The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

“Sad I too,” she managed. “You are safe no and every day danger, danger here.” She smiled. “Protect,” she pointed at my chest, struggling for the word. “Yes . . . protect your tits . . .” I lifted the shirt to show her the protector and playfully she gently dug an elbow into a breast. “No tell a tit. Muscle? Yes, only strong muscle.”

  She had my new beard ready, a young man’s sleek fine down. The netting was almost translucent, and each hair was firmly in place, a light brown to match my own hair. She had a roll of Velcro tape, cut two strips, and stuck them on my cheeks. The beard had Velcro too and she placed it firmly against the Velcro on my face. For added safety, she had stitched flesh-colored straps to fit around my lower neck and metal hooks to hang it from my ears. When we fit it, it felt more comfortable than my old one, and much more secure. I shook my head vigorously but it remained in place.

  “Will difference, see?” She was determinedly back to English.

  “Will they notice the difference?”

  “Will they notice the difference?”

  “Dif-fer-ence. I hope not. When do you leave?”

  “Oh, time not know. Days, weeks. Wait for ticket, money. Did Jahan see my smuggler, Juniad?”

  “Yes.” Jahan had wandered the crowded, meandering lanes in the old city, south of the river, looking for the address. When he finally found the smuggler’s home, the man was very wary until Jahan used the magic password “Noorzia” and was welcomed and offered a glass of tea. “But the price has gone up. It’s now one thousand five hundred dollars because of the rising cost of diesel, paying bribes, and whatever else. He said he doesn’t have a schedule and makes his run only when he has a full load of people to smuggle.”

  “That’s Juniad.” She hesitated, then added, “Just be careful. I told you, you can’t trust him or any other smuggler.”

  “Do the Talib know who they are?”

  “I don’t know.” She returned to Dari, as her English was tiring us both. “Have you heard from Shaheen?”

  “Not yet. I’m praying hard he will send the money through the hawala any day.”

  She hugged me. “I’m sure he cares for you. You’ll see. Shaheen will send the money. You need a good husband. I had a good one in Tariq, he pleasured me a lot. Most men don’t care for the woman enough for her pleasure; they use us for their own, brief as it is. I miss the pleasure that my husband gave me. When Shaheen sends the money, go and see Juniad. But be careful. Pay half up front, half when you cross. He’s a good man at heart.”

  She switched back to English and I gave her a few key words—“thank you,” “planes,” “tickets,” “please help”—until Jahan knocked and called.

  DR. HANIFA LEFT WHEN we returned. Mother was happy to see us, her smile splitting her face. I sat on the bed, taking her hand, her fingers now as thin as twigs, and warmed it between my own.

  “How is Noorzia?”

  I told her everything in detail to entertain her and showed off the new beard, and then mentioned that Noorzia was preparing to leave to join a lover in Australia. I hadn’t meant to, but it slipped out in my efforts to make her smile.

  “You have someone waiting too. You must go to Shaheen.” She fell silent. “I have asked Dr. Hanifa to help me leave quickly so that you can leave very soon, but she’s too good a doctor to do that.”

  The realization of what she meant hit me.

  “You cannot leave me like that,” I cried. “That would be murder.”

  “No,” she said, smiling weakly. “It would be a relief for me. You talk to her.”

  “I can’t, don’t ask me. You must not speak like that, Maadar.” I didn’t want to let her go, ever.

  Broken Promises

  YET ANOTHER DAY VANISHED, CROSSED OUT, AND I wanted to tear up the calendar that now mocked me with the inexorable passing of the days. I was in my room, staring at it in the fading light, willing time to stop, when Jahan knocked on the door.

  “Fatima and Arif have come to see you.”

  “Did you tell them I’m here? You shouldn’t have . . .”

  “I told her you were in Mazar. Then she asked to meet Maadar. She said it was important. I said I’d see if Maadar was sleeping. What’ll I do?”

  I wanted to see my oldest friend, but how could I be sure? I had trusted my life to my cousins, and Fatima, even as a child, had kept my secrets.

