The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

  “How did you get here?” Jahan sat opposite, noticing our clutched fingers.

  “I flew into Karachi. I still had a month left on my visa, and then I had my mujahedeen friend pick me up. He knows the passes through the mountains that only birds can see. And here I am.” He leaned against the bolster. “Now tell me everything.”

  We took turns in our telling. He listened intently, turning from one to the other as we told our tale. When we fell silent, he sat up.

  “We leave now, this moment.” He started to stand in his hurry to get me out, pulling on me. “Jahan, I’ll take her to Delhi, but before that I need to ask your permission, as her mahram, to marry your sister, Rukhsana.”

  “I give it,” Jahan said and smiled. “But there is one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  We both stopped, half risen, and I saw a calculating look in my brother’s eyes that I’d not seen before.

  “You’re a good cricketer?” Jahan said quietly.

  “I played a lot once, and I was good, but it’s a long . . .” Veer stood up straight. “I know what you’re going to ask. The answer is no. We have to get her out.”

  Jahan ignored him. “You must play for us. It’s the only chance the team has of winning the matches and leaving.”

  “You come with us too. We’ll cross the border in four . . . five hours.”

  “No,” Jahan said firmly. “I cannot abandon my cousins, my family, for my own safety. It is against my honor.”

  Veer looked at me. “Honor! Is he crazy? He wants me to play in a match while you’re being hunted by this Talib who wants to marry you?”

  “Veer,” Jahan added with such finality. “If you won’t play, I will not give my permission.”

  “We’ll marry without that.”

  Jahan glanced at me and then back to Veer. “Look at her face.”

  I knew what was in my eyes. Jahan was the only one of my family left and I would not marry Veer without my brother beside me on the wedding day. He would never forgive me and would never speak to me again if I went against his wishes. Losing my brother would throw a dark shadow over my love for Veer.

  “Rukhsana . . .”

  “I can’t,” I whispered.

  “Veer, you are going to become part of my family.” Jahan was the only calm one in the room. “If you marry Rukhsana. Here, family is all important, and if you want to belong you must play.”

  “This is blackmail,” Veer said, still angry.

  “No, this is Afghanistan,” Jahan replied.

  Veer sat down, looking from one of us to the other, puzzled, struggling to understand. He nodded his head. “I’ll play.”

  “Then we’ll win our matches.” Jahan lost his solemnity and was a boy again, excited by his success.

  “Listen, Jahan, there’s no guarantee that just because I play you’ll win the matches. Cricket is a very unpredictable game and I’ve played it many more times than either of you. One day you win, the next day something goes wrong and you lose. A catch is dropped, a batsman run out, a bowler is on a lucky streak.”

  “But with you, they have a better chance to win than without you. And you’re playing for me too.”

  “Two blackmailers,” he growled. “What kind of family am I marrying into?”

  “One you’ll love,” I said and squeezed his hand.

  “You told me there’s a good fast bowler on their side,” Veer said, coming to grips with his commitment. “How good? Young?”

  “Both. I think he can bat well too.”

  Veer groaned. “Young, good, and I haven’t touched a bat for years.”

  “But you never forget.”

  “Then, this being Afghanistan, can this Droon, Wahidi, fix the match? Cricket, like any other sport, is open to that.”

  “There’ll be the International Cricket Council man watching the matches.”

  “Ah, to have such faith as you have in an Englishman,” Veer said cynically and then focused his attention on Jahan. “Okay, here’s the deal and I want to make sure you understand. I play and, win or lose, you give your permission to marry?”

  “Yes, on my word.”

  “When you win, your team is sent to Pakistan and I will take Rukhsana with me and cross the border. And if you lose the first match, we leave Saturday night?”

  “Yes. But we won’t lose against the other team.”

  “Let’s say you do.” Veer was not to be distracted. “We leave, then what do you and the team do?”

  “Jahan will come with us, of course,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Jahan, listen to Veer and me now.”

  “I can’t leave just by myself. If we lose, the team must go with you. You have a car and a driver.”

