Mohsin for one reason only: it gave him a chance, however brief, to see Sonia.
Lala Mohsin was on intimate terms with the shopkeepers of the neighborhood. He also attended Hindu charitable and religious gatherings, ate their mithai, and sometimes brought some home for Shafiq to taste.
One day, through Lala Mohsin, Shafiq received a whole dish of mithai and laddoos made by Sanju Lall’s family and brought it home.
That day, his only enemy was his own stomach.
He could not seem to get enough.
As he ate, Sonia’s beautiful face kept appearing before his eyes, and Qasim helped him finish the sweets.
Suddenly, my grandmother opened the door.
“What are you boys doing?”
Then she called Shafiq.
“Come here. I have something to discuss with you.”
Shafiq and I were terrified.
We quickly hid the dish of mithai and laddoos beneath the large mattress cushion against which we had been sitting.
My grandmother began:
“Shafiq, come here. What has happened to you? Our village girls have grown up. Let me arrange a marriage proposal for you. My feet are already at the edge of the grave. I want to carry the wish of seeing your wedding with me to the grave.”
Then she began naming the girls.
“The daughter of Koko Gul… the daughter of Qamar Jan… the daughter of Bibi Shirin… and this one is Mama Qadus’s daughter. They have all grown tall and beautiful, like golden khamcha.”
Shafiq replied,
“Nene Jan, my studies are not finished. I have to finish my faculty and university studies.”
My grandmother interrupted him.
“Oh, boy! You will grow old. The young girls in the village are getting married, and you will remain alone.”
Shafiq fell silent.
He froze.
Sonia’s moon-like face appeared before his eyes.
“No, Nene Jan. It isn’t time yet.”
My grandmother became angry and shouted at him.
I was shocked.
It seemed to me that all the mithai inside poor Shafiq had suddenly turned into poison.
Hindu religion was sacred to my uncle, and music and stringed instruments were almost like worship to him.
Because of this love, he went to one of the masters of Kucha-e-Kharabat and became his apprentice.
Once his hands had learned the rhythm of the tabla and the keys and bellows of the harmonium, he began playing and singing at home.
One day, after school, Sonia and I went to Lala Mohsin’s shop for ice cream.
There we saw Shafiq.
After we returned home, Shafiq seemed somehow even dearer to me.
He asked,
“Do you know Sanju Lall’s daughter?”
“Yes,” I answered. “She is my classmate.”
But my grandmother, Nene Jan, would not give up.
Every day she brought up one or two more village girls for Shafiq.
“This one is fair and plump,” she would say. “And that one is dark and olive-colored, but very charming.”
Shafiq would joke,
“No, Nene Jan. The fair one is like rice pudding. You get tired of it very quickly.”
And about the darker one he would say,
“Nene Jan, she has already been burned by the scorching summer sun.”
To Shafiq’s lovesick eyes, every young woman looked faded and without love.
Only one beloved appeared before him, like the new moon.
Shafiq had never liked food that was too spicy or heavily seasoned.
But now, whenever he passed the row of spice and herbal shops, he suddenly wanted chili, spices, perfumes, and rosewater—and even those had to come from Sanju Lall’s shop.
My grandmother stayed for several days.
She cooked heavily seasoned food so that her youngest son would become strong and tall, and at the same time she continued arguing with him about marriage.
She swore that this time she would take him to the watan—a colloquial village expression often used by villagers and older people for the homeland—and arrange a marriage proposal from one of the village girls.Whenever Shafiq heard this, he became frightened and quietly left the house.
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End of Part One