Ahmad is here. Mikhail is calm. We walk back towards Adam and the car park. People stop and stare but my thoughts are filled with my friend . He still looks good to me – warm and intense, calm and soft spoken – but I can see life has been tough. He looks older, wearier, thinner than when I last saw him. “You’ve lost weight Ahmad.” He smiles. “It’s because I don’t eat your food,” he says. I don’t respond. He always says it – I know he isn’t flattering me, he means it – but every time I hear it, I am flattered. I see Adam now – he is toying with his phone, a worried expression on his face, probably wondering if his superiors have made the right decision, hiring this footloose Indian or American woman for such a serious position.
His face lights up as he sees us walking towards him. Ahmad speaks to him in Dari. I tune off, as I do when I know my active participation is unneeded. Ahmad is now here to manage it all. Some would say its just plain lazy to give up one’s responsibilities so easily, other would say it was selfish to dump everything on someone and expect him or her to take care of everything. And there are some who definitely say its impractical and risky to trust someone so much. But I do trust Ahmad, somehow I just know I don’t need to speak or act or listen or react much to my environment when I am around him. I feel safer, calmer, freer. My son and I are in good hands.
A voice breaks into my thoughts, bringing me back to the present. It is Ahmad. “Pisho, I have told him that you are staying with my family in Qala-e-Vakil and that he should transfer all your bags into my car.” I look at Adam – so young, so confused, his cheeks getting redder and redder in the heat. He looks at me, hoping for some reassurance, expecting me to tell this new person to go to hell, just sit in his van and peacefully go to the ABCD guesthouse. I smile at him , I long to pull his cheeks – he is a plumper version of Sushil. “I will speak to Zee, dont worry about it, Adam. I am so sorry you came all this way. Thank you for your patience. I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”
“You are coming to office tomorrow? I will send you the car tomorrow?” Yes, please. Ahmad describes the location of his home. “Okay, I will go. See you. Thank you.” We shake hands and he motions his driver to move my bags into Ahmad’s Corolla. The driver, so far a silent spectator, shakes his head vigorously as if to say the bags won’t fit in. Ahmad uses all his energies to prove them wrong, he is irritated, I can sense it – the bags fit into the car quite easily and soon, we are on our way. In a minute, I hear Ahmad cursing.”See how stupid they are. They are following us.” I laughed. “Let them, they’re probably making sure I am safe and that you’re what you say you are.” But Ahmad is still cursing. “If I was a foreigner, would they have cared?”. I don’t comment.Mikhail is plopped on my laps in the front seat – easterners manage well without car seats – and looking around him. He squeals with excitement as he spots excavators, steam rollers, front loaders, back-hoe loaders, cranes, dumper trucks in shades of yellow, orange and green. He loves Kabul, I can tell. A city under construction, full of dust and sand, is his paradise. “Mummy, there is no skid-steer loader?”. I laugh and kiss him full on his lips and hug him tight. He smells like Kabul, all that dust on him. “He is very wise, Pisho.” Yes, he is – I just hope he’ll be happy here.
Ahmad is quiet, driving with a frown on his face, no doubt still upset at being followed. Mikhail is listing out every construction equipment he spots on the road and sipping the orange juice I saved for him since Dubai. I look out – I can only see people. Tired, worn out men in shalwar-kameezes, the former tied some four inches above the earth to reveal ashen ankles – some with waistcoats and turbans, some with long black beards and others clean shaven. Some are dressed in tight jeans and form fitting t-shirts, hair gelled into spikes and plain or colored kuffiyat tied loosely around their necks. A sigh escapes me – the hair, the kuffiyat are now fashion of choice for metrosexual males, the world over. Damn you, Beckham.
Then there are the women – the famous Afghan women, the western world seeks to emancipate – dressed in loose shalwar-kameezes, colored dupattas tightly covering their heads, some dressed in dark trousers or jeans with long, full sleeved black trench coats and scarfs and full makeup, others in the blue chaderi or black Saudi-style burqas. Children are everywhere – on laps, held in and by the arms, running everywhere, crossing streets, washing cars, wiping windshields at traffic stops, being cursed at, being hit – crying, laughing, screaming, eating, staring kids. Then there are feet – High heels, flats, rubber slippers, Peshawari leather sandals, pointy elf-like leather shoes (ah, the metrosexual male) and nude feet clamor for space in Kabul – dodging dog, sheep, horse poop, rotten fruit and vegetables, muddy puddles, potholes, spit and snot, bullets of American and ISAF forces, huddled in their heavily armored hummers, angry and screeching tires of jeeps and vans and cars, motorbikes and cycles, all trying to make it to someplace on time, in one piece.
