The Taliban Cricket Club
Page 9
As Nargis had predicted, the time, which I hoped would never come, came. I woke with dread when I should have been rejoicing. I had graduated from college and Father wanted me to return to Kabul. Shaheen awaited.
On our last afternoon together, we sat again in silence across from each other at a table, neither of us touching our food. We kissed there, in the restaurant, not with passion but with tenderness.
“I’ll talk to your father? I’m sure he will understand.”
“No,” I said, holding his hand tightly. “He will never permit it. He is a kind and understanding man, but if he’d known about us, he would have sent me back to Kabul already. I haven’t even told my mother. I cannot disobey my father like this. He will think it dishonors him. I love you so much, but I have no choice. I can’t marry you.”
He pulled away. “You’re a coward,” he said angrily. “You’ll risk your life returning to Kabul and the civil war between the Talib and the Northern Alliance but won’t risk staying here with me.”
“Yes, I am a coward. I can’t defy my family,” I cried. “Please, please understand that. You know the problems I would have. My father, my family, would never forgive me. They would throw me out, maybe worse. I just wanted to love you, to experience love with you. But I have to go home.”
“Things could change, we mustn’t give up.”
“They may. Anything can happen.” But I didn’t believe my words.
“We’ll keep in touch,” he insisted. “You will change your mind.” He tried a smile, but it distorted his face. “I don’t quit that easily.”
We remained silent on the drive to my home, and he parked at the usual spot, on the corner, and waited for me to say something. He had said all that he could.
“You must forget me. I must forget you,” I said as if it would be that easy. “Please don’t write to me or call me.” My voice broke. “It’ll be too painful.”
Tears fell from his brown eyes, and I leaned across to kiss them dry, tasting the saltiness.
He held my hand. “I won’t promise that, and I won’t promise that I won’t call you, wherever you are, or write to you.”
“If you write, I won’t open the letters. And I won’t speak to you if you call.”
“I’ll keep writing in the hope that one day you will. And calling too. You know I love you, and it’s madness to know I’ll never be able to say those words to you again.”
I flew to Kabul the next morning and did not look down for a last glimpse of the city in which I had fallen in love. I was breathless from the pain and furious at my cowardice. I didn’t have the courage to break with my family for love. I loved Veer with all my heart, and now it was tearing into pieces and the agony was unbelievable.
Grandfather met me at the Kabul airport and drove me home through a city as damaged as I felt. Grandmother noted my silence, the distraction in my eyes, and she believed me when I told her I had caught the flu. I hid away in my childhood room and waited for the sadness to drain out of me. After three weeks, I began my career in the Kabul Daily office, reporting on the continued fighting. I convinced myself that I’d locked Veer away in a secret corner of my mind and knew, with time, he would gradually fade to a beautiful and painful memory of my first, and only, love. I pushed him into the back of my mind, and locked him away in a very dark corner. Shaheen visited us, but as my parents were still in Delhi, we agreed to defer the engagement ceremony until they returned.
JAHAN CLOSED THE ALBUM and looked at me in surprise, not having known anything about Veer or my teammates.
“I should have burned these,” I said, and couldn’t hold back the tears.
“No.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You’ll want to remember Delhi. You must keep them to remind you that there were better times and that they will come again when we get out of here.” He hugged me.
I leaned against him, my tears soaking into his shirt. He let me weep, uncertain as to what to do. He had never seen me crying like this—for no apparent reason. He patted my shoulders, caressed the top of my head, and held me tighter.
“I hope you’re right.” I sniffled.
“Aren’t I always?”
At the bottom of the trunk was my cricket bag. He unzipped it and pulled out my kit. There were pads, gloves, wrinkled whites, grubby socks, and dirty boots. I had always been immaculate on the field but, after the last game, knowing I had to leave for Kabul the next day, I wanted only to forget and stuffed my kit, unwashed, into the bag.
Jahan handed me the pads and batting gloves. “Come on. Show me what these things are for.”
I placed the pad on my leg and fastened the Velcro straps, then repeated the action for the other leg.
“Can you run with those on?”
“Of course. They just protect your shins and kneecaps from the ball.”
I slipped on my gloves, worn, supple, and smelling of my own sweat still. I felt that I was arming myself for battle. My old accomplishments flooded back to me.
Jahan unearthed another layer of the trunk and lifted out the bat from its blue plastic sheath. He drew it out like a sword from a scabbard. He wielded it awkwardly, first like a tennis racquet and then like a hockey stick. I took it from him and held it up to the light. The foot-long round handle still had its rubber grip. The attached blade was exactly 4.25 inches in width and 26 inches in length and the flat side still retained a pale golden sheen and was liberally marked with the red stains of cricket balls. The back of the bat was curved to give it weight. Many of the hits were in the center of the blade, in the sweet spot, and I was proud that I had had a good eye for this game. My left hand reflexively gripped the top of the handle and swung it in the straight line that I had perfected. I swung it back and forth like a pendulum.
The body never forgets.
