“Mummy, Kabul le mountains inde!”, Mikhail observes earnestly in Malayalam. I look out to where his tiny forefinger points and see the brooding, provocative mountain ranges that encircle Kabul . We are close, very close to land in Kabul’s international airport. I try to appear calm but I am excited and my heart is beating fast. I glance at Mikhail and ruffle his hair – he is tired, so bloody tired and yet his eyes are as sharp as ever. So curious, so young, so full of life. Three continents in four months – thats a lot for a soon to be 3-year old boy. He has been brilliant throughout this twenty-hour journey but I fear the breaking point is near. He’s only napped for 3 hours and consumed nothing but orange juice since we left Dubai for Kabul, three hours ago.
He does not disappoint. As soon as the stewardess makes an announcement that we are about to land in Kabul, he says, “Mummy No, I don’t want to go. I want to sit in plane.” Oh dear, I brace myself for the inevitable tantrum and tears. As we ascend, he seems excited once again – his face lights up and he squeals with excitement as the aircrafts wheels skid on Kabul’s earth. But as soon as the passengers get ready to alight, he starts protesting once again, hitting his back to the seat and screaming. “Mummy no, Mummy no…”
The aircraft is full of white faces – all stiff and stone cold. A crying child does not soften those features, they harden them all the more. Then, one of the passengers – a smiling, young man, an American soothes Mikhail, “Come on buddy, we have to go. Its alright. Lets go.” As if by magic, Mikhail gets up and smiles at his countryman and comes out into the aisle. The white faces scowl at the delay but Mikhail is now walking out of the aircraft and I am relieved. Screw the poker faces !Then as if by another stroke of magic, as soon we get out of the aircraft and descend down the stairs, Mikhail cries again. He refuses to walk and throws himself on the stairs. I had my hands full – a cabin luggage, my purse, his diaper bag and a crying child. The poker faces walk over my son, in a hurry to get to wherever they were going. I curse them in my hearts – burn them and their families – I curse myself for undertaking this journey and Mikhail for throwing tantrums now, when we were this close.
An Afghan worker, one of many in the dusty airport, hurries up to me, his face full of smiling lines – etched so deep into his face I wonder how they haven’t torn into his skin – and carries my bags, all of them, and motions me to carry Mikhail. I carry a screaming and protesting, head-banging Mikhail into the airport bus that will take us to the main terminal to the Customs and Immigrations counter. The white faces look away as soon as I enter the bus – only the Afghan driver smiles at me, gesturing its okay, as if to say kids are kids.
By now, I am upset with Mikhail. I long to spank him but I have neither the heart nor the strength. I just want to cry. His eyes flood with new tears and they are swollen and red and he looks so lost and tired, I just wanted to hold him and comfort him. But he refuses to come to me – he lays sprawled on the floor of the bus, crying violently. The white faces look at him with disgust, look at me - judge the mother and son, bad business- and then look away into space. The bus screeches to a violent halt outside the terminal. The white faces prepare to alight. My son was in the way. I reach out to him but he refuses to budge. They walk over him with their bags, some of them speaking on their phones. I just watch, trying to shield Mikhail, and curse under my breath- burn in hell with your families once again, if possible.
After everyone leaves, I try to carry Mikhail and my bags once again but he makes it harder and harder. The more he cries, the more energy he seems to gather and the more my resolve weakens. Afghans of all ages, now crowd around us – all men, all smiling, all curious, looking at the drama unfolding – the haggard mother, screaming son and three bags. They guide me to the Customs and Immigrations queue. There are some chairs for visitors so I plop myself on one and Mikhail continues to cry at my feet, refusing to be held. The building is air-conditioned so there is some relief. But I am so tired. I need to use the loo. I want Mikhail to stop crying. I just want us to go home.
But where is home? For years my heart accepted Bombay as my only home. Now I am not so sure. Plainsboro has become home, Harlem also feels like home, Kabul too. At least for now, my dearest child, home is right here in Kabul.
I am brought back to the present by the happy sound of silence. Mikhail has stopped crying and is looking around himself, scanning his surroundings, responding with shyness to the hellos of friendly Afghan airport employees and porters. One of them, an elderly man, asks me if I need help. “Wo, dera manana.” His face lights up. “Da jinai pa pakhto pohegi,” he screams at his comrades. Suddenly, I am surrounded by black beards and staring eyes, in shades from black to pale green, hard facial lines softened by smiles. “Pe pakhto ki khabari kawe”? Da halak pakhto pohegi ke na?” ” Ta hindustani ye?” “Mashallah, tor stargi laray” – the last comment was made pointing to our eyes. Both Mikhail and I have big, black eyes with dark lashes – always a huge point of favor and fascination for Afghan men. Mikhail looks up at me now, dazed by all this attention. “Mummy I want to carry me.” Yes, darling. I want that too.
I scoop Mikhail up in my arms and hold my bags, refuse help and wave goodbye to our admirers and walk towards the now-empty customs and immigration slots. The customs official looks at our passports. “Americaans, good good.” I don’t bother telling him I am Indian. He stamps it and send us on our way. I don’t look forward to collecting my baggage from the turnstile – 4 large ones, 20 kilos each. And I don’t trust Mikhail’s present state of chirpiness – the tide can turn in seconds. I need help but before I can look around, an elderly (everyone looks old in Kabul) man comes to me and gestures to the turnstile, speaking in Dari. I know he wants to help with my luggage and take me to the parking area, for a fee of course. I nod my assent. I need help, desperately – money be damned.
