The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

  She fell silent, staring up at the ceiling, her hand perspiring in mine, and she gently squeezed it. Then she turned to look me in the eyes. “You never did want to marry him, did you?”

  “Of course I did,” I insisted. “I just needed time. And then he didn’t wait; he left.”

  She looked at me skeptically, with hooded eyes.

  “As you say, I know we will learn to love each other once we are married.” I smiled. “He wants to marry, and he expects it, as do I.”

  “Try to telephone him again, tell him it is even more urgent now.”

  “Droon said they’ll be watching the borders,” Jahan said.

  “The smugglers will know what to do,” said Mother sharply.

  Mother reached for his hand and took it, enclosing it partially. “How you’ve grown, my beautiful son. You’re such a brave boy to stand up to this Droon. You must look after Rukhsana and send her to safety.”

  “I will. But what can we do until we hear from Shaheen?”

  “Until then she is trapped here as Babur.” Mother managed a smile. “What a great name to choose for yourself. Even as a little girl you had grand ideas.”

  “It was Jahan who named me,” I corrected her, but I was pleased with my manly name.

  “Babur, the first Mughal emperor of India, now buried in this city that he loved,” Mother said. “It must have been a beautiful city then, with the river flowing along its borders and all the gardens. And beautiful women, and handsome men.” She looked at me and took my hand.

  “You will have to remain Babur until you can leave, and I pray you will not be discovered.”

  “I must also teach the team cricket. It’s Jahan’s best chance.”

  “It will be dangerous. You’re a good girl to care for your brother so much and risk your life. He must go, do what you can. I will pray that they win this match. I will also pray that one way or another you both do leave.” She reached for me. “Let me see my brave daughter.”

  I removed the turban and the beard. She caressed my face with her soft hands and I felt like a small child again under her maternal touch. I kissed her good night, as did Jahan.

  “I need to sleep,” she whispered.

  I prepared her morphine injection, lifted her arm to the light, swabbed a spot with cotton, and then gently inserted the needle into her paper-thin flesh. She was nearing sleep when we took out the lamp and left the room in darkness.

  Jahan was too weary to say anything further. Defiance had drained him of energy, and we both knew the dangers ahead of us. The house was quiet, the city was quiet. I wondered how long the silence would remain.

  I went into Father’s office, settled myself, and dialed Shaheen’s number. I didn’t know what time it was in San Francisco, I didn’t care. Each time the connection failed, I punched the redial button harder, but even it couldn’t make that magical connection. Once, a disembodied voice came on to tell me that “The circuits are busy, please try later.”

  “Please, please stop being busy,” I cried to the phone. “This is my life, I must get through.”

  I wouldn’t give up, pressing redial like an automaton. I drew a pad toward me and made notes, a habit of my journalism days.

  1. Hide as Babur. Only two women can be seen in the house, Mother and Dr. Hanifa.

  2. Even if Shaheen’s money/papers come tomorrow, stay to the day before prelim. matches.

  3. Teach Jahan and team cricket up to that day so they win the final match and leave too.

  4. Babur and the team? They must accept him—only way to teach them.

  5. Find a smuggler so I am ready to run on that Friday.

  6. Mother? I will have to leave her in Dr. Hanifa’s care and pray for her forgiveness.

  7. If Shaheen’s money/papers too late? Borrow money from whomever. Leave and wait in Pakistan for Shaheen or Jahan.

  8. Get out before Wahidi returns.

  The tension exhausted me, my mind was numbed by panic, and I finally gave up on the phone.

  I returned to my room, tidied it, and dumped the torn posters in the rubbish bin. There was both a Gregorian and an Afghan calendar on my desk. Nineteen days away was Sunday the twenty-eighth and I circled the date. It looked a long way off; I had lots of time and I knew my meticulous Shaheen too well. I expected that the papers and money were already on their way.

  I decided to sleep as Babur should an emergency arise.