It was all rushing back to me as I held the bat. The strategy, the competition, the joy.
Now, emboldened by a good memory, I searched the trunk for the ball, rooting through familiar objects, pulling out papers, a plastic bag, and finally finding it rolling around the bottom. It was brand new, still shiny red leather, and wrapped in tissue paper. It fit comfortably in my hand, my fingers curling around the seam.
“What is this?”
Jahan was holding in one hand the plastic bag I’d thrown aside, and in the other he held what looked like a strange furry animal.
I took the animal from him. “That’s my Shylock beard from The Merchant of Venice. I played him in our college play.” I laughed and fit the beard on my face, masking me from ears to chin. The hair was woven into a net and thin black cords slipped over my ears to hold it and the mustache in place. I took a dramatic stance.
“ ‘Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases?’ ”
He clapped. “You made quite a man.”
“I thought I was pretty good,” I said modestly. “I liked doing comedy more; we could fool around then and make our audience laugh. We did a few Monty Python sketches too.”
I shut the trunk firmly when we heard Abdul banging on the door and went upstairs. I slipped on the burka, with the pads still on my legs, and remained hidden behind the door, only to find Parwaaze and Qubad on the steps. They saw the bat and ball in our hands.
“So that’s a cricket bat?” Parwaaze said, and I kept it out of reach. “Now can we start?”
“Azlam’s forming a t-team too,” Qubad said.
“Who’s he?”
“He was in school and college with us. A hila,” Parwaaze said, slightly embarrassed, meaning a cheater. “I saw him this morning and he said he was going to learn cricket. He didn’t say how. We have to beat Azlam’s team if we play them.” He paused and smiled. “But he doesn’t know anyone who can teach him, and we have a coach who has nothing better to do.” He reached eagerly for the bat again.
“First, I’ll show you how to use it.”
We went down the steps to the lawn. It wasn’t long enough for a cricket pitch and we could break all the windows if we practiced here.
With my left hand gripping near the top and my right in the middle of the handle, I crouched over the bat, forgetting where I was, looking straight ahead, over my left shoulder, toward the bowler running up to the opposite wicket. Through the mesh, I could barely focus on a bowler, let alone the ball. But I wanted them to see the batting stance. My elbow pointed at the bowler. The ball came toward me, bounced once, and, keeping the bat straight, I lifted it back and brought it down in a perfect arc to hit an imaginary ball. I felt a sweet, joyful surge of nostalgia that nearly choked me.
“That looks easy.” Jahan took the bat and tried to swing it the way I had, losing his balance.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “On television I’ve seen even the greatest cricketers lose their balance trying to hit the ball.”
“Give it to me,” Qubad said. He did a fair imitation of me but swung too wildly, like a golfer driving a ball.
Parwaaze grabbed the bat from him. “Let me try.” He then crouched over the bat, but his feet were too close together.
Qubad took the ball first, examined it as if it were a hand grenade, and then pronounced, “This is as hard as a stone and will break my head.”
“There’s not much lost if that happens, and we’ll stick the pieces back together,” Parwaaze said, studying the leather and the parallel white stitches of the ball.
“Kn-knowing you, I’ll have a nose at the back of my head,” Qubad replied.
“That would improve your looks.”
“Throw it at me,” Parwaaze said, taking it from Qubad and tossing it to me.
“It’s bowl,” I reminded him. “You just need to keep your feet about a foot apart to maintain your balance.” I moved about fifteen feet away from him. “It isn’t that easy. And don’t forget you’re aiming at a ball that will bounce and could spin away.”
I repeated the bowling actions of my past. I ran a few steps and turned sideways to deliver the ball. But when I tried to bowl, my right hand became entangled in the flapping garment, I lost sight of Parwaaze, and the ball flew over his head.
“You trying to kill me?”
“I can’t do it properly in this,” I said and removed the burka.
From their faces, I knew what they were thinking: How is she going to teach us?
I ignored their looks. “Ready,” I said to Parwaaze. He crouched, feet slightly apart, and I bowled a gentle ball so it bounced in front of him. He pushed forward with his bat to hit it, but the ball turned and he missed.
I threw the ball to Jahan. “Now you bowl. Take a few steps, turn your body, and your right arm starts high up, then forms an arc coming down.”
He concentrated hard on his bowling action, but the ball landed down near his feet and trickled over to Parwaaze, who hit it back. They took turns bowling and batting with me correcting their actions—“Raise your right hand as high as you can before letting the ball go . . . get your feet as close to the bounce of the ball as possible . . .”—and soon a sublime afternoon passed. There was still the purity and innocence of the game, which had given me such pleasure. We were back to our childhood days, playing together, laughing. I saw that they were enjoying their lesson. I imagined that Nargis and Veer would laugh and clap me on, and my old college coach, Sharma, would chuckle because his Afghan girl was teaching men to play this game.
We stopped when it was time for me to make dinner.
“Have you spoken to any of the others?” I asked Parwaaze.
