The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

  A POLICE LAND CRUISER WAS RACING TOWARD US, its lights flashing, the driver blasting the horn for our bus to pull over. It had overtaken the other traffic and was soon parallel to our bus. We didn’t look down at it and kept our heads averted as it pulled ahead.

  Abruptly, it started to slow down and forced our driver to do the same.

  There were four policemen holding AK-47s and riding in the back. Once it stopped, they would jump down and surround the bus. They would line us up and shoot Veer, Jahan, and my cousins. Then they would take me back to Wahidi. He would fire a bullet into my head for having dishonored him.

  “We’re finished,” Jahan said from across the aisle and reached for my hand.

  I held his and Veer’s hands tightly, looking from one to the other, just their profiles showing in the dark. Veer tried a smile, but it came out crooked, like an out-of-focus photograph.

  The Land Cruiser kept going and then we saw why it had slowed. A badly filled crater was in the center of the road and it drove over it carefully, just as the trucks did as they came toward us. Once the Land Cruiser reached the other side, it accelerated and its taillights faded swiftly into the darkness.

  We released our collective breaths in a loud hiss of relief and began to laugh softly.

  I peered back, trying to glimpse the city.

  Kabul was in darkness, as no streetlamps worked, and it had slipped back into its ancient past, when our invaders rode through the mountain passes and descended on this hidden city. I felt a painful loss at escaping from the city I would always love.

  I would probably never see Kabul again and prayed that my ancestors, my grandparents, my mother, and my father would forgive me for leaving them behind—if I did manage to escape.

  The airport lights were not very bright, just enough to silhouette it against the night sky. The lights of the control room seemed to hang on an invisible tower. The bus negotiated the turns slowly, finally stopping at the entrance.

  We hesitated, looking at the departures terminal, expecting to see armed men waiting for us.

  Parwaaze finally led us out, climbing down cautiously, looking around, and we followed him. We each chose a suitcase from the pile and hauled them along with us. We checked the name on the passport and left it with the thirteenth blazer stuffed under a seat.

  Veer went to Youseff and embraced him. “Wait to see if we get away. If we come running out, be ready to take off.”

  I had Veer and Jahan flanking me as we entered the neon-lit departures terminal. The Kabul airport was tiny compared to the Delhi one I’d flown into years ago, but back then it had hummed with passengers. Since the international sanctions in 1996, except for Karachi and Dubai, all international flights were banned and the terminal echoed with our hushed presence. It had a deserted air and it wasn’t hard to imagine cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and a gossamer shroud spreading over the check-in counters.

  “Which f-flight are we on?” Qubad asked.

  “There’s only one flight tonight,” Veer said, pointing to the board. “To Karachi.” He whispered to me, “From there we’ll take a flight to Delhi.” He turned to the team—Parwaaze, Qubad, Nazir, Omaid, Royan, Namdar, Bilal, Daud, and Atash. “You’ll all be safe in Pakistan?”

  “Anywhere but Pul-e-Charkhi,” Royan answered for them.

  “We have two good friends in Karachi,” Parwaaze said. “They’ll look after us until we fly to Malaysia and catch that boat to Australia. They have good contacts to help us.”

  He led us to the check-in counter. There wasn’t a queue.

  We knew then in our hearts that the flight had been canceled. Wahidi had discovered our escape and sent orders ahead. The airport authorities would lock the doors so we could not get away.

  A harried, young man in an Ariana Afghan Airlines uniform almost leaped toward us from an office at the back. “You are the cricket team?”

  “Yes, yes,” Parwaaze said with authority. “I have the minister’s letter.” He took it out with a flourish.

  The man snatched it, not even looking at the content. “You’re late. We must hurry.” He turned to the cubicle. “They have arrived, sir.”

  A tall, elderly man, with a beard not quite gray, stepped out. A cigarette hung out of his mouth, curling smoke into his eyes. He wore a pakol but not a shalwar; instead, a suit, a size too large, hung on his frame. He surveyed us with a look of fury.

