Chapter Twelve
The buffalo-headed Mullah Rahmat lumbered in, followed by the religious studies ustad, Rauf Khan. The mudir told his two bodyguards, armed with Kalashnikovs, to go back to the edara. Instructed us to get some chairs and the students from nine jim.
Baktash and I, together with a few others, executed the order with an eagerness to please the entourage. The relaxed atmosphere became tense as we broke the news, students bombarding Mahbuba jan with one question: why must they join the nine alef if they had religious studies the following day? A question Frishta, I and, most likely, Mahbuba jan knew the answer to.
The ‘dangerous womaniser’, as Frishta put it, aimed not at eliminating haleks chatting up jelais, but at ‘hunting’ as many attractive, single female ustads as he could. The mid-twenties Mahbuba jan with dark brown skin, medium height and curly hair passed beyond the ‘pervert’s criteria’.
Thanks to Frishta’s research on Mullah Rahmat, Frishta and I learned a great deal about him: as an ex-Mujahid, he defected with his 400 militia to the government last year under President Najibullah’s national reconciliation process.
A week ago, the day after Baz Muhammad’s death, the school keeperdidn’t give Frishta permission to enter the edarabecause Mullah Rahmat conducted ‘a private meeting’. Frishta intuited something ‘fishy’ and disobeyed the school keeper. The buffalo-headed Mullah Rahmat towered over our year eight ustad,Humajan. Mullah Rahmat got mad at the school keeper and slapped the old man, telling him to ‘fuck off’ from the school. Frishta took the blame for disobedience because she’d left a notebook, and inquired why Huma jan cried. Mullah Rahmat threw Frishta’s desk out and told her never to show her face again in the edara.
Huma jan was absent the following day. Frishta suspected Mullah Rahmat. I told her he was a good Muslim and wouldn’t tell lies.
Two days later I opened my apartment door and saw a fuming Frishta standing there – a rare occurrence as after our argument we never set foot in each other’s flats; we spoke in the class when we discussed school issues as the student heads of class. Twice bumped into each other in the block corridor, and on one of those times she told me about Mullah Rahmat and Huma jan. But that evening she delivered the breaking news: having been to Huma jan’s apartment, Frishta discovered Mullah Rahmat in the ‘private meeting’ had given Huma jantwo options: sex or career. Huma jan sacrificed her job. Thankfully, Huma jan was engaged to Raziq Khan and planned to join him in Moscow. The cunning Mullah Rahmat told other ustads he had caught Huma jan hand in hand with a young man in the Makroryan Market and fired her because such corrupt behaviour ‘adversely impacted’ the students.
Now the hunter found a new kill.
Every student carried a desk or a chair with them to our class. The lovable Mahbuba jan joined Rauf Khan in a suit and tie by the window.
Mullah Rahmat studied the registry, his large lips, as dark as cow’s liver, kept moving. His golden Rado watch and a golden ring with an auburn, egg-shaped gemstone reflected the gloomy light coming from the plastic sheeting. Unlike Raziq Khan, his thick hair had no trace of grey. He dyed it like most middle-aged Afghans. He couldn’t hide his massive belly behind his perahan, though. Nor could he have shortened his long ears. Frishta was spot on: he looked like a buffalo – an ugly-looking one.
‘Yesterday, I shockingly discovered that year eight students didn’t know Dua-e-Qunoot, a basic dua a 10-year child should know,’ Mullah Rahmat said, blocking out from view half of the blackboard with his gigantic body. ‘Sadly, you’ve been purposely kept away from religious studies by the system,’ he added, glancing at Mahbuba jan, who, along with Rauf Khan, stood with blank expressions.
He called Naqib, the last name on the registry, right from the end of the window row, to my relief. Naqib’s leg caught a chair with a scraping sound and almost fell on the way to the floorboard. He recited the first three words of the Islamic dua and stood with an expressionless face.
Mullah Rahmat towered over him. ‘Run out of petrol?’
Naqib cast his eyes down, his body visibly shivering.
He buried Naqib’s small head with his huge hands and kneed him in the stomach. Naqib dropped to the hard floor. Tears came down his pale face as he caught his breath.
‘I equally blame his parents for neglecting their duty.’ He glanced at Mahbuba jan, who stood with an offended face.
‘What does your father do?’
‘He’s a–’
‘Speak louder.’
‘Performer in the Radio and Television Centre.’
‘There you are, a prime example.’