  Veer hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Why not take the whole stadium? It’s only an old Jeep—it won’t seat twelve people. It can take another three or four, but not more without cracking an axle on those high-pass dirt tracks.” Veer paused, looking at Jahan. “If you all want to leave, why play in these matches? We can go now. I brought the money and we can hire a minibus. I’ll check with my driver, Youseff. He must know someone who’ll make that run.”

  “We thought we had a smuggler, Juniad, but he’s disappeared,” I said and then had a scary thought. “They must have followed Jahan to Juniad and arrested him.”

  “I thought so too but didn’t want to frighten you. You saw the police car outside, they will follow me when I leave. You and Babur can leave, as they’ll think you’re two mourners. But if I leave too, they’ll believe I could lead them to Rukhsana. Mother’s not here anymore and I’m the only way they have to find you.”

  “They’ll follow you to the matches . . .”

  “Yes,” he said, waiting for Veer to continue.

  “. . . and if your team wins . . .” Veer looked to me too. “They won’t let you on that flight on Sunday.”

  “I’ll come home,” he said quietly and simply. “And if we lose, take Rukhsana and my cousins out.”

  “Jahan, you can’t do that,” I said, my voice cracking in horror. “I won’t let you.”

  “What’s the alternative?” he asked gently. “You marry Wahidi? I won’t give permission, and neither did Mother. You’re my sister and I must get you out. You will marry Veer.” He tried to smile. “And I’ll be there for it. When you’re safe in Delhi, you will send the money for me.”

  I saw Veer struggling to understand the implications of what we had said. He was more familiar with the noble savagery of tigers and cheetahs than the cruelty of men.

  “And will they put a bullet in your head?” Veer asked quietly.

  “Droon will send Jahan to Pul-e-Charkhi,” I said, and even Veer winced at that name.

  “They won’t,” Jahan said with what he thought was confidence. “Wahidi wouldn’t allow that to happen to family.”

  “Jahan, you know who you are dealing with,” I cried out. “They won’t blink an eye. I can’t let you do this.”

  “We must take you too,” Veer said.

  “You can’t.” Jahan was determined now. “I’m the one they’re watching.” He saw the tears in my eyes. “I’m a good liar, and they have to sleep sometime. I’ll slip out and hide here or even in Mazar and let you know where I am.” He rose. “I think you should leave. We’ll meet tomorrow at the stadium. Babur will be there too.”

  “I should stay here,” I said in panic. “I can’t be seen in public as Babur.”

  “I can’t leave you alone in the house,” Jahan said. “They could come again, even bomb the house in revenge. At least with the team around you, you’ll be safe and you’ll be the twelfth man.”

  “I’ll pick you both up,” Veer said.

  “No. I don’t want your face to become familiar here. Meet us at the stadium.”

  We heard Abdul knock on the door and call out. Jahan faced Veer. They embraced, parted, placed their hands on their hearts, and Jahan went to see who had come.

  “We
can’t let him do this, I can’t let him sacrifice himself for us,” I said and hugged Veer tightly, not wanting to let him go out into the night.

  “You talk to Jahan, dissuade him; we must find a way to get him out too. If the team wins or loses, we both leave after the match and take Jahan with us.” He thought a moment. “We can bribe the cops. It always works in India.”

  “It will work here too.”

  “I’ll get Youseff to find another smuggler and we’ll negotiate with the cops.” Veer kissed me. “He’s a brave kid, setting himself up as bait for you and your cousins.”

  Jahan came back into the room, closing the door softly. “Droon’s outside.”

  The Mourner

  EVEN THE SOUND OF HIS NAME SHOCKED MY heart, and I was sure he was outside, listening to us. He had heard every word.

  “Rukhsana, go down, quickly,” Jahan said, remaining composed. “I haven’t opened the door, I saw him through the window. Veer . . . your turban.” He waited until Veer replaced it and Jahan tugged it down to meet his eyebrows. He adjusted the tail so that half of it fell across Veer’s face. “Don’t look at him. We’ll embrace at the door, you’re a mourner, and you pass him.”