  “Bring her here, but tell her Maadar wants to see her.” I didn’t light the lamp, preferring the gloom to match my mood.

  She came in, carrying a bundle, and I didn’t give her time to speak. “You must swear not to tell anyone you’ve seen me,” I said. “Promise me that.”

  “I swear I won’t,” she replied, and we embraced, the bundle between us. It stirred at our movements. In her arms was a baby wrapped in a shawl, and I leaned over it in admiration, stroking its silky cheeks.

  “I didn’t know you had a baby,” I scolded. “How did I not know this?”

  I tenderly took it from her as she removed her burka. Fatima’s oval face was subtly altered. Once, she had been so pretty, but now her skin had turned soft, pudgy, and a shade paler; her alert eyes were dull. She wore no makeup though once her sweet lips were a deep red, and her fluttering eyelids a pale blue.

  “It’s not mine, she’s Masooda’s child,” Fatima said and began to weep. “She was . . .”

  I moved to let her sit on the bed and a shaft of weak light touched the baby’s shawl. It was blue, and embroidered with silvery stars.

  “Oh god . . .”

  “ . . . killed by a . . .”

  I sat beside her. “We saw it happen,” I whispered and shivered at the memory. Masooda was Fatima’s sister-in-law and I had met her a few times. Of course I couldn’t have recognized her under her burka. I cried along with Fatima, holding each other, and the baby slept on.

  “We’re her guardians now. She’s a girl child, and her father doesn’t want her. He’s become very . . . embittered. He blames Masooda for being so foolish.” She lifted a fold of the baby’s shawl and pointed. “That’s Masooda’s blood.”

  It was almost black, the size of the baby’s fist.

  “It’s the only memento she will have of her mother.” She paused to contain her anger. “How are you?”

  I shrugged. “What can I say?”

  “I so miss working. It was a dream, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  I sensed she came for a purpose and was hesitating. I placed my hand on hers and we both gripped tightly. “What is it?”

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Whatever you say will remain in this room.”

  “We’re leaving,” she said, leaning over to whisper. “I can’t take it anymore, not after what happened to Masooda, and I told Arif I was going mad wrapped up like a mummy. A smuggler will take us across to Iran where Arif has a cousin in Tehran. We’re hoping we get to America or England from there. You have to leave too, Rukhsana.”

  “I will only after Maadar . . . I can’t before that.” Then I told her about Wahidi’s proposal and she turned even paler.

  “Get out, fast. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that. I’m afraid every day. When are you going?”

  “Later tonight. I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to you.” She reached over to embrace me tightly. “If only it had been different. What have you been doing with yourself?” She leaned back. “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “It was getting too hot under the burka.”

  “You should go to Delhi,” she said. “I thought when you returned from there you were . . . a different person.”

  “Of course I was. I left here after school and returned with my degree. I was proud of myself.”

  “No, it wasn’t that. You left as a girl, and came back a woman. Something happened in Delhi. You can tell me now.”

  “Nothing happened. I played cricket, I studied, and that’s all.”

  “Something happened,” she insisted. “Y
ou kept postponing your engagement to Shaheen.”

  “I was waiting for my family to return, and then Maadar had her first bout with cancer . . .”

  She ignored my excuses. “You can tell me now,” she cajoled, then smiled. “I am still your best friend. I thought that under that brave face, when you fell quiet and thought no one was watching you, I sensed you were not quite so happy to be home.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “I’m not. I can tell you fell in love with someone in Delhi.” She tried to smile, but it slipped off her face. “I know because I fell in love too at university. His name was Piruz. He was in the same English language class. He wasn’t handsome, but he had a good sense of humor and talked to everyone and laughed easily. He took a liking to me, and we would spend an hour after class just talking.” She added quickly, “Nothing happened, we didn’t even kiss. But we fell in love and all I wanted every day was just to be with him and he felt the same about me. Love is like a big balloon in your body, floating you off the ground, and you want to tell someone how wonderful it feels. I wanted to talk to you but you were away.”