His eyes travelled from Naqib to Mahbuba jan. ‘Ask him to shake his body, he’d do it right, left and centre because, I bet, his father taught him. But he’s failed to teach him the very basics of Islam.’ The mudir ordered Naqib to stretch his hand upwards, stand on one leg without his back touching the globe map. Pushed a piece of paper in Naqib’s mouth. ‘You’ll never forget the dua again.’
He called Shirullah next and himself plodded back to his previous position.
Baktash’s hands rested on the desk, trembling. He now sat in Wazir’s place. I peeked to the row on my left and couldn’t miss the fear on haleks’ faces.
Shirullah’s recitation was faultless. In answer to Mullah Rahmat’s questions, Shirullah kept the handful of hair on the chin because it was the habitual practice of the Prophet, peace be upon him, and Shirullah’s father was an imam in the local mosque.
‘Here’s another example. An imam is aware of his religious duties.’ Shirullah had two afarins: one for the beard and the other for the correct recitation.
‘Children are like a wet plant stem; bend whatever way you want them to bend. Believe me, if your parents carried out their responsibilities properly, this place would’ve been nicknamed a Little Mecca, not a Little Moscow.’
Rauf Khan, himself a pro-Communist supporter, and many would doubt his religious commitments, nodded at every single statement his superior made. Mahbuba jan, in a dark green outfit and tunban, seemed like someone about to be tried for murder in a court of law. Maybe they appeared terrorised in case Mullah Rahmat asked them to recite the Dua-e-Qunoot. They needn’t have feared, at least for a while, because Mullah Rahmat’s stony eyes flicked to me.
I glanced at my jeans.
‘What’s your name?’
Silence. The sound of drizzle hitting the damaged plastic sheeting over the windows.
‘I’m asking you.’
Quietness.
‘The one with the denim jacket.’
Shirullah tapped my shoulder.Why didn’t Mullah Rahmat go through the registry? My name was at the top, and by the time he got halfway through, the class would have been over.
‘Ahmad, mudir saheb.’
‘To the board.’
I executed the instruction.
‘The dua?’ He gazed down with his eyes half-closed, turning his ears in my direction.
‘Mudir saheb, I know it, but I’m nervous,’ I lied. First, we were never taught that particular dua in school. Second, the school took religious studies easy. Rauf Khan gave the grades without us doing the necessary work. It could’ve been the pro-Communist government’s policy to keep its citizens from learning about their religion, or it might have been due to Rauf Khan’s laziness. But we liked it – it meant less work. It also translated into more time to focus on scientific subjects, instrumental in getting me into the Kabul Medical Institute.
‘What’s your name?’
I told him a minute ago. ‘Ahmad.’
‘Father’s name?’
‘Azizullah.’
‘Address?’
I told him. I reckoned he intended to complain to my parents. I was happy with this (happy even with making me stand on one leg), provided he spared me a beating.
‘You’re not nervous. You answered all the questions correctly because you knew the answers.’
He glared at me as if I’d burned his house down. I put my eyes on my hip hop trainers. My heart palpitated in fear as his legs moved like tree trunks in my direction. He towered over me. ‘Why haven’t you learned it?’
‘I’m sorry.’
A blow on my face threw me to the ground. The religious book flew out of my hand. He picked up the book and screamed at me to get back on my feet. I stood back up with a ringing noise in my right ear.
‘Look at the state in which you’ve kept the book. A Holy book needs to be wrapped in seven pieces of cloth.’ He flipped the pages. A folded piece of paper dropped from within the book. Picked the light blue piece up and unfolded it. His red eyes flicked from one line to another: each line caused his eyes to pop out more. Baktash was right, Mullah Rahmatwasn’t entirely sane. He read it aloud.
A letter to the halek I am in mina with, whose name is Ahmad jan:
Every day I see you, I feel like Sandy found her Danny. When you tease your hair upwards and back, you’re just my Danny from Grease. I love him because of you. Thinking of you fills my day with joy. You don’t know how crazy I am for you. Your smiles at me turn my days into summer nights and make me believe you’re in mina with me, too. You wouldn’t imagine how much I’d cry if you said no to me.
Your Sandy desperately awaits her Danny’s reply. You know who I am.
Your mina.
As the proverb claimed, when days of sorrows arrived, they came in multiple numbers. Someone intended to stain my honour in front of the whole class. The words would get to my parents. What would they say? The air became so solid I thought I’d die from suffocation.
‘Who’s written this?’ He advanced towards me.
‘I don’t know, I swear. Someone has purposely slipped it in my book.’ I didn’t look at jelais, let alone smile at them.
‘Suspect anyone?’