  We cringed, stumbling back like small animals facing an omniverous beast. The police would swarm in from hiding and arrest us.

  “Where have you been?” he shouted without removing the cigarette. “I have been waiting for you for two hours. The flight is half an hour late because of you all.”

  “The bus . . . ,” Parwaaze managed in desperation, also looking for the police.

  “The stupid bus.” He threw the cigarette at us and it fell far short of our feet. The action seemed to calm him and he pulled down on his jacket. “I am Hukam, from the Sports Ministry. You will all do what I say and I want no more trouble from any of you. Do you understand?”

  We nodded mutely, relieved. There were no police to swarm around us. We weren’t surprised by his presence, though we had expected a Talib fighter and not a bureaucrat who was impatient to start his two-month vacation from the office.

  “You saw the match, sir?” Parwaaze asked politely.

  “I didn’t have the time to visit the stadium,” he snapped and pointed to Parwaaze. “You are Gafoor?”

  “Yes, sir, the minister’s nephew.”

  “Good, we’ll work well together.” He shook hands with Parwaaze but not with the rest of us. “I want harmony. If anyone misbehaves, I will have to send you back. Understand?”

  We nodded.

  “I’m fining the team two hundred Pakistan rupees for coming late,” he said.

  “But we don’t have any rupees,” Namdar pointed out.

  “It will be deducted from your daily allowance.”

  “So that’s money already in his pocket,” Atash whispered.

  Hukam swung away, all in a hurry, to the airline official. “Check them in quickly.” He strode toward the departure gate, not looking back.

  “Passports, quickly, quickly,” the official said and ordered the baggage attendant, “Get their luggage onboard at once.” As he herded us toward immigration, carrying our boarding cards, he scolded us. “We held up the flight for you and you come so late. How can I work like this?” He dumped the passports on the immigration officer’s counter, along with Wahidi’s letter. “Stamp them quickly.”

  He counted twelve passports.

  The Ariana man checked his list. “I have thirteen passengers.”

  “Malang couldn’t make it,” Parwaaze said quickly.

  The immigration official, relieved that he could go home now, flicked through the new passports and stamped each one without even looking at which one of us it belonged to.

  Our official grabbed them and nearly threw the bundle at Parwaaze as he herded us out and down the stairs to the bus waiting on the tarmac. Some distance away was our plane, the steps about to be rolled back.

  Hukam imperiously waved to have it returned for us to board.

  Veer hesitated. The plane looked ancient, the silvery body dull and tired, the Ariana Afghan Airlines logo on the side. “What is that? Does it fly?”

  “It’s a Russian An-26 turboprop,” Omaid said, proud of his knowledge. He pointed to another plane, even older, parked a little distance away. “And that’s a Yakovlev Yak-40. I’m going to be a pilot.”

  I looked back, as did the others; there was still no sign of the armed men, no walkie-talkies screaming out commands to stop us.

  We ran up the steps and into the plane. We caught a glimpse of Hukam sitting down in the business-class section, a privileged passenger. We avoided the angry stares of others, knowing they were friends of the government.

  The stewards were unhappy with us for delaying the flight and pushed us down the aisles to find whatever vacant
seats were available. I flopped down with Veer in the seat next to mine and looked out the window. The stairs rolled back and the engines started, vibrating through our bodies.

  I saw the others also peering out anxiously, scanning the tarmac, trying to look beyond it, as if they could see the road and the racing cruisers. The plane lumbered forward slowly, gradually speeding up, and then it was airborne, banking over the dark city and sliding its way over the high hills and through the narrow passes.

  We all held our breath, as we didn’t believe we would escape. At any moment, airport control would command the pilot to return to Kabul.

  We peered out, but all we could see was the dark land and the jagged peaks in the distance. I was leaving behind the country of my birth, all my ancestors, my history, my identity, my language, my people, and my culture for a future of exile in which I would have to find a tiny niche in which I could survive. I would always keep the past in my heart, as it can never be forgotten.

