“Those fallen from the mountain will get up again, but those fallen from the hearts will never rise.”

Chapter Thirteen

Brigadier and Mahjan greeted my parents in the hallway. A knock on the door, to my anxiety. I pulled the blanket over me. A pause. The door opened, stayed for a moment, and then shut. My withdrawal had worried Mour. Thanks, Khudai, she left without bothering me to join them.

I freaked out as I removed the blanket and saw a black figure by my feet.

‘I’m sorry. Did I scare you?’ she said, sitting by the edge of the bed.

‘Why are you here?’ Her secret entrance annoyed me. I didn’t expect Frishta to come to the apartment, let alone into my room.

She jumped to her feet, turned on the light, whose brightness forced me to close my eyes, pressed the cassette player play button, and sat back on the bed. ‘Why haven’t you come to school for the last two days?’

I rubbed my eyes, hating the painful light. Loathed school, my classmates, ustads, even myself. I used to love her company, but it strangled me now. I knew she looked down on me for wetting my trousers but acted as if it hadn’t mattered; actually, it hadn’t occurred to me. Had it been someone else, she’d mention him first thing and go on all evening talking about him, even acting out the moment. Her pretence distressed me more, but she was my guest and melmastia compelled me to make her welcome. I owed her a thank-you and mumbled one.

‘Regard others if you want to be regarded; for everyone has a self like you.’ Frishta quoted Rahman Baba over Ahmad Zahir.

‘Why, then, do people do awful things to other people?’

‘Because they don’t think of you as people. Give them hell, and they would.’

‘If only Khudai created me as fearless as you, Frishta.’

‘If there was no fear, there’d be no need for courage. I’m afraid, too, but I’ve learned to conquer my fears.’

‘How?’

‘I guess I’m willing to sacrifice my limb and head for the rights of my sisters.’

‘So you really fear?’

‘Everyone does. Fear is good for you. It warns and protects you. Think: why don’t we jump off the fifth floor but walk the stairs?’

‘Did your heart beat fast or your body freeze when you challenged Rashid and Mullah Rahmat?’

‘I felt afraid, in pain, furious, helpless – all at the same time. That’s why I couldn’t stop crying. Then I thought, Khuda jan, You didn’t take my life in the biting snow, maybe for today. I placed my trust in Khuda jan, and my physical well-being no longer mattered.’

‘My heart abandons me when it senses danger. My hands and legs freeze… All I wanted was Rashid and Mullah Rahmat to beat me up and get it over with. I’m a coward. I hate my heart.’ I told her what I hadn’t revealed to anyone and fought against breaking down.

‘Take refuge in Khuda jan. Once He protects, no one will overcome you.’

‘Will Khudai help a coward?’

‘Khuda jan helps those who have a sense of purpose… who are passionate about others.’

‘If you want me to tell others how to live their lives, I’m not that sort of a person. But I want to be a doctor, look after my parents when they’re old, wed my sisters into decent families… have a wife and kids. Is this not “a sense of purpose”? Am I not “passionate” enough?’

She shrugged.

‘But I don’t feel like I’ll be able to do any of those.’ This time, I couldn’t stop my tears.

‘Don’t let bullies shatter your dreams.’

‘People will remember last week’s… humiliating incident until Qiyamat Day.’

‘Fuck what people think about Ahmad. Live for others. Prevent more Ahmads from wetting themselves. Passion and compassion will help you find meaning in your life; inspire you to do extraordinary things. You as Ahmad would no longer matter.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Those fallen from the mountain will get up again, but those fallen from the hearts will never rise.’ Frishta quoted another Rahman Baba. ‘You’re a proud Ahmadzai. Live like one. Have faith.’

‘Faith?’

‘You’ve got the blood of one great Afghan and the name of another.’ Frishta reminded me of the reason why Mour had named me Ahmad. My first name traced its origin to the founders of Afghanistan’s two largest Pashtun tribes, Ahmad Baba from the Ahmadzai, and Ahmad Shah Durrani from the Durrani.

‘Ahmad Shah Massoud wouldn’t miss school,’ she added.

‘Massoud?’

‘Another warrior,’ Frishta said. ‘Anyway, tell me, what have you been up to?’

‘Nothing. Just sleeping.’ I buried my eyes in my hands. I needed darkness, not light.

‘You’re coming to school tomorrow. Baktash misses you a lot. We all do.’

I removed my hands and looked into her dark eyes – which showed nothing but an eagerness to please me – and paused for thought: should I say it, or should I not? I did. Baktash was in my room earlier that day and let me know how Shafih increased his compliments for Frishta, how she returned them with smiles, and how she and Shafih at breaks conversed privately in the school’s corners. What was going on?

Her face lost colour.

An awkward silence filled our once chatty room, except Ahmad Zahir’s song about people with two faces, and the chatter of adults and children from the lounge.

‘You do know who put the letter in my book.’ My tone sounded more accusatory than I’d intended.

Her face turned darker. She searched for something in my eyes.

‘Where do you go every afternoon and come back hours later?’

She still searched as if she’d lost something in them. Shook her head. Her eyes welled up. She stormed out, not just of my room but out of the apartment, without saying goodbye. Never had done this before. Her furtive behaviour awakened my suspicion even more.

According to Baktash, Shafih had authored the letter, and he alleged Frishta had aided him. Baktash wasn’t alone; Mour, too, suspected Frishta had somehow been an accomplice. Mour’s suspicion would turn into belief if she found out that Grease was Frishta’s favourite film. Though I hadn’t fully bought into Baktash’s accusation and Mour’s strong suspicion, I believed Frishta was up to something. She hid something from me – probably her relationship with Shafih because he lived in Bimaro, a neighbourhood Frishta lately walked around every afternoon, and he was the one Frishta showed an interest in, and she must’ve confided in him her likes and dislikes. But were Shafih and Frishta really together? Both Baktash and I believed Shafih to have slipped the love letter in my book. What I didn’t understand was how Frishta would benefit from assisting him. Why would she do this to me? Because I’d refused to help her with studies? Or, as Mour told me, to remove me from school so that she got first place? But why would she stand for me if that was the case? No, my other part reasoned that a chaste jelai like Frishta would never get involved in immoral behaviour: a loyal person who lived for others. No matter what, she wouldn’t humiliate ‘the trusted person’ in her life.

I decided to follow her tomorrow to discover once and for all her true character.