  “You could have told me when I returned.”

  “I was betrothed to Arif by then; it was too late. Piruz’s father was an electrician, and not rich at all. I knew my father would never give permission. We thought of running away together. But then we could have been killed for dishonoring the family.” Her sigh broke both our hearts. “I married whom my father chose. I knew eleven other girls in university who also fell in love but married whom their fathers chose. We had a small club and we’d talk about the feelings of being in love. I think about Piruz whenever I feel lonely, which is most of the time.” Her eyes were wretched with memories, and her voice sank as if she had no breath left. “What was his name?”

  “Veer.”

  She touched my cheek. “He’s not Muslim. That makes it more difficult. Why didn’t you tell me about him? We’re best friends.”

  “Because by telling you, I would have to remember, and I didn’t want to.” I looked into Fatima’s pleading eyes and relented reluctantly. “He’s written me a few letters.”

  Fatima clapped her hands. “What does he say? He loves you still?”

  “Yes. And I replied. I didn’t want to, but after reading his, I did reply. Over the last three years, we’ve kept in touch, sometimes only short notes.”

  “At least we both knew love once in our lives. You still have it. Don’t let it go.”

  “I have to marry Shaheen. You know our customs, and I must obey my father’s wishes.”

  “Then you’ll be like me,” she said sadly. “Always lonely, always remembering the one you love.”

  Jahan knocked on the door. “Arif wants to leave, it’s getting late.”

  There was no time left, nothing else to say. We locked in a tight embrace, scarcely able to breathe. We were saying good-bye to our childhood too.

  “Khoda haafez”—God protect us—we prayed to each other, and released our holds.

  I remained sitting in my room, chewing on my lower lip, thinking about Fatima’s remarks, thinking about love letters. Finally, I went to the basement and took the first letter from its hiding place. I knew I was opening his heart, and mine too, as I remembered my replies. There were six of his, six of mine, spread over three years with gaps in between as he traveled to remote jungles and mountains while I remained trapped here.

  My dear Rukhsana,

  I know I made a promise not to write and kept it for four months and now break it. I’d like to tell you that I think of you every minute of the day but that would be a lie. You appear in those times of the day when I am alone and have the luxury of dreaming. Maybe at the same time, even though we’re thousands of miles apart, you too are having the same extrasensory experiences. I hope.

  For instance, you are beside me when I wake in the morning and I see your pale emerald green eyes looking at me. I can feel your warmth, although mysteriously you have left no dent in the pillow beside mine. I do look, you know, and when I press my face against it, I can breathe in your perfume. I wonder how you managed to vanish so quickly when you had been beside me as I slept, and accompanied me on my journeys while I dreamed. We travel to strange worlds, and I feel your palm, soft as a bird’s wing, enclosed in my hand. Your delicate fingers are entwined with mine and I know I will never let go.

  My letters to him were in my laptop, but I remembered every word I’d written.

  My dear, dear Veer,

  I know I said I wouldn’t open your letter if you wrote and I didn’t. Not for two days. I hid it in the basement. Then I just couldn’t bear not knowing how you were. I believe that sometimes words leave a taste lingering in one’s mouth, sour, bitter, spicy, bland. Your letter coated my tongue and palate with honey. And I cried, for I too feel that we are both ghosts who cannot leave our separate worlds and meet somewhere else. I remember how when we walked, and were separated by a crowd, I would reach out for your hand without looking and it was there. I still reach out, but there is no hand to hold mine with that gentle warmth that yours always had. At night, I do lie beside you and tell you how I have spent my day and wish you good night with all the love in my kisses. I wake and you’re not beside me and I think, “Oh, he’s gone downstairs.” There are many times when I stop, lost in the daydreams of being with you, and then wake with a start. Do you remember when you asked me to go with you to a wildlife reserve where you were filming elephants? Even though we’d tell my parents that Nargis would come with us (we both knew she wouldn’t) I said Father would never permit me to do that. I lied. I knew what would happen so far from home. I would take you into my bed. I wanted to so much, but I wanted to remain chaste until my wedding day, even if it was to you. As of yet, I’m not married and am still chaste . . . I can’t write more.