  I DREAMED I WAS a child again, possibly six or seven years old, and wearing the finery for a wedding day. Except I was alone, without parents, other relatives, or friends surrounding me. Instead of a hall or a house or a village, I was in a field of roses as far as my eyes could see. The air was sweetly scented, and I looked around with the curiosity of a child and the certainty that nothing evil would harm me. The sky was a clear blue, and I walked slowly through the field of roses, none marred by thorns, and brushed my fingers over their silken petals. I did not pluck them, as it seemed a sacrilege to despoil such perfection. The breeze that gently swayed the roses softly carried a strange and soothing music. I hummed along, and though I seemed to walk for many hours and many miles, the mood never changed. Other girls my own age appeared, who, like me, walked through the field of roses, caressing them with the tips of their fingers and humming the same tune. There was not a boy in sight, as every last one had been banished from this world of flowers.

  I WAS RUNNING AWAY and Wahidi was pursuing me. It was night, I was alone, and I tripped over the legs and arms of dismembered corpses. He was laughing as he fired his gun, deliberately missing me so that I was forced to duck and dodge. And after each shot he took a giant step closer, and no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t escape. He was reaching out to grab me.

  I WOKE SHAKING, SWEATING, my legs kicking. I lay still, waiting for my body to stop trembling. Thinking I should have married Shaheen before he left. I should have married Veer, the man I loved. I should never have left Delhi, never given up that life.

  The lines of a poem by the Dari Rabi’a Balkhi ran through my mind:

  I am caught in Love’s web so deceitful

  None of my endeavours turn fruitful.

  I knew not when I rode the high-blooded steed

  The harder I pulled its reins the less it would heed.

  Love is an ocean with such a vast space

  No wise man can swim it in any place.

  A true lover should be faithful till the end

  And face life’s reprobated trend.

  When you see things hideous, fancy them neat,

  Eat poison, but taste sugar sweet

  Whatever happens, I will not marry Wahidi. I will eat the poison should I fail, and pray it will taste as sweet as sugar.

  The Disappointment

  ON MY PILLOW WERE MY NOTES FROM THE NIGHT before. It all seemed so tenuous, every hope obstructed by impossibilities and slim chances. Suicide loomed larger in the morning, more seductive than anything else. I got up, went to my desk, and crossed one day off my calendar. Eighteen days. I thought bitterly that yesterday afternoon I had been happy teaching a game for the sheer pleasure of recalling my past. Today, that pleasure had knotted into panic.

  It was seven in Kabul and I lay a moment calculating the time in San Francisco. Six yesterday evening. Shaheen would be home. I ran down and called his number. For the first five tries nothing happened. On the sixth, a telephone rang thousands of miles away and I prayed Shaheen would pick up. “Shaheen, help me” would be my first words. After ten rings it stopped. I tapped redial and I was back to an empty sound on the line. I kept pushing the button until Jahan came into the room. An hour was lost, another hour closing in on me. He didn’t need to ask, as he saw the despair on my face.

  “Parwaaze and Qubad are outside, waiting.”

  “What have you told them?”

  “Nothing yet. They’re ready to leave for practice. You still want to do it as Babur?”

  “How else will you learn? I have to,” I said in exasperation. “There’s n
o law in the Sharia or elsewhere that states a woman can’t dress up as a man.”

  Jahan sighed, the complications knitting his brow. “The Talib have their own interpretation of the Sharia, and if you’re caught they could beat you up or even shoot you. I’ll tell Parwaaze and Qubad to expect Babur.”

  “It’s the only way I can teach you. They can only tell the team, our family, and no one else outside it.”

  “Of course! We’ll all be dead if we tell anyone else.”

  I rose, still feeling fragile, and he embraced me tightly. “They’ll have to wait, as I must look after Maadar first.” We parted in the hall.

  I held the beard and turban in my hands as I entered Mother’s room. She was awake too.

  “Was it a nightmare I had?”

  “No, the police were here last night.”

  “I’ve been awake worrying about you. What are we going to do?”