One thing always amazes me about Kabul – it is as polluted, populated, unclean as any South Asian city but unlike in many Indian cities, there are no naked bottoms, no frontal nudity, no pooping and peeing in public. Maybe Afghan men have stronger bladders and intestines than their Indian counterparts or access to more bathrooms (sponsored by the Indian government). Surprisingly, Indians I’ve encountered here have an air of superiority about them– “we are cleaner, more hygiene-conscious.” But I suspect they would not think twice before unzipping to relieve themselves on a public street in their respective hometowns. Perhaps, living in Afghanistan makes them cleaner, more conscious.
I feel Ahmad’s hand on mine. “What are you thinking, Pisho?” I can’t explain it. I feel like I never left Kabul. Has it really been a year? It feels more like a week. When I first came here, I felt like I had been here before and I was no stranger. Everyone laughed when I said it – no one believed me, they thought I was being fanciful. Except Ahmad. “You are Pashtun and Afghan, that is why you feel this way,” he always said. And now I am back here, with my son who is here for the very first time and yet I feel like we have lived here forever.
Squealing tires. Loud honking. Curses. Ahmad breaks hard. I hold on to Mikhail tightly, he protests of course. A van with open doors, presumably a taxi traveling to Kabul from one of the provinces, full of bearded men in turbans has just screeched to a halt in front of us. The driver looks around, maneuvers his vehicle and drives off in front of us. Ahmad mutters under his breath. Everyone’s honking but this is Kabul where one needs to dodge traffic laws and authorities to get to a place on time and in one piece. “We’re close – just a few minutes away. Those idiots are still following us.” I don’t look back – I look around. Qala-e-Vakil is like a village within the city. Most men are dressed in traditional attire; women wear the chaderi or the black burqa. The mullah calls everyone to prayer, screaming passionately and tunelessly into a microphone. Bread shops are everywhere, along with tiny grocery stores and vegetable vendors. Everyone’s frowning, squinting against the afternoon sun – no doubt, everyone’s fasting here.
Ahmad is slowing down. He stops the car, gets out and goes out to confront our tail – Adam and the driver look confused. I want to laugh but I stifle it. Ahmad is talking to them now. I turn back to Mikhail. I am not needed – Ahmad will take care of it. “Where are be going, Mummy?” I can’t help but laugh – I love the way he says, “be”. I give him a tight hug and a kiss. “Mummy, nooooooooo. Where are be going?” We’re going to Ahmad uncle’s house. “Where is him gone?” He is looking for Ahmad. I turn back to see Ahmad writing a note and handing it to Adam – presumably his home address and cellphone number, to arrange a pick up for work tomorrow. “He’s coming baby. Do you like Kabul?” “Yeah, aaaaaaaah. Mummy, dumper truck.” How little it takes for kids to be happy. I wonder how things will be for us now – How will Ahmad’s family turn out? Will they like me? Will they be good to Mikhail?
Ahmad is back. “I gave them my address and number Pisho. They don’t like it – that you are staying with me here. I have told them we are family friends. They will leave now.” Good. We are soon on our way. I look back. Adam’s car is gone. In a minute, Ahmad turns left and we go into a side street. It is dirty, bumpy, divided from the main highway by drains, covered in parts by concrete slabs so as to facilitate the passing of two and four-wheelers. There is a narrow path, very bumpy, very curvy, lined with tiny stores selling vegetables, groceries to chaderi-clad women and children. Men in shalwar-kameezes an turbans look into our cars – they dont step aside. Ahmad is honking away. “They think they are stronger than cars and jeeps.” Well, then they must be Pashtun. Ahmad laughs at it. I am surprised he has the strength – I know he’s fasting. I look at the time, its 4:30 pm. I need to use the loo and I am hungry. I need sleep.
“We’re here.” Finally. We stop outside a blue metal door in a narrow, curvy street. Its a wonder Ahmad’s car could drive through it at all…potholes, people, shops with their goods dangling outside. We got out of the car. Staring, lots of staring. “Mummy, where are be going?” This is where Ahmad lives. I look at him, knocking on the door – why here? The street is lined with high mud walls, preferred architecture of traditional Afghans where their women can hide from “the useless peoples.” The door is opened by a woman and two children- she is wearing a black burqa but she covers her face with a white scarf. Very light eyes, pale skin. A young boy and a girl, only slightly older than him. I know their names and their ages – Haseena, 7 and Naveed, 5. Beautiful children with kind, smiling eyes. Happy children. Mikhail sees them – he is shy. he sticks close to me. The woman welcomes me as Afghan women do other women, three kisses – one each on the cheeks – a tight hug that leaves you breathless. “Salamaleikum. Pa khair raghle. Tsanga ye?”. “Salamaleikum Shafeeqa, kha yama, dera dera manana”. She shakes Mikhail’s hand and repeats the same greeting. The children say Salaam in unison. Mikhail is dazed, so am I. Ahmad is nowhere, probably seeing to the bags, no doubt. Typical – leave me alone to fend for myself. Shafeeqa removes her makeshift hijab. She is pale-skinned, her eyes are really light, light grey, I think. She is of medium height and built, with long braided black hair, very tired, very kind eyes. She looks older than her age – three children, managing a home, an absentee husband can do that to you. She holds my hand in hers – her hands are coarse, hardworking palms. I am ashamed of my manicured, bright pink nails and my ‘I don’t do too many chores’ palms. She ushers me inside.