  I reached for Veer’s hand and found his searching for mine too, as it had long ago.

  “I love you, I’ll come for you,” he whispered as we went out together.

  “I love you.” I moved behind their backs and, even though the door was still closed, I felt Droon’s eyes piercing the wood. I let go and darted for the stairs, not looking back, to vanish down into the darkness. But I didn’t run to the room. I stayed in the well, pressed against the wall, within hearing. I heard the door open, a murmur—Jahan saying good-bye to Veer. I prayed Veer wouldn’t respond.

  “Come in, sir,” Jahan said. “I will fetch tea to the mardaana.”

  “No, no, I won’t stay long,” Droon replied. “I came only to pay my condolences for your maadar. After all, we’ll be family soon.”

  “You are most thoughtful,” Jahan said quietly, even though I shivered at his arrogant presumption.

  “Your sister has still not returned?”

  “No. As you know, she is still in Mazar and not in this house or at the mosque. I managed to get through to her late today—the phones don’t work well here—and she wept when she heard the news. She went immediately to pray outside the shrine of Hazrat Ali for my maadar’s soul and to beg forgiveness.”

  “You’re a very clever boy.” Droon’s voice took on an edge of menace. “When will she return?”

  “Sunday evening, if she can leave tomorrow morning, but as you know, the roads are bad and it could be later. They are also dangerous. My father and my grandparents were killed on that road.”

  “Yes, I know. Tell me where she is staying in Mazar. I will send a message for her escort.”

  “I will write it down.”

  “No, tell me,” said Droon, insistent.

  “It would be better to write it . . .”

  Mazar, like other cities and towns, including Kabul, did not have street names, apart from the main roads. A stranger asking for directions would be given landmarks to follow and decipher.

  “Tell,” Droon demanded, and in that insistence he also revealed that he was illiterate, unlike his half brother.

  “Do you know Mazar?”

  “Yes.”

  I doubted that—the Taliban government did not have full control of the northern parts of the country. The Talib had killed a few thousand there when they took it, and Mazar was still an anti-Talib city.

  “You know the Akbar business center, it’s a new building half a mile west from the shrine, on the main road. There you turn right, and after three streets . . . no, four streets . . . you turn left. After the second street, you’ll see a postbox. You pass that and you’ll see a large red building. There is a lane opposite it and my uncle Koshan’s house is the fourth one. It’s a very old, large house built by my great-grandfather, and it has a large rosebush just inside the gate. You can’t miss it.”

  To protect ourselves, we have polished the art of telling only half truths to our interrogators. Jahan had confidently given Droon just one misdirection, and he did sound convincing. The postbox was after the third street. Great-grandfather’s house, built in 1901, also had a cellar with a short, narrow passage that led out into the back garden. As children we played in it and pretended that it led into another world.

  “I will send a message to Mazar for my fighters to pick her up. Where is your cousin? He still lives here?”

  “Yes. Babur went out to buy fresh naan.” Jahan paused, having a thought. “You must stay and eat with us. It won’t be much, as we are alone, but it will honor us greatly to have you—”

  He had to extend our tradition of hospitality, melmastia, to every visitor, even to the enemy. I stopped breathing and I knew Jahan had too, as he waited for Droon’s reply.

  “I won’t,” Droon said, cutting him off harshly. “I’m informed there is a woman in the house.”

  “Dr. Hanifa, she looked—”

  “I will see her,” Droon snapped.

  I heard Jahan move to the kitchen and then the scrape of a match. Droon sucked on the cigarette, exhaled, and a slight tendril of smoke drifted down to me. He moved stealthily along the corridor and stopped at the top step leading to the basement. I wanted to melt into the wall, because if he did reach the landing, he would see me. It was too late to run without him hearing.

  The kitchen door opened and I smelled the dinner Dr. Hanifa was making. I was almost sick from the perfume of the meal; I hadn’t eaten all day. Dr. Hanifa followed Jahan to Droon.

  “Are you ill?” she asked in a belligerent tone. “I’m a woman’s doctor and don’t treat men.”

  “No, I’m not.” I sensed Droon take a step back.