Luckily, my bags are already out of the turnstile, placed neatly next to each other. I point to the bags and tell my new assistant “yao, dwa, darai, tsaalor – da zama bagoona di.” He squeals with amazement. I already know whats coming next. “Ta pakhtana ye?” “Der khkule khabari kawe.” More smiling faces, more beards, more staring eyes. I am now flanked by a stream of happy Pashto-speaking porters and their friends, all speaking and gesturing frantically, asking me who I am, where I live, am I Indian, is Mikhail my son, do I have a husband, how did he let me travel alone? One porter gestures to my eyes (“dera khaista di, tor tor stargi”). He says if he was my husband, he would not leave me alone. Dream on, brother!
Had I been alone, I would not have encouraged this kind of chatter or an entourage. But my concern was to reach Parking Area B, where all the visitors were welcomed by their Afghan hosts, as quickly as possible and to avoid having to drag all these bags and a tired, hungry and thirsty child. Also Mikhail is equally amazed by all this attention. He stays put in my arms, looking around him – pointing aircrafts and helicopters to the porters. White faces stare at us – we were a curious item – a woman, a child in her arms and a group of gesticulating and talkative porters, two of them hurtling my bags on rickety luggage carts on a dusty street outside Kabul airport.
Within seconds of reaching the parking area, I see a tall, well built young man, dressed in a black dress shirt and black shiny trousers, holding a large white paper with my name on it – Kavita Nair. I look at him, I don’t recognize him. Ahmad never mentioned anyone else in his email – he said he would come himself. I informed ABCD group, my new employers, that I don’t need an escort because Ahmad would pick me up. I walk towards him – he is really young, maybe 22 or 23, he looks at me and at my entourage and gives me a broad smile, his bright pink cheeks glisten with sweat. “You are Kavita? I am Adam from ABCD”, he says without waiting for my response to his query. He stretches a sweaty palm – I shake it. “Its nice to meet you. Can you ask them to leave?,” I say, pointing to the porters carrying my luggage. He mutters something to them in Dari and thrusts his hands into his pocket, probably to give them a bakshish. I protest, “No, no, please let me take care of it,” I say and reach into purse to grab my wallet. I thrust a twenty-dollar note into the hands of the elderly porter who was responsible for gathering a crowd around me. “Dera Manana, der zyat manana”. He smiles broadly, revealing a set of uneven yellow teeth. “Mushkil nashta, grani. Calme again. Pa makha de kha.” I wave goodbye to my admirers and then turn back to Adam who looks at me curiously. I am sure I seem wild to him – I am dressed in a brown kurta from Fabindia with gold trimming, held in place by loops to one side, a denim jacket with metal studs, loose black pants with open toe flats and an embroidered scarf over my head that is failing miserably to do its job – a thousand loose strands now fall all over my face. My son is in his element – sitting on his haunches on the street, his hands filled with sand, talking animatedly about dumper trucks and excavators. Is this truly ABCD group’s new Capacity Building Advisor, Columbia Graduate, Kavita Nair?
I am not so sure myself. My head is throbbing and I need to go to the loo desperately, where is Ahmad? “Why are you here? I didn’t ask for a car. I told Zee and Malja that my friend will pick me up.” Adam looks confused. “But we have come to take you to the guesthouse. You are coming to the guesthouse, yes?” What guesthouse, I wonder. I am calm now. I explain that I have a family friend in Kabul and I wrote an email to Zee, Kezim, Ana and Malja telling them that Ahmad would come pick me up from the airport and take me to his family home in Qala-e-Vakil. Adam looks like I stabbed him. God, where is Ahmad? Adam offers to call him. I rummage in my bag and find my black address book. I give him the number and he dials it. Ahmad probably answered his phone on the first ring because almost as soon as he dials it Adam speaks earnestly into his phone in Dari. He hands it over to me. I watch Mikhail playing – he’s now white with sand or cement or whatever it is – as I hold up the phone to my ear. “Hello?” “Pishoooo, where are you?” That voice always has the most calming effect on me. I know he is here somewhere, he feels really close. “Pisho, come to Parking Area C, I am waiting for you.” Alright then. I tell Adam I need to get to Parking Area C, wherever that was. “Sure.” He orders the driver to put my bags in his white Toyota van. I sweet-talk Mikhail into sitting in the car – “We can go to Ahmad uncle’s home and play with Naveed and Haseena.” He is surprisingly easy about it. We hop into the car and we drive away through endless speed bumps towards Ahmad.
Kabul is the same as I remember it. Dustier, if possible, and definitely hotter. Those mountains – dusty and pale, full of encroachments – look more domineering than I remember. They pique Mikhail’s fancy as well. We are now in Parking Area C. I remember it well as soon as I see it. Adam is trying to call Ahmad but I hop out of the car, carrying Mikhail. I know where Ahmad is. I walk to where the airport buses are parked, on the other side of the parking area – the ones that carry regular folks to the airport – and I find him in the same place I left him more than a year ago. He walks towards me and gives me a huge hug. “Hello Pisho, how are you?”, he whispers into my hair. He pulls away and looks deep into my eyes and smiles. “I am happy to see you, Ahmad.” He turns his attention to Mikhail and plants kisses on his cheeks. He holds his arms out to my confused child. “Come, I will carry you now.” Mikhail jumps to him, smiling but still full of curiosity and his little thumb and forefinger stretched out, pointing to Ahmad . “Mummy, who is this?” Ahmad and I laugh out aloud – we are being watched by many curious passengers, squatters and money-changers but it doesn’t matter. “My darling, this is Ahmad uncle and we are going home.”