No one, I told him.
‘Who is Danny from Grease?’
‘I don’t know.’ I asked Khudai for forgiveness for telling a lie, but giving the correct answer could’ve somehow led to Frishta getting involved.
‘Anyone?’ His face turned to students.
Everyone sat with downcast eyes, their faces fear-stricken.
‘An actor from a film,’ Shafih said.
‘Ustad, I’ll learn it tomorrow. Please,’ I said to Rauf Khan, who turned his gaze away to Naqib.
‘No one can save you from me.’
The buffalo-headed Mullah Rahmat, to my relief, took a few steps towards the jelai row and asked with a deep-throated voice, ‘Who’s written the letter?’
Eyes cast down.
‘Who do you smile at?’ He roared and stormed towards me like a mad buffalo attacking its prey.
A shiver travelled through my back – my body went paralysed, my legs gave way, my thighs felt the warmth around my crotch and my upper legs got soaked. Sighs of Allahhhhh filled the class. Faces no longer showed fear, but dismay. Sadaf and Laila, in the front seats, clappedtheir hands over their eyes. Shafih and Jawad squeezed their nostrils with their fingers. My body turned ice-cold when I realised what’d happened.
Mullah Rahmat shook his head. ‘You must be ashamed of yourself,’ he said, sounding appalled. He ordered Rauf Khan to dry the floor with my jacket. If only I didn’t live to see this day; death was much better than this shameful act. Rauf Khan removed my jacket.
‘Wetting yourself wouldn’t save you. Tell me who wrote it.’ He stood right opposite me.
Mahbuba jan took a step, but Mullah Rahmat motioned with his palm. She stayed put.
Mullah Rahmat put his big hands on my ears, twisted my head, and threatened to make me poo this time if I stayed silent, reminding me of his goal to rid the school of immoral behaviour. ‘Last warning.’
‘I swear I don’t know.’
He let go. ‘Alright, now you’ll confess.’ His right hand clutched my bushy hair, and the left one held my belt.
‘Name?’
‘Please, ustad, tell him to let me go. I’ll memorise it tomorrow,’ I said to Rauf Khan, who was wiping the floor around my feet.
The giant Mullah Rahmat lifted me.
‘Last warning.’
‘My hair hurts. Please, mudir saheb.’ His sweat odour was equally painful.
‘Name?’
‘Get away from him.’ A jelai’s scream. ‘One more move, and I’ll call my father.’
‘Not until he tells me–’
‘I have written the letter.’
He let go of me and resumed his posture.
Frishta stood on guard. Her eyes were full of tears, her body shivered like the trees in the school gardens outside; trees that hadn’t bloomed yet, maybe because they knew what’d befallen me. She looked wild.
‘I love Ahmad. By Khuda jan, you touch him again, my father will leave no hair on your head. There’s the edara.’ She pointed right. ‘Go and make a complaint about me, but let Ahmad go. He doesn’t know about the letter.’
Mahbuba janand Rauf Khan looked baffled.
‘I’ll punish you severely,’ he said, kicking the table before the board, which scraped the floor and hit the Afghan flag. The crazy man stormed off, mumbling something to himself. Naqib spat out the paper, put his foot on the floor and hugged me. So did Baktash, whispering I’d be OK and not to pay attention to Shafih and Jawad tittering.
Mahbuba jan rushed to Frishta and whispered something in her ear as Frishta bounced towards me. Whispered if I knew the author. I had no idea. She dashed out.
The school keeper rushed in andcollected me and the two ustads to the edara for an ‘emergency meeting’. Mullah Rahmat’s two armed men with long hair followed from behind.
***
THE BUFFALO-HEADED MUDIR SAT on a swivel recliner. His eyes fixed on the mahogany desk before him. His two bodyguards stood by; two others guarded the door.
The rukhsati bells sounded. Joyful students’ chatter, cheers and yells filled the school. Ustads walked in one by one, a few with moistened suits or outfits. Those who knew whispered to the others. Some shook their heads; a few, mainly female, put their hands on their mouths and threw me glances; yet others took a seat and wrote in their notebooks or studied registers.
If only I’d died from measles when I was eight years old.
