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Ali didn t tell Baba； just as he didn t protest when Hassan confessed to the stealing。 I ll never really know why； but I could imagine the two of them in that dim little hut； weeping； Hassan pleading him not to give me away。 But I couldn t imagine the restraint it must have taken Ali to keep that promise。
Will you drive us to the bus station？
I forbid you to do this！ Baba bellowed。 Do you hear me？ I forbid you！
Respectfully； you can t forbid me anything； Agha sahib； Ali said。 We don t work for you anymore。
Where will you go？ Baba asked。 His voice was breaking。
Hazarajat。
To your cousin？
Yes。 Will you take us to the bus station； Agha sahib？
Then I saw Baba do something I had never seen him do before：
He cried。 It scared me a little； seeing a grown man sob。 Fathers weren t supposed to cry。 Please； Baba was saying； but Ali had already turned to the door； Hassan trailing him。 I ll never forget the way Baba said that； the pain in his plea； the fear。
IN KABUL； it rarely rained in the summer。 Blue skies stood tall and far； the sun like a branding iron searing the back of your neck。 Creeks where Hassan and I skipped stones all spring turned dry； and rickshaws stirred dust when they sputtered by。 People went to mosques for their ten raka ts of noontime prayer and then retreated to whatever shade they could find to nap in； waiting for the cool of early evening。 Summer meant long school days sweating in tightly packed； poorly ventilated classrooms learning to recite ayats from the Koran； struggling with those tongue…twisting； exotic Arabic words。 It meant catching flies in your palm while the mullah droned on and a hot breeze brought with it the smell of shit from the outhouse across the schoolyard； churning dust around the lone rickety basketball hoop。
But it rained the afternoon Baba took Ali and Hassan to the bus station。 Thunderheads rolled in； painted the sky iron gray。 Within minutes； sheets of rain were sweeping in； the steady hiss of falling water swelling in my ears。
Baba had offered to drive them to Bamiyan himself； but Ali refused。 Through the blurry； rain…soaked window of my bedroom； I watched Ali haul the lone suitcase carrying all of their belongings to Baba s car idling outside the gates。 Hassan lugged his mattress； rolled tightly and tied with a rope； on his back。 He d left all of his toys behind in the empty shack……I discovered them the next day； piled in a corner just like the birthday presents in my room。
Slithering beads of rain sluiced down my window。 I saw Baba slam the trunk shut。 Already drenched； he walked to the driver s side。 Leaned in and said something to Ali in the backseat； perhaps one last…ditch effort to change his mind。 They talked that way awhile； Baba getting soaked； stooping； one arm on the roof of the car。 But when he straightened； I saw in his slumping shoulders that the life I had known since I d been born was over。 Baba slid in。 The headlights came on and cut twin funnels of light in the rain。 If this were one of the Hindi movies Hassan and I used to watch； this was the part where I d run outside； my bare feet splashing rainwater。 I d chase the car； screaming for it to stop。 I d pull Hassan out of the backseat and tell him I was sorry； so sorry； my tears mixing with rainwater。 We d hug in the downpour。 But this was no Hindi movie。 I was sorry； but I didn t cry and I didn t chase the car。 I watched Baba s car pull away from the curb； taking with it the person whose first spoken word had been my name。 I caught one final blurry glimpse of Hassan slumped in the back seat before Baba turned left at the street corner where we d played marbles so many times。
I stepped back and all I saw was rain through windowpanes that looked like melting silver。
TEN
_March 1981_
A young woman sat across from us。 She was dressed in an olive green dress with a black shawl wrapped tightly around her face against the night chill。 She burst into prayer every time the truck jerked or stumbled into a pothole； her Bismillah！ peaking with each of the truck s shudders and jolts。 Her husband； a burly man in baggy pants and sky blue turban； cradled an infant in one arm and thumbed prayer beads with his free hand。 His lips moved in silent prayer。 There were others； in all about a dozen； including Baba and me； sitting with our suitcases between our legs； cramped with these strangers in the tarpaulin…covered cab of an old Russian truck。
My innards had been roiling since we d left Kabul just after two in the morning。 Baba never said so； but I knew he saw my car sickness as yet another of my array of weakness……I saw it on his embarrassed face the couple of times my stomach had clenched so badly I had moaned。 When the burly guy with the beads……the praying woman s husband……asked if I was going to get sick； I said I might。 Baba looked away。 The man lifted his corner of the tarpaulin cover and rapped on the driver s window； asked him to stop。 But the driver； Karim； a scrawny dark…skinned man with hawk…boned features and a pencil…thin mustache； shook his head。
We are too close to Kabul； he shot back。 Tell him to have a strong stomach。
Baba grumbled something under his breath。 I wanted to tell him I was sorry； but suddenly I was salivating； the back of my throat tasting bile。 I turned around； lifted the tarpaulin； and threw up over the side of the moving truck。 Behind me； Baba was apologizing to the other passengers。 As if car sickness was a crime。 As if you weren t supposed to get sick when you were eighteen。 I threw up two more times before Karim agreed to stop； mostly so I wouldn t stink up his vehicle； the instrument of his livelihood。 Karim was a people smuggler……it was a pretty lucrative business then； driving people out of Shorawi…occupied Kabul to the relative safety of Pakistan。 He was taking us to Jalalabad； about 170 kilometers southeast of Kabul； where his brother； Toor； who had a bigger truck with a second convoy of refugees； was waiting to drive us across the Khyber Pass and into Peshawar。
We were a few kilometers west of Mahipar Falls when Karim pulled to the side of the road。 Mahipar……which means Flying Fish ……was a high summit