  I looked at Jahan and my cousins and saw that their faces too were suffused with the same sense of loss, fear, and expectation. At least I had Veer, and I held tightly to his hand, willing the plane to keep flying to Karachi. It was only a two-hour flight and we kept checking our watches, counting the minutes, but the old plane was in no hurry.

  It groaned and growled as if it was in pain and only wanted eternal rest.

  I knew the plane was going to crash and we would die together; I knew the pilot was talking to Kabul air-traffic and getting orders to return; I knew Droon was waiting there.

  I shrank into my skin when a hand clutched my shoulder.

  “Well played, young man,” Markwick said, looming over me. For once he was tieless but wore the same suit, now rumpled.

  I nodded, staying mute, catching my lost breath.

  He crouched down to save us straining our necks and looked over to Veer. “That was good batting. I thought the standard of cricket surpisingly high for a young cricketing country. And your team played almost professionally. Who coached you?”

  “We have a great coach,” Veer said with a smile toward me. “But he has a sore throat from so much shouting.”

  “Congratulations, coach.” Markwick gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and stood up, looking at us. “Cricket is a strong bond between countries, once it takes root. I think it will here.” He leaned over to Veer. “If you should visit England, do look me up. You can find me through the MCC. My club team could do with you on our side.”

  “I will, sir,” Veer said, and with a wave, Markwick retreated back to his seat.

  “So you’ll play in England now,” I said.

  “Only if you’re on the same team.” He blew me a kiss and sank deeper into his seat.

  Before I could blow one back, he was asleep, and I remembered him telling me that he fell asleep in an instant because he traveled so frequently. He looked at peace, his sensual lips slightly parted, his breath steady. I wanted to shake him awake to be with me in these last moments. I looked around at the team. Apart from Jahan, this was their first flight and their faces were as grim in fear as mine was.

  I was so tired and drained; I shut my eyes tight to stifle my imagination.

  I woke when the plane suddenly banked, shuddering with the effort.

  “Oh god, it’s turning back,” I said in a panic and shut my eyes again.

  In that moment I saw Droon and Wahidi waiting at the Kabul airport, dragging me off the flight and carrying me away into the pitch darkness of their lives, where I would never see light again. Veer was there too, lying on the tarmac with a bullet in his head.

  Veer laughed. “Since when did the sea move to Kabul?”

  I opened my eyes and looked out. The sea was a silvery desert stretching out beyond the horizon and I smiled—there were no longer hills and mountains limiting my view of the world. Then the city appeared below, spread out like a bejewelled carpet in the darkness to guide us down.

  The flight had taken slightly over two hours and bumped down in the Karachi airport.

  Veer grinned to reassure us that we were in Karachi. The smile was infectious, a happy disease that first touched Jahan’s tense face and lifted his lips and lit up his eyes; then it was on to Parwaaze, Qubad, Namdar, Omaid, and the others. I watched it spread to each face.

  We wanted to burst into laughter, and we all stood up even before the plane rolled to a stop. We wanted to be the first off, the first to touch Pakistan, and only then would we believe we had escaped.

  We waited for Hukam, yawning, to lead and we hurried down the steps and into the bus waiting to take us to the terminal. The air was warm and humid, caressing us with its damp tongue, but it smelled deliciously refreshing. We smiled at each other as we swayed in the bus, crowded in with other passengers, speaking not a word, yet the the smiles said it all. Markwick swayed along with us.

  As we got off, he waved good-bye. “I have a flight to London in an hour and I hope my luggage makes it too. Good luck.” And he weaved away toward the connecting flights. We felt a small loss at seeing him go.

  We queued at the immigration counter, behind Hukam, Parwaaze at our head, clutching the letter.

  The officer looked at him and then craned his head to look down the line at us in our blazers.

  “What sport do you play?”

  “Cricket,” Parwaaze said proudly and was surprised by his laughter.

  The officer turned to his colleague at the next counter. “Hassan, the Afghans now play cricket.” And he laughed too and looked at us as if we were aliens.

  “We’re here to be coached by your cricketers,” Veer said.