A panting Frishta rushed in and whispered something to Mahbuba jan, who pointed to Mullah Rahmat and stepped away from Frishta. No one associated themselves with Frishta and took a beating from Mullah Rahmat or his militia. The buffalo-headed man experienced nothing but war over the years. Spoke in the language of violence. As a defector was outside the reach of the law. No way did a helpless ustad square up to him. Hurting ustads was as easy for the hypocrite as drinking water. I was surprised the ugly face had spared Frishta so far. Mullah Rahmat must have known about another bully’s fate at Brigadier’s hands and, I reckoned, was careful of raising a hand at Frishta. Rumour had it that Rashid was one of his ‘trench buddies’ from Logar Province. If only Agha was as fearless as Brigadier.
Mullah Rahmat asked for attention as students’ chatter quietened. ‘I’ve decided to kick you out of the school.’
‘Why?’ Frishta said.
‘The school can no longer tolerate lundabazi.’
‘I object, lundabazi isdifferent from mina.’
‘Are you not ashamed to talk about mina?’
‘I am not.’
‘Today you’re in mina; tomorrow you’ll fuck each other.’
‘At least I won’t force him to.’
‘Don’t give me that look. Or I’ll beat you until you have learned decency. Something your father has neglected to teach you.’
‘Padar jan’s taught me how to stand up to bullies.’ She visibly fought against bursting into tears.
He eyed her up and down. ‘Wear your headscarf properly.’
Frishta pulled her white headscarf off and tied it around her waist. ‘The right place for fighting bullies,’ Frishta said, and stood on guard. The front of her moistened black perahan was muddied.
Mullah Rahmat’s eyes popped out like a cow being strangled by a rope. You could comprehend that he questioned himself whether he should order his militiamen to beat the shit out of a 16-year-old female student – the sex he scarcely considered a full human being – for challenging his authority. Or should he be patient?
‘I blame her father,’ he said to the frozen ustads; they didn’t even blink. ‘She’d be a respectful child if he’d looked after her properly.’
‘Padar jan has taught to spit on those elders who abuse their position.’
Frishta considered her ustads as ‘second parents’. I never saw her talking back to an ustad.
‘He’s a cowardto let his daughter run riot.’
‘Padar jan is a lion. He’s on his way for you to know him better. My hero would sacrifice himself for his soldiers’ sake. He isn’t a hypocrite like you. These female ustads,’ Frishta pointed at the fear-stricken faces sitting on chairs behind desks by the walls around the room, ‘are sisters, daughters, mothers, yet you’re treating them like sex objects. Shame on you.’ Frishta’s body trembled with rage like the Panjshir River, her hair untangled like a wild woman.
Mullah Rahmat showed no remorse. I didn’t think he cared or was even embarrassed. Our physics ustad, Karim Khan, mumbled something to Amrudin Khan and the latter nodded. Karim Khan then limped by the side of the desk and whispered to his superior, half of his face getting hidden behind the bouquet of artificial flowers. Everyone heard what he said in a nervous tone: Mullah Rahmat may have misunderstood Frishta and me, both disciplined students who excelled at our studies. They never had a complaint about us, and Frishta joined all voluntary work at school. None of these good words changed Mullah Rahmat’s indignant face, a face I loathed like Satan’s.
Mullah Rahmat’s bodyguards prevented a female ustad from leaving. Everyone looked at one another in surprise, but no one commented. Their faces looked haunted.
A silence followed. I bet every person in the edara waited for Brigadier’s arrival and what he would, or rather could, do to the powerful Mullah Rahmat with an armed militia.
Silence, apart from the sound of the howling wind.
The door opened and a bodyguard rushed in, holding a walkie-talkie.
‘The school is surrounded.’
‘How many?’
‘Hundreds.’
‘How many are you?’
‘Ten,’ the bodyguard said over a muffled crackle spluttering out from the walkie-talkie.
‘Where the fuck are the rest?’
‘In the base. On leave.’
Mullah Rahmat shook his head. He considered something and slammed the desk, causing pens to drop from the filing tray.
Ustads jumped.
‘All ten of you in this room. We fight. Let’s die for our religion.’
The bodyguard dashed out.
Ustads begged Mullah Rahmat to reconsider his decision for their and their children’s sake.
Armed men in long perahans and waistcoats stormed in, motioned to ustads by the windows to move away, pulled away the grey curtains to reveal a cloudy sky, and placed their guns on the recesses.
Cries, screams and pleas filled the edara when the two bodyguards by the door blocked ustads from leaving. The armed men roared at them to shut up.
‘You’re surrounded. Give up your weapons,’ a voice said on a loudspeaker from the outside.
Ustads with pale faces and tearful eyes begged Mullah Rahmat to use dialogue, and implored Frishta to speak to Brigadier not to fire.
He picked up the handset but hit it back hard, causing the Afghan flag to fall. ‘Let them in.’
