it: He was just a Hazara, wasn’t he?
I ran back the way I’d come. Ran back to the all but deserted bazaar. I lurched to a cubicle and leaned against the padlocked
swinging doors. I stood there panting, sweating, wishing things had turned out some other way.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard voices and running footfalls. I crouched behind the cubicle and watched Assef and the
other two sprinting by, laughing as they hurried down the deserted lane. I forced myself to wait ten more minutes. Then I
walked back to the rutted track that ran along the snow-filled ravine. I squinted in the dimming light and spotted Hassan
walking slowly toward me. I met him by a leafless birch tree on the edge of the ravine.
He had the blue kite in his hands; that was the first thing I saw. And I can’t lie now and say my eyes didn’t scan it for
any rips. His chapan had mud smudges down the front and his shirt was ripped just below the collar. He stopped. Swayed on his feet like he was
going to collapse. Then he steadied himself. Handed me the kite.
“Where were you? I looked for you,” I said. Speaking those words was like chewing on a rock.
Hassan dragged a sleeve across his face, wiped snot and tears. I waited for him to say something, but we just stood there
in silence, in the fading light. I was grateful for the early-evening shadows that fell on Hassan’s face and concealed mine.
I was glad I didn’t have to return his gaze. Did he know I knew? And if he knew, then what would I see if I did look in his eyes? Blame? Indignation? Or, God forbid, what I feared most: guileless devotion? That, most of all, I couldn’t
bear to see.
He began to say something and his voice cracked. He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. Took a step back. Wiped
his face. And that was as close as Hassan and I ever came to discussing what had happened in the alley. I thought he might
burst into tears, but, to my relief, he didn’t, and I pretended I hadn’t heard the crack in his voice. Just like I pretended
I hadn’t seen the dark stain in the seat of his pants. Or those tiny drops that fell from between his legs and stained the
snow black.
“Agha sahib will worry,” was all he said. He turned from me and limped away.
IT HAPPENED JUST THE WAY I’d imagined. I opened the door to the smoky study and stepped in. Baba and Rahim Khan were drinking
tea and listening to the news crackling on the radio. Their heads turned. Then a smile played on my father’s lips. He opened
his arms. I put the kite down and walked into his thick hairy arms. I buried my face in the warmth of his chest and wept.
Baba held me close to him, rocking me back and forth. In his arms, I forgot what I’d done. And that was good.
EIGHT
For a week, I barely saw Hassan. I woke up to find toasted bread, brewed tea, and a boiled egg already on the kitchen table.
My clothes for the day were ironed and folded, left on the cane-seat chair in the foyer where Hassan usually did his ironing.
He used to wait for me to sit at the breakfast table before he started ironing—that way, we could talk. Used to sing too,
over the hissing of the iron, sang old Hazara songs about tulip fields. Now only the folded clothes greeted me. That, and
a breakfast I hardly finished anymore.
One overcast morning, as I was pushing the boiled egg around on my plate, Ali walked in cradling a pile of chopped wood. I
asked him where Hassan was.
“He went back to sleep,” Ali said, kneeling before the stove. He pulled the little square door open.
Would Hassan be able to play today?
Ali paused with a log in his hand. A worried look crossed his face. “Lately, it seems all he wants to do is sleep. He does
his chores—I see to that—but then he just wants to crawl under his blanket. Can I ask you something?”
“If you have to.”
“After that kite tournament, he came home a little bloodied and his shirt was torn. I asked him what had happened
I ran back the way I’d come. Ran back to the all but deserted bazaar. I lurched to a cubicle and leaned against the padlocked
swinging doors. I stood there panting, sweating, wishing things had turned out some other way.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard voices and running footfalls. I crouched behind the cubicle and watched Assef and the
other two sprinting by, laughing as they hurried down the deserted lane. I forced myself to wait ten more minutes. Then I
walked back to the rutted track that ran along the snow-filled ravine. I squinted in the dimming light and spotted Hassan
walking slowly toward me. I met him by a leafless birch tree on the edge of the ravine.
He had the blue kite in his hands; that was the first thing I saw. And I can’t lie now and say my eyes didn’t scan it for
any rips. His chapan had mud smudges down the front and his shirt was ripped just below the collar. He stopped. Swayed on his feet like he was
going to collapse. Then he steadied himself. Handed me the kite.
“Where were you? I looked for you,” I said. Speaking those words was like chewing on a rock.
Hassan dragged a sleeve across his face, wiped snot and tears. I waited for him to say something, but we just stood there
in silence, in the fading light. I was grateful for the early-evening shadows that fell on Hassan’s face and concealed mine.
I was glad I didn’t have to return his gaze. Did he know I knew? And if he knew, then what would I see if I did look in his eyes? Blame? Indignation? Or, God forbid, what I feared most: guileless devotion? That, most of all, I couldn’t
bear to see.
He began to say something and his voice cracked. He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. Took a step back. Wiped
his face. And that was as close as Hassan and I ever came to discussing what had happened in the alley. I thought he might
burst into tears, but, to my relief, he didn’t, and I pretended I hadn’t heard the crack in his voice. Just like I pretended
I hadn’t seen the dark stain in the seat of his pants. Or those tiny drops that fell from between his legs and stained the
snow black.
“Agha sahib will worry,” was all he said. He turned from me and limped away.
IT HAPPENED JUST THE WAY I’d imagined. I opened the door to the smoky study and stepped in. Baba and Rahim Khan were drinking
tea and listening to the news crackling on the radio. Their heads turned. Then a smile played on my father’s lips. He opened
his arms. I put the kite down and walked into his thick hairy arms. I buried my face in the warmth of his chest and wept.
Baba held me close to him, rocking me back and forth. In his arms, I forgot what I’d done. And that was good.
EIGHT
For a week, I barely saw Hassan. I woke up to find toasted bread, brewed tea, and a boiled egg already on the kitchen table.
My clothes for the day were ironed and folded, left on the cane-seat chair in the foyer where Hassan usually did his ironing.
He used to wait for me to sit at the breakfast table before he started ironing—that way, we could talk. Used to sing too,
over the hissing of the iron, sang old Hazara songs about tulip fields. Now only the folded clothes greeted me. That, and
a breakfast I hardly finished anymore.
One overcast morning, as I was pushing the boiled egg around on my plate, Ali walked in cradling a pile of chopped wood. I
asked him where Hassan was.
“He went back to sleep,” Ali said, kneeling before the stove. He pulled the little square door open.
Would Hassan be able to play today?
Ali paused with a log in his hand. A worried look crossed his face. “Lately, it seems all he wants to do is sleep. He does
his chores—I see to that—but then he just wants to crawl under his blanket. Can I ask you something?”
“If you have to.”
“After that kite tournament, he came home a little bloodied and his shirt was torn. I asked him what had happened
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