  “We have the best players in the world,” the officer said, smiling.

  A young man in a well-cut suit and a green-and-white-striped tie, with eager-to-please eyes, stepped out from behind the immigration officers.

  “You are Mr. Hukam?”

  “Yes, yes, Afghan Sports Ministry.” Hukam put out his hand and they shook.

  “I am Anwar Khan from the Pakistan Cricket Board. Welcome to you all. Now, if you give me your passports I’ll have you all cleared.” We handed over the state team passports, praying he wouldn’t open them. He didn’t, instead passing them on to immigration and saying with authority, “They’re state guests. Stamp them quickly.” He turned back to Hukam. “I’ll meet you outside. There’s a bus waiting.”

  We followed Hukam past immigration to the luggage carousel. It wasn’t moving and we stared at it in silence. He checked his watch.

  He told Parwaaze conversationally, “We will hold your passports until it’s time to return home. So don’t get ideas.” He looked around. “Where is the toilet?” he demanded, as if we had hidden it away.

  We looked around and Veer pointed to the far side of the baggage hall.

  “Gafoor, you collect my case too. It’s black with a white stripe,” he ordered and ambled across to the toilet, lighting a cigarette as he negotiated his way through the other passengers.

  When he reached it, he looked at us; we hadn’t moved and he entered and the door closed behind him. We left the carousel and passed the customs checkpoint.

  “We better get rid of our blazers,” Parwaaze said.

  We slipped them off and dropped them in a dark corner.

  I removed the beard and started to stuff it in the blazer’s pocket, but then had second thoughts. I still hated it, but I wanted it as a memory of the days when I was Babur, though I hoped I’d never need it again. I slipped it into my shalwar pocket.

  Veer stroked my bare cheek. “At last.”

  “If only it was that easy for us,” Parwaaze said, stroking his sparse beard. “We’re all going to shave first thing in the morning.” The team smiled and murmured their agreement.

  We looked through the glass doors leading out and I sensed our hesitation.

  We had only to take a few more steps, but like birds or other animals that see their cage doors opened, we were suspicious of the freedom beyond. Was it a trick? We looked b
ack and couldn’t see Hukam.

  We had negotiated the maze up to this point, and the final doors would slam shut as we tried to pass through them. We were leaving the security of our familiar prison. My cousins had never left their homes and their families, and they were about to exchange familiar dangers for unknown ones.

  Their faces were taut with anxiety. We stood rooted to the floor.

  THE SENTRY HAD HEARD their indistinct shouts and believed that they were the dead spirits calling out to one another. He had stopped his ears and closed the door of his sentry box. By the time Droon heard the news and called the Kabul airport, the flight had landed in Karachi more than an hour and forty-five minutes before. Now, he would be calling the Karachi airport to stop us from leaving the terminal. I imagined Droon racing to our house. He would smash in every door and find the secret room . . .

  “COME ON.” VEER TOOK my hand.

  As a herd, we rushed the door and it opened.

  It was only when we stood outside, surrounded by strangers, hearing an alien language, that we all began to laugh and clap and embrace one another.

  I saw the faces of women everywhere, only a few veiled, revealing their beauty for all to see. I imagined Noorzia passing among them on her way to a distant city.

  I wanted to cry, not out of despair, but for the sheer relief of escaping the predatory Droon and Wahidi.

  I was free, I could love the man I wanted to love, live my life the way I wanted to live it.

  Yet the heart is strange. A tiny flicker of compassion for Wahidi seeped in from this safe distance. I believe he had fallen in love with me and would mourn the woman who had not requited his love. But Droon would be relieved. He would find a new, younger wife for his brother, one who would not be such an obsession that she disturbed a man’s mind. For him, women are a sinful vice.

  But that feeling was extinguished in the instant we heard music from somewhere, a strange sound after so many years of endured silence, and the notes lifted our spirits even higher. Even though we didn’t know the tune, we danced together, arms on one another’s shoulders, forming a circle, still laughing like lunatics. We stopped finally even though the music hadn’t.