Sighs of relief and ‘thank you, mudir saheb’ filled the room.
‘I’m doing it for you,’ he said to the ustads. ‘I’m doing it for you, understand?’ he screamed. The ustads flinched.
He was indeed mad.
Silence. Muffled sounds of people tapping against the hard floor.
The door slammed open and armed men with muddy boots stormed in and disarmed Mullah Rahmat’s thugs.
Brigadier marched in, followed by Agha, whose presence brightened my world. At last, I received his support. If only he’d come an hour earlier.
Brigadier told the screaming ustads to calm down and ordered the guards to remove ‘the puppies’ and shut the door.
Agha told me to stop crying. Mahbuba janput her hands on my shoulders, telling me all was well. Salty tears entered my mouth. I was meant to be in the middle of the edara earlier on, fighting abuse. I was physically stronger and taller than Frishta, yet I couldn’t challenge Mullah Rahmat. Stood motionless like a dead body. I was at the mercy of my genetic flaw. I despised my cowardly side. Despised me. If only Khudai had created me as brave as Frishta.
Frishta took a step back and stood by me with her calming jasmine scent. Like me, her eyes were full of tears. We both trembled. A pale Mahbuba jan held my shoulders and told me to relax.
The ustads by the mahogany desk opposite us gave up their seats for Agha and Brigadier. Agha appeared to be fuming.
‘Apologies to all ustads for the manner in which we entered. And to you, sir, for stepping in before you,’ Brigadier said to Agha, whom he respected like his elder brother.
I didn’t think Mullah Rahmat – who stayed motionless throughout – had expected Frishta’s father to come down with so many armed guards.
‘What have I taught you, Frishta? Leopards fight; they don’t cry.’ Brigadier’s authoritative voice filled the room. ‘Mudirsaheb, what crime has my princess committed by giving Ahmad a mina letter?’ Brigadier went on, his right arm resting on the desk.
To my great relief, Agha showed no reaction when Brigadier mentioned the letter.
‘More than a crime – a sin.’
‘What’s wrong if the two of them are in mina? I can’t find a better son-in-law than Ahmad.’ Brigadier guffawed, straightening the fallen Afghan flag.
‘Lundabazi is forbidden in the school.’
‘Speak like a principal. What do you mean by lundabazi?’
‘Unreligious sexual relationships.’
‘Who says mina is unreligious?’
‘Our dear religion.’
‘Did you think about Islam when you asked Huma jan for sex? It’s not the Red Shorawi but you who’s the real enemy of Islam, by preaching one thing and doing the opposite.’
Brigadier gestured to Frishta to keep quiet and asked Mullah Rahmat what religion forbade mina.
‘Do I have to remind you of your religion?’
‘Please.’
‘The Holy Religion of Islam.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, Islam is a religion of peace, tolerance and mina.’
‘Not that type of mina.’
‘Not in your distorted interpretation–’
‘Because my interpretation is different from a Communist’s interpretation.’
‘We made the April Revolution to get rid of backward people like them,’ Brigadier said to Agha. ‘14 years down the line, and we still get hurt by these hypocrites with one Islam for them and another for us.’
Agha explained to Mullah Rahmathow he did me injustice: he shouldn’t have threatened me to the extent that I wet myself, but instead explained my errors.
Mullah Rahmat said it was for my ‘good’.
‘Beating children teaches them nothing except fear, shame and helplessness,’ Agha said, leaning against the wooden chair with cushion seats, adding that these feelings ultimately affected their performance at school, damaged their self-confidence, and prevented them from being who they were likely to become.
‘My ustads beat me up. I’m not doing that badly.’
Brigadier told Agha reasoning with a ‘bandit’ was useless.
‘Did it teach you how to behave?’ Agha asked.
‘Don’t worry about me. Your son will never write a mina letter if he remembers today.’
‘You likewise won’t raise a hand on a helpless child if you remember me.’ Brigadier leapt over the desk and threw Mullah Rahmat on the floor. The clay pot tumbled onto the concrete ground, breaking into pieces. Brigadier punched him in the face. Once, twice, thrice. Shouted ‘Quick’ and armed men rushed in, kicking, punching and elbowing Mullah Rahmat in the stomach, back and even face.
Cries of help filled the room when Brigadier threw Rauf Khan on the ground over the wet mud. Frishta covered Rauf Khan’s body and pleaded with her mad father that theustad wasn’t to blame.
‘He must’ve stood by his students,’ Brigadier said. Agha told him to calm down.