  “We wait for Shaheen. There’s still time.”

  “Sell our jewelry,” she cried. “Sell it and leave now.”

  “It won’t be enough,” I said gently, wanting to calm her. “We’re worrying for nothing. Shaheen will send for me long before that.”

  She heaved a tearful sigh and tried to collect herself.

  “You are right. I know Shaheen. He’s such a good boy.” She held out her frail arms and I went into her embrace.

  I took the bedpan to the bathroom and emptied it. I returned with a bowl of water, and sponged her down. Then I touched her lips with lipstick, powdered her cheeks, and dabbed her with her favorite perfume, Je Reviens. “There, that will make you feel better.”

  “You’re a good daughter, Rukhsana,” she said, and added with a dry laugh, “and a good nephew, Babur.”

  “I’ll make you some tea and your breakfast.” I warmed up the food and served her, enjoying this quiet time we had together. When she finished eating I went downstairs to meet my cousins.

  Parwaaze and Qubad sat on the floor in the mardaana, the male sanctum in the house, whispering to each other as they watched my approach. Behind them was our marble fireplace with its empty grate. Grandfather’s cigarette smoke still scented the air, and had clung to the fabric of the carpets, the divans, and the pillows. The smell filled me with longing. I knelt in front of Parwaaze and Qubad, my hands resting on my thighs. I felt I was about to face a Lowya jerga, a meeting of elders. They resembled two wise men, puzzled frowns masking their faces. They could disown me and deliver me to the Talib for my daring to impersonate a male, to insult their manhood.

  Parwaaze cleared his throat. “I was shocked when Jahan told us what you had done.” He spoke solemnly. His eyes were deep and threatening. “You are not behaving like a good Afghan woman. No woman would do what you have done.”

  “I am a good Afghan woman,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Qubad nodded. “Sh-sh-shocked, very shocked.”

  “Our first instinct when we heard what you had done last night was to shut our eyes and run as far as we could from you. To know about what you did, and not report you to the Talib, is to invite a beating, even death. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said meekly.

  “You must be mad to walk on the street dressed like a man,” Parwaaze said. “You were always reckless, but I never expected you to do this.”

  “Never,” Qubad echoed. “Very mad. You’re too old to be a b-baba posh.”

  When I was four years old, my grandmother had me dress as a boy, a baba posh, as I was born a girl and she wanted people to think that I was male. Mother stopped that when I was seven. It was fun then to be a boy. There were three other girls dressed as baba poshes in my class.

  “You have placed Jahan in great danger, since he is your mahram and responsible for your behavior.” Parwaaze paused, and added abruptly, “But what’s done is done. We can’t go back in time.

  “But no matter what, you can’t marry the Talib,” Parwaaze announced firmly. “We must get you out safely. We have three weeks before you’re supposed to be back from Mazar.”

  “Enough time to teach you cricket before I leave so you can win the match against Azlam’s team and win the final too,” I said quickly. “I can’t give up on that, for Jahan’s sake. I can’t teach wearing the burka. But, dressed like this, I can. I have the freedom to move my arms and my legs.”

  “You’re absolutely c-crazy,” Qubad said after the astonished silence. “They’re looking for you and you still want to teach us cricket as Babur! You have to hide somewhere.”

  “But I am hiding—as Babur. I have to stay by Maadar. The best place to hide is where they have already looked.”

  “We could find someone else to teach us c-cricket,” Qubad said to Parwaaze.

  “But who?” Jahan demanded. “Even if we do find someone else, why would he teach us to play? Like Azlam, he can form his own team from his family.”

  I watched them waver. “They are looking for Rukhsana. If you don’t want me to teach you because you’re scared, that’s all right with me.” I stood up. “But I can’t sit at home all day. If they’re watching us, they’ll suspect something’s wrong if Babur doesn’t go in and out of the house.”

  They put their heads together, not taking their eyes off me as they had a whispered exchange.