Its a small home, by Afghan standards, surrounded on all sides by high walls. On one side is a garden, an outdoor bathroom (typical Kerala style – my uncles always joke indoor bathrooms bring shit into homes, oh my dear, dear nasty uncles), and on the other side are three doorways, covered by broad, printed curtains. One is an entrance to a bathroom and adjacent guesthouse – used to entertain male visitors only, the other for female visitors or male and female family members. The last one is huge – to the left is a family room, to the right a huge kitchen and facing the door, tucked away behind another curtain, is the bathroom, no doubt used by women.
I am shown into the guesthouse – it is large, the floor is covered with a large red carpet and long single beds, similar to diwans, line either side of the wall, to be used alternatively for sitting and sleeping with square, brown-print pillows on each bed. “Raza, Khkena.” I plop on the bed – its hot. Suddenly a floor fan I hadn’t observed, springs to life, violently. “Grrrrrrrrr”. Some respite. Mikhail is digging deep into the diaper bag for his toys, to impress his new friends. I don’t know where he gets the energy from. I can feel three pairs of eyes on me, one especially, is checking me out from head to feet. I feel uncomfortable. I wonder what she thinks of me.
Mikhail successfully gets out a bulldozer and a sports car, brandishing them in front of Haseena and Naveed. I cannot help but smile – he is so young and already such a show-off, always looking for praise and never getting enough of it. “Dagha plar na raghley?” Ouch, that inevitable question. No, he did not come – he works in the United States. She is puzzled. Just then, Ahmad comes in. I long to box him – he should have tackled all issues before I arrived. He asks her to bring something for me to eat. Now she is openly shocked. She touches her mouth with her forefinger. “Roza…?” What the hell is she talking about? I look at Ahmad. Oh no, you didn’t. He does not look at me, instead he speaks to her in Pashto, in rapid speed. “Mariza da, daru khuraye” is all I catch. Why does he do these things? Thank god, Mikhail is circumcised and there is no way she will know about me. She gives me a sympathetic look and rushes outside to get to the kitchen. Some food and water, at last.
I get up to go to the bathroom. I want to avoid a confrontation in front of the kids. There is only freezing cold water in the bucket, no taps, but I clench my teeth and make-do. I wash my hands with foamless soap. Ice-cold. It reminds me of Kashmir, the orphanage in Karan Nagar. I think of my homes in Chembur and Plainsboro. Running hot and cold water, air-conditioners and heaters, exhaust fans, western style pots, water-jet sprays, tissue papers, wet wipes, anti-bacterial soaps, hand lotions, bath mats, luxurious. How do I do this? Why do I do this? There is no towel. I dry my hands, waving them wildly so the air can do the job. Hand dryers, paper towels – aaah, I must stop thinking about this.
I go out and find Ahmad still sitting there, trying to engage Mikhail, his children are watching Mikhail make baby bulldozer sounds. At last, he has an audience, somehow he always does. Ahmad is brave, sitting in a guesthouse with a female visitor. Shafiqa’s not yet returned. “So what have you told her about me?” “That you are Muslim, you are married and you have a son.” Before I can protest, “Pisho please, I had to do it. These people are traditional, they will not understand. But you can eat. I told her you are sick so you cannot fast this year.” With what? Brain damage? “No, stomach flue.” I smile. What a cool liar he is. I let it rest because she comes in with a tray and a jug of water. She puts it down in front of me and motions me to eat.
There is a plate of okra cooked with tomato, some yogurt, a large bread, water and a cucumber, onion and tomato salad. “Mikhail come darling, eat something.” I need to change his diaper but it can wait. He sits next to me but does not give up his bulldozer. We eat in silence – I feed Mikhail some pieces of bread dipped in yogurt, he does not like okra. I feel guilty, eating in front of fasting, traditional Muslims but I am so hungry, I gulp everything down. The water tastes weird, like water in Alibaug, but I don’t care. I’ll think about all this later. Not now. Ahmad is watching me, from under his eyes. Ghoori ghaley ghaley, as always. She looks at me openly. They don’t talk to each other at all. Mikhail’s voice tears through the silence – “Mummy, what is this? what is that?” I long for the night.
We go to bed at 8 pm. No events except for mosquito bites and the heat – Mikhail broke the floor fan. I have no clue how. It was while I was in the bathroom. We’re too tired to notice the mosquitoes. Let them feast tonight. I’ll think about them later, not now. Can’t think now.