  Love, R.

  P.S. Please don’t write again. I won’t read it.

  Dearest Rukhsana,

  The moment I read your letter, I tried to call you. No luck, but I will keep trying and trying until I hear your voice. You made my day, days, I should say, as I smiled with so much to be happy about that everyone thought I was mad. I laughed too, for no reason other than thinking of you. You read mine and replied! You are still there, you still love me, it’s there in your handwriting. And you’re not married; I dream we will be one day. I now look for you everywhere.

  You reappear on the street, as I see you at times in other women who pass by and they wonder why I stare at them with such intensity. See, that girl has your color eyes—they are a light green, as soft and elusive as a misty morning. Even if I saw a thousand veiled women and only saw their eyes I would recognize you immediately.

  You smile first with your eyes; the green grows a shade lighter before the smile spreads across your face as gently as a ripple across a clear pond. It touches your cheeks first, staining them with a delicate rouge, and your skin glows with the amusement that you’re not yet ready to reveal but want me to know is there. You make me wait to hear you laugh, as you know I love the sound of your laughter. It isn’t shrill and high pitched, but smoky and low, and we’re sharing a secret. Though I only caressed it once, I have often traced the tiny moon of a scar in the center of your chin, reminding me of your childhood, which I never witnessed, and how you fell off a bicycle and cut yourself. You were a bold girl. You were racing against a cousin then. Now I see you brush your hair, the very lightest brown, back from your eyes, and tuck the strands behind your ears into which I have breathed my thoughts and feelings. They are the conduits of my love, for love must always be spoken in whispers so the hearer knows the words are said especially for her and for no other to hear.

  Love, V.

  P.S. Will be away making a documentary on snow leopards. Write soon.

  My dearest V.,

  I was so happy to hear from you and I know you’ll make a brilliant documentary on those mysterious and mystical animals high up in the Himalayas. I was green with envy, and I wish so
much I was with you to keep you warm. We could huddle under blankets. I read that Arctic explorers often did that, slept together, for warmth.

  The other day I saw a man with your nose and believed he had stolen it from you. I was with my brother in the bazaar. The man was passing by. I wanted to caress it as I did yours, from the slight frown between your brows down to the tip. His nose—it was straight, with a strong curve at the end. Both from the side and from facing him, I knew it was your nose. Except, except, his didn’t have that same flare of your nostrils.

  There are days when I have not thought of you and then, with a feeling of deep guilt, I am suffused with your presence and my love. A mere nose can do that.

  While you scale mountains, I wing across them to be with you. That’s all I can do. Days go by with little happening in my life, such a stifling stillness trapped within these four walls. You are my only company these days as I remember everything we did, every word we spoke, every touch we touched, and every kiss we kissed. Do you think, as I do, “I wonder what she’s doing RIGHT NOW, this moment,” and project your spirit toward me? I will think this is happening now, as you read my letter.

  Here, I kiss the paper and send it across to you with my love, R.

  I couldn’t read anymore. I had told him about my father’s death, Mother’s illness, and Shaheen’s leaving and he had wanted to swoop down and take me away. I couldn’t answer that one, now three months old. I folded his letters carefully and would save them for another day when I needed to remember our love and lift my spirits.

  When I went upstairs, Jahan was waiting, a grave look on his face.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been looking for you. Parwaaze and Hoshang want to see you. They have bad news.”

  The Stadium

  THEY WERE IN THE FRONT HALL AND I IMMEDIATELY noticed the despairing hunch of their shoulders as they paced in the narrow space.

  “Hoshang knows the guard at the stadium,” Parwaaze burst out. “He told Hoshang there is an official state team in the tournament. We won’t have a chance to win against it.”