I now understood Frishta had inherited the loss of temper from her father, or rather stepfather. Brigadier ordered his guards to take Mullah Rahmat away. They held him by the arms and pulled him towards the door, blood flowing from the side of his mouth. Mullah Rahmat guffawed like a mad buffalo, spat skyward a mixture of blood and saliva, and shouted to the ceiling, ‘May Khudai keep you away from the venom of the cobra, the jaw of the tiger and the revenge of the Pashtun.’
One of the guards pushed him out. Agha and Brigadier took their seats and told everyone to do so. They apologised again to the ustads for their approach; they saw no other way to deal effectively with an armed Mullah Rahmat. The relieved ustads, now fewer in number, apologised for what’d happened to me. They said Mullah Rahmat behaved like a militia commander, beat them up ‘like fatherless children’ for refusing his ‘unlawful orders’, and molested female colleagues at will. The ustads remained helpless because he ‘terrified’ them. They felt proud of Frishta for facing another bully.
What did I see? Amrudin Khan, standing upright before Frishta, the right-hand palm facing forward and the fingers touching the forehead’s right side. ‘You remind me of a student I am very proud to have taught years back.’ His eyes welled up. ‘Nahid Shahid.’
‘Na…’ Frishta’s voice broke. ‘I’m nowhere near to one of my heroines.’
In defiance of the Kabul government, the student Nahid participated in the anti-Soviet demonstrations in the first year of the Soviet invasion in Kabul until a bullet from a pro-Communist puppet’s gun shahid, martyred, her.
‘You’d officially be presented with the medal of The True Jelaiof Afghanistan.’ Everyone clapped. Mahbuba jan hugged Frishta, tears rolling down the ustad’s and the student’s eyes. Brigadier’s lips stretched, his eyes misting over.
Brigadier told the ustads they’d never see Mullah Rahmat again. Agha explained that an investigation would be launched, and he’d be punished in accordance with the rule of law. The ever so diplomatic Agha tried to convey that the proper legal system would be followed. I knew Mullah Rahmat would experience the darkest days of his life in the notorious KHAD prisons. Mullah Rahmat was history, I was sure of this, but my humiliating deed would stay forever.
***
THAT EVENING, leaning against my bedroom door with the light switched off and curtains drawn, I overheard Mour and Agha discussing in the lounge whether wetting myself had any connection with a medical cause. Mour suggested Agha take me to the doctor; Agha saw it as normal to piss out of fear.
‘It’ll dog him to the end of his life,’ Mour went on after a silence. Her voice broke.
‘People forget.’
‘Not in Afghanistan. Haven’t you heard the tizan story?’
According to the legend, a man returned after 20 years, thinking the villagers had forgotten about his accidental tiz, fart. He asked a village halek if he knew where Ghairat Khan lived. Nobody had seen the tizan, sir fartsalot,for 20 years after his tiz, the halek replied, but his son, known as the son of the tizan, lived by the mosque. The man this time left for good.
I’d carry on the nickname of piss pants. Never see the end of this. It’d hurt even my son, who’d be called the son of piss pants.
‘Students will poke fun at him. He won’t get into medical school. If only he kept his bladder tight.’
‘He must learn to be strong. He must learn from Frishta,’ Agha said.
‘Frishta is the cause of all this.’ She added that no one else would dare to plant the letter in my book. Mour pleaded with Agha to stop the evening visits.
Agha said Mour misunderstood Frishta.
‘My judgment is hardly wrong,’ Mour said. ‘She’s ruined my son’s future.’
‘Your endless lectures on tradition are equally to blame.’
‘They’re for their good.’
‘Are they? A million times today he’s told you he hasn’t written the letter? You know why? I bet he wet his trousers for fear of your reaction.’
‘Children must learn about their religion and culture. I think we should–’
‘I have real worries on my mind.’
‘Is there any real worry other than our son’s future?’
‘I fear for my life.’
‘Why?’ I overheard panic in Mour’s voice.
‘Najibullah is finished.’
‘Na?’
‘He tried to flee the country. Dostum’s militia didn’t let him get on the plane. He’s taken refuge in the UN office near the Arg Palace.’ Earlier today, I thanked Khudai for having Agha around me, but his ‘other worries’ demonstrated he lived with his other wife and her concerns. Even so, the possibility of losing Agha frightened me. The mujahideen would take away our apartment and leave us on the streets. Would Mour survive Agha’s death? What’d happen to my sisters’ future? What about me? As the only male in the family, I’d have to drop out of school and work to provide for Mour and my sisters.
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