  “Then why did you send for me and waste my time?”

  She returned to the kitchen, grumbling to herself about “stupid men” and I felt even more faint from hunger. The front door opened for Droon to leave.

  “You will be at the match tomorrow?” Jahan asked.

  “No. Only Sunday.” He was laughing as he pronounced his prediction for the match. “Your team will not win and you will not leave Kabul.”

  The door closed and I waited to hear the gate open and close too before I went upstairs. I had to talk to Jahan—my mind was on fire with his plan.

  But Dr. Hanifa called out, “Rukhsana, Jahan, you must eat.”

  We went in and Jahan laid out our carpet and Dr. Hanifa set out the dishes—fried chicken in the center, along with mutton kebabs, ashak dumplings filled with yogurt and tomato sauce, naan, and steaming yellow rice. Jahan performed the rituals for us to wash our hands and then neither of us spoke as we ate, stuffing the food in our mouths, with Dr. Hanifa piling on more when our plates were empty. I felt a terrible loss, as the custom after a funeral was to have a dinner for all our relations and I felt I was once more betraying Mother. The day was so compressed that I couldn’t believe she had died this morning, was buried, and that this was the first night for the rest of my life that she was not with us. And my happiness about Veer was tied to an anchor of guilt.

  “I’m too tired to go home,” Dr. Hanifa said when we finished.

  “You can stay in our grandparents’ room.” I went to it and quickly made the bed. Even before I had finished she lay down with a tired sigh.

  “I saw the man you love,” she said when she saw the droop in my shoulders.

  “How do you know he is the man?”

  “Your mother told me,” she said and, when she saw the surprise in my face, laughed. “We old women didn’t just play cards and read to each other. We talked too. She was disappointed you didn’t marry Shaheen, but when you told her about . . . Veer? . . . she decided to give her blessings. You do love him?”

  “Very much. But what can I do with Wahidi and Droon watching and waiting?”

  “Go away with him, quickly.”

  “I’
m trying to.”

  I went to close the door and had to ask, “Did you love your husband?”

  Hanifa smiled and shook her head. “I got used to him, and he got used to me. I did fall in love once in college. He was studying engineering, and then he had to marry a cousin. It’s not only us women who have to obey our fathers. The men do too.”

  She fell asleep in an instant. Jahan was halfway up the stairs.

  “Jahan, we have to talk. I can’t let you do this.”

  “It’s the only way. And I am very tired.” He came down to me. “I was wondering what it is in you that these men see—Veer, Shaheen, Wahidi? You’re my sister and I think you are beautiful, but you’re not as beautiful as a Bollywood star like Aishwarya, yet these men fall in love with you. I don’t know that feeling, as I’ve never fallen in love and don’t understand its power. What do they see and feel that I can’t because you’re my sister? I think it’s the way you speak, your passion for life, how you carry yourself, and the warmth of your easy laughter. Our cousins adore you. I’m telling you this because I know what you’re thinking. You will not give yourself to Wahidi to save me now. If you do that, I will not speak to you again. Now go to bed.”

  We held each other, as I could not speak. I went up on tiptoe and kissed his forehead then watched him walk up slowly until he was out of sight. I went down to my cell, exhausted, but still thinking about how to get him out with us.

  I couldn’t sleep, knowing my dreams would be filled with Veer and the nightmares with Wahidi. I lit the candle I’d brought down with me; the light was a small shield against the blackness, and didn’t flicker and dance in the stillness. I couldn’t bear the thought of Jahan ending up in Pul-e-Charkhi because of me. I would live with that guilt all my life, and it would be far worse if he didn’t survive. I had found Veer again and didn’t want lose him. If our plans failed, I had to choose. Veer? Jahan? I knew Jahan meant what he’d said—he wouldn’t speak to me ever again if I married Wahidi. Yet at least I’d know he was safe and alive somewhere in the world. I would serve Wahidi like a servant, serve him as a whore, serve him with his children, knowing that in this service Jahan and I would survive. I took my notepad and looked at it again. I wrote carefully in the candle’s glow.