  “Even as a child you were always giving us ultimatums,” Parwaaze said, shaking his head. “You have to teach us as much as you can before you leave.”

  “Put on your b-beard and turban,” Qubad said.

  I affixed the beard to my face and piled my hair on my head before placing the turban.

  “She almost l-looks like one of us.” Qubad squinted at me, while Parwaaze scrutinized me from head to toe.

  “Your eyes give you away.”

  “That’s what I said,” Jahan said.

  “I’ll wear glasses. And sneakers to hide my feet.”

  They couldn’t say it, but I knew what they looked for, and I turned to show them my profile, with the loose coat and the shawl disguising my shape. I stood like a model for a long minute, looking away as I didn’t want to embarrass them while they checked to make sure my figure was completely hidden.

  “Show them how you walk,” said Jahan.

  I walked the length of the room.

  “Take longer, stiffer steps,” Parwaaze commanded.

  I came to a stop in front of them. “But what about the others? You’ll have to tell our cousins. I can’t risk their lives without their consent.”

  “Would any of them betray us?” asked Jahan. They each looked from one to the other. Then Parwaaze shook his head.

  “No, we are thinking about this the wrong way, like the Talib would have us think. We are Afghans and this is our family. If we wouldn’t betray each other, why would they? Especially when they have a chance to get out. Why would any one of them give up that chance?”

  “But what if the Talib catch on and find just one of us to bribe, to scare, or worse?” said Qubad.

  “If one of them turned us in, Qubad, they know the Talib could punish us all and any other cousins loyal to our team,” Parwaaze explained. “The snitch would be trapped here with the rest of our families—and they would not hesitate to take their revenge. What Afghan family wouldn’t seek revenge for such treachery? So to betray us is just as dangerous as keeping quiet, and with us, they could be out of the country in mere weeks! No, they will have to protect you now if they want to win.” Parwaaze rose with the authority of an elder having reached a decision.

  “I think he’s right,” said Jahan.

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” I said, “but we have a chance. We’ll start after lunch—I have something I must do first. I also have an old tape of a match and we’ll watch that later and I’ll talk you through it.”

  “Bring it to my house tonight, after practice, so we can all see it,” Parwaaze said.

  “Before you leave I have a favor to ask.” I had been waiting for this moment. “I know Shaheen will send the money and the sponsor lette
r, but if it doesn’t come in time, and I have to get out, can your families give me a loan to pay a smuggler? I’ll repay it as soon as I reach America.”

  “How much will you need?”

  “About two thousand . . . dollars.”

  They both winced at the amount. “You know that if we had the money we would give it to you this very moment. But . . .” They looked at each other and Parwaaze continued, after Qubad’s nod of consent, apologetically. “We do have some money saved, which we will need to pay for our studies when we’re in Pakistan.”

  “We may even have enough to pay a smuggler to take us to Australia,” Qubad added.

  “We’ll fly to Malaysia and then we take a boat from there. Many Afghans have done that. We’ll ask for asylum like they did.”

  “If we w-win this match and fly to Karachi, it saves us some money.”

  “What about the rest of the team?” I asked.

  “We’ll only choose the cousins who have the same plans,” Parwaaze said quietly. “And I know who they are. We’ve talked about it a lot but done nothing about it, until now. If we travel together, we could get a discount from a smuggler.” He smiled for the first time. “We’re buying our passports on the black market.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” I was hurt by their secrecy.

  “We hadn’t thought more about it until this tournament and your teaching us to play,” he protested. “Besides, you’re waiting for Shaheen to send for you, and once you’re there you’ll send for Jahan.” Parwaaze looked at my brother. “You can come with us too.”

  “I must join Rukhsana,” Jahan said, dismissing the invitation.

  “If you lose?” I had to bring them down to earth.

  “We just beg and borrow more money, spend more months here until we have enough. We will leave, one day.”

  I tried to swallow the hard lump of disappointment. I knew they had their own needs and had to plan for their lives. “If you win, the Talib will send a minder to make sure you return. You know that?”