“I’ve told Nazir and Omaid and they said they’re in. I’ll meet the others. We must keep the team in the family, and not let in any outsiders. We’ll start learning properly tomorrow but not here.”
“The university. They have a lot of space,” I suggested.
I scooped up the burka and went into the house, taking the bat and ball, leaving three disappointed men who would have played all night to master this game.
The Letter
THE NEXT DAY, I DELETED MY FIRST LETTER AND began another to Shaheen.
My dear Shaheen,
I think of you often, daily, I would say. When I wake I think of you waking too, brushing your teeth, shaving, combing your hair, dressing, leaving your apartment and walking out into the street. I can see you catching the bus, sitting back and watching the scenery, thinking about your day ahead. It must be a wonderful feeling to be so free to do what you want. Do you still play cricket? I remember how well you taught me.
I am slightly concerned because I’ve not heard from you. I do hope all is well with your family. I am so looking forward to seeing you again soon. If you can get through, call me so I will be ready to leave. I’m sad to say Mother is not well.
No doubt, you’ll understand that the cost of living has risen since you left.
I stopped. I hoped he understood what I meant. The cost of getting out was in the hundreds, I knew, but the airfare was at least a thousand dollars, and it depended on who sold you your ticket.
Do you still have a friend who will guide me to you? As I need to meet him soon, it would be great if you sent me a present, around 2K for him, so that when the time comes, I will be ready to leave in an instant.
Now, I wrote quickly.
We will marry as soon as I reach your side. I miss you so much.
There, I’d finally set the wedding date, my day of arrival. The pain was still suffocating. I fought back my tears for Veer, knowing we would never see each other again, and signed the letter.
With much affection,
Rukhsana
Mother and Jahan send their love.
What else could I say without telling even more lies? I reread the letter. I printed it out, folded it, and slid it into an envelope. I did not add my home address on the back, nor had I written it in the letter. If it was opened at the post office, no one could trace it back to me. I stuck a stamp on it and prayed it would reach him.
I covered the printer with a cloth and took my laptop to the basement, where Grandfather stored his old files and papers. The shelves sagged under their weight. I pressed a latch at the back of the middle shelf and a part of the bookshelf opened. It hid a dark, musty room, four feet wide and twelve long. When Grandfather built this house nearly fifty years ago, and with our long history of invasions, he had the architect design a secret room that could not be seen from the outside. Nor could it be found inside this house, unless one used a measuring tape between rooms. Not every house had one, although village homes had cellars to store grain after a harvest and hide in during an attack by a neighboring tribe. Grandfather had copied the design of his family home in Mazar. The room was our place to store the family’s wealth (none left now) and conceal the women. Apart from an old divan and bolster, there was nothing in it. Only a tiny barred window, a few inches square, flush with the ceiling, leaked in light, and some air, from behind the flower bed. I returned the laptop to its concealed place under the divan and closed the secret door. In a corner of the corridor was a well-fitted slab of granite. It was no different from the rest of the flooring, except for a paper-thin gap in its four sides. Under it, three steps down, was a cellar, about five feet square, six feet high, the sides lined with brick. It was cool and dry, and we had stored dried fruits and nuts, rice and wheat down there at one time. Now, there were only empty sacks cluttering the floor. There was enough space for a few people to squeeze in there too. Should anyone search this building, they would discover the cellar and, hopefully, believe that to be our secret room. Grandfather would have created a labyrinth of escape tunnels, like the ones he saw in the old fortresses that dotted our landscape, if he could have.
Once again, I found Mother in the kitchen, this time asleep in a chair, her head down on her chest and the vegetable knife still in her hand. I touched her gently, and she came awake slowly, as if traveling a great distance through her dreams. “Come on, I’ll take you to bed, you need to rest.”
I returned to the kitchen and prepared quorma quietly, with the plums and dal on the side. I missed Mother’s company in the kitchen. We had always talked when we worked together. She had inspired my intellectual curiosity and my love of freedom, with Father’s approval naturally. She had introduced me to V. S. Naipaul, Norman Mailer, Joseph Heller, Turgenev, Tolstoy, Alexander Dumas, Flaubert, James Joyce, Alison Lurie, Joan Didion, Gloria Steinem. She read me Gul Mohamad Zhowandai’s short story collection Ferroz, and when I had enjoyed them, we read his novel Kachkol and spent hours discussing it. He was our most celebrated poet and writer and died in 1988. In that select company of authors and thinkers, I could imagine different worlds in which other women, and men, lived, loved, and died.
I FINISHED PREPARING DINNER and went to get Jahan from his room. He was at his desk in a halo of lamplight, wearing headphones, listening to his CD player. I could faintly hear Ahmad Zakir singing a Hindi song. On the wall opposite him was a large poster of Shaquille O’Neal performing a slam dunk. If the religious police raided us, they would tear it down and cane him for such a sacrilege. An orange basketball was on Jahan’s bed. Some nights, I would wake to hear the ball bouncing, and the steady rhythm would lull me back to sleep.