The Taliban Cricket Club (24 page)

Run for the Border

W
E WERE LAUGHING AS
Q
UBAD RAN TO CATCH A
very high ball. “Faster, Qubad, faster,” we shouted. “You'll get the batsman out . . .”

He wasn't going to make the catch, as he was fifteen or twenty yards away.

The ball hit the ground and the earth erupted and tossed Qubad aside like a broken toy. He remained suspended in the air almost forever, a bird in midflight clouded with dirt, the roar of a wounded earth deafening us, before he fell to the ground. We ducked instinctively and fell flat, hands shielding our heads. In the silence, we rose to stare at Qubad, lying still on the ground.

Parwaaze was the first to run to him and the others followed calling out, “Qubad, Qubad,” as if their voices were the miraculous cure for such a tragedy. They crowded around him.

Jahan remained by my side. He could not leave me alone. He saw the hysteria distorting my face, my hands crushing it like putty. I couldn't breathe.

“Qubad,” Parwaaze called to him, crying.

He did not move, and my pain was unbearable; it swallowed all my senses. Then I saw his foot twitch and many hands helping him to sit up. They were laughing in relief, and kept holding him as he shook like a leaf in their arms.

“He's all right,” Parwaaze shouted, and we ran over to him. I pushed through the little knot of players. There was blood on his clothes, near the heart, and the dirt shrouded him. His left arm, above the elbow, was bleeding badly and he looked at it in puzzlement, as if it wasn't he who bled. And he looked around, as if it wasn't he who was alive.

“Qubad, Qubad . . .” I held him, not caring that the blood stained my clothes and crying in relief. “Oh thank god. It was my fault, hitting that ball . . . my fault if anything had happened . . .”

“So you're the one who buried the mine,” said Royan, the frustrated doctor with half a degree to his name, as he ripped a strip off his
shalwar
and expertly fashioned a tourniquet above the wound to prevent more blood leaking away. “He's in shock, and we must take him to the hospital to dress the wound and put in some stitