The sounds of sporadic gunshots grow intense like a chorus. The continuous refrain of 'Allah Akhbar' by people dashing lemming-like, shows the palpable fear. They flit across the Bahlk Street, through the Nangathar Hospital that leads to the Army Barrack-the only place of refuge when the city is in chaos or under siege by the western soldiers. My hiding place is in the wardrobe; it’s adjacent the backyard and the gate leading to the backyard is usually locked. I feel safe spending hours in the wardrobe and when everyone crawls out of their hiding places and return to the neighbourhood, I still stay there crooning melancholic songs. It's good to die singing a song, like in the movies. It would be a backdrop for the sun as it slowly fades into the crawling cloud, with a hopscotch of images-people screaming and begging you to stay back. At the least, it would signal an end to the days, of Christmas treats gobbled in secrecy because you live in a country stocked with religious extremists.It is quiet now after the explosion and normalcy is restored. I quietly step out of the wardrobe and lie on the bare floor, facing the ceiling-lost in thoughts of what it would be like to live outside the vibrations of Afghanistan. People hardly think of the future here where every second brings fear and almost amputates ones conscience-the future is the present. It is the perfect picture when you just sit at a corner in the house or lie on your bed and think of a time-when gun shots would stop being a culture, when you could actually take the bus or train without the fear of an explosion.
My woolgathering is halted by a piercing scream and sobbing sounds from outside. I rush out and run into Rabat. Her face is strewn with tears, she looks lost.
I grab her and hold her firm to my chest. She is crying, hard and loud. My heart beats faster. I have never seen Rabat that broken and uncontrollable, dwelling in a pool of her own tears.
‘Hamid is dead’ she screams.
Her voice comes out in metal plates, right to my chest, penetrating my heart; breaking it. I am starved of words and soberly rub her hair and pat her back. Slowly it sinks in and with realization, I lose my strength and crumble to the floor. Rabat is between my arms and tears slowly drop down my cheek, moistening her black long hair. Rabat is slapping the floor and screaming Hamid’s name in a continuous refrain.
I know a chord has been broken from the family; Hamid was the pillar that held the family after father died during the post 9/11 attack by the Western Army. Hamid is...oh! was a brother, a father.
***
The entire neighborhood now gathers outside the house. Even though they are used to death, they still come out to give condolences to bereaved families. Mother sits on the floor in the living room and the crowd filters in one by one. They fill the condolence register and reminisce on the bright spots of Hamid’s life.
Some of the women sit just by her, holding her hands. Others sit on the leather sofas, the geyser of tears hidden by their black veils, evident only from their voices when they talk. Sometimes I wonder how comfortable it feels under the veil; seeing people who can’t see your face. ‘How can I ever trust the face behind the veil’, I think deep within, as I leave the living room for Rabat’s room. Rabat is sitting helplessly beside her bed, her head buried in the mattress and sobbing quietly. I move close to her and sit on the bed, putting her head on my thighs and gently pat her back. I clean off fresh tears from my cheek, but not from my voice.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay’’ I say, in a broken and torn voice as I try to console her.
Lost in thought myself, as I try to reminisce on the last moments with Hamid, his deep voice and loud laughter that woke me up that morning , the indifferent look on his face before he left the house, when he asked me to look over mother and Rabat till he returns. I thought it was one of those days when he takes to the street to back late in the night when everyone would have gone to bed, we would only wake up to see him getting ready to go out to the street, how I wish he never took to the street, joining the Taliban and forgetting the love and warmth that used to keep the family together.
***
Kandahar is one of the most beautiful places in the country, but you can't see its beauty because of the blood on its streets and buildings. Its people are respectful and humble, but you can't see these on their sleeves when their hearts are full of vengeance and desperation. Hamid had become a Taliban, unlike us he was always outside fighting for the evacuation of the Americans from Kandahar. He had a better life before the invasion, working as a presenter at Radio Kabul. That was before Father’s death…murder. Father's death had brought out the anger in him and he had summoned everyone to defend their motherland even if it meant laying down their lives. Everyone thought he was going insane, so they never listened but the loss of friends and relatives made them rethink.
One fateful day, they took to the streets. Most of them did not return back home. They became suicide bombers, laid down their lives for the survival of their families. Rabat had always said Hamid would do the same someday. No one agreed with her. See, Hamid loved life, he loved life before 9/11.
A month has gone since we lost Hamid. Everything has changed in the family. Mother has visited the psychiatric home on more than two occasions. Rabat has started spending more time outside the house and taken many characteristics of Hamid. I try to talk to her on several occasions. Every time I look into her eyes, she has a fire burning inside of it. These days, I look more into the eyes of mother, which has no light or fire, no spark nor life-her eyes have been clouded with silence-like a city without a soul. She quietly watches the day break out from the night and watches it go back to sleep, she shuts her starless eyes without a goodnight. Sometimes she bursts into sudden laughter and starts talking to her new friend, a portrait of Hamid. In that portrait, he is in his graduation gown, shinning his glittering white teeth. In that portrait, Hamid looks like he would reply mother someday with the way he looks so delighted in the picture.
Kandahar has been on the news all around the world. The sufferings of the people in it are stranger than fiction. Something has changed on the home front, Rabat is now frequently indoors. It gladdens my heart seeing her inside where I can watch over her, one of my many responsibilities since we lost Hamid. She is just nineteen and barely knows happiness, born into a city in chaos and a broken family trying to assemble the pieces that once made it whole. When away from mother’s room, I sit in my room looking through my photo album, reminiscing on the faces of departed friends. Here, memories make one sob. Sometimes I put pictures underneath my pillow, hoping to see the occupants somewhere in my dreams. I barely dream these days or maybe I just do not want to remember. Father said everyone has two dreams or more every night they sleep, but it's only the dullards who don't remember theirs. I push hard to remember my dreams, I guess I’m a dullard.
It is the first day of the week and someone knocks on our door at dawn; brisk, sharp knocks.
Two men are outside, two men in dark caftans. Their heads are shrouded in a veil. They smell like newly born babies-that smell of baby lotion.
‘Salaam alaikum’ says one, in a soft voice.
‘Salaam alaikum’, I reply, bowing without taking my eyes off them.
‘We seek Karim’, the other says, in a rather more confident tone and foreign accent
‘I am Karim, what can I do for you?’
‘We were friends of Hamid and he made us promise to give you this when he departs’ added the second one, stretching out his hand to give me a big brown envelope. I collect it rather hesitantly and quietly search its contents. I raise my head in surprise, they are gone. I look outside, but can only see the dark morning coming out brightly, slowly but with no traces of our guests. I run down the Bahlk Street, looking right and left, then towards the Mabbah groceries to the far right but I see no traces of them. I turn to go back home, holding the envelope close to my chest.
***
I run towards Rabat's room. Surprisingly, she is up already, reading. She tries to hide it but I snatch it from her, it’s The Holy Quran. She looks unfazed and determined about her new found faith. I stare at her helplessly and drop the brown envelope on her mattress, refusing to start an early morning quarrel.
‘See what they brought us’
‘Who?’ she asks in disbelief, upturning the envelope’s contents on her mattress
‘Some guys, said they were Hamid's friends and he made them promise to give us the money’
‘How much is it?’She asks, gaping
‘One million Afghanis’
Silence
‘Where on earth did Hamid get that from?’ She breaks the short lived silence
‘I wouldn't know’ I reply, packing back the money into the envelope.
I leave for Mother's room and replay the story of the strangers bearing gifts. She stares at me, like the portrait of our western imposed president on the campaign billboard.
***
We decide to leave Kandahar for the far North East in China .We spend the next couple of weeks packing our things, and helping mother with hers. Rabat has more bags, packing all her things with some of Hamids’ and Father, she just doesn’t want to leave anything behind, she would put the whole house in one of her big bags if possible. We leave behind memorabilia of our past happiness. We set for our journey in the morning of December-four, five weeks after we received the brown envelope. I leave Kandahar with an insane mother and a sister who has lost her soul. As the cab man drives through the streets of Kandahar, many things go through my mind. I hold close to my heart memories of the past. I can think of a beautiful future in China, I can forget about gun shots and grenades. I can forget about spending hours in the wardrobe, seeking solace in-between clothes, throwing myself on the bare floor, lost in hopeless thoughts.
‘Karim can be a stronger pillar’, I murmur to myself, ‘I can be the peace that everyone seeks in Kandahar, the tranquility that would descend when the western soldiers pack their bags.There are lots of military barricades on the road that slow down our journey. We are subjected to constant questionings, by foreign soldiers-asking us where we are coming from, where we are going to and the reason for our migration, checking all the contents of our bags, pockets and asking why mother wouldn’t reply their questions.
The Airport can now be seen from a distance, the booming sound of planes taking off from the airport coupled with the sight of planes disappearing into the thick cloud above could only add to our excitement. Rabat’s mouth widens, unable to hide her smile. She holds my hand tightly. Together we stare at mother, who is looking through the window, smiling sheepishly and waving at the campaign billboard of the President. I murmur deep within, ‘Goodbye Kandahar’.
2 comments:
beautiful piece
Nice one Ruddy can't stop laughing,d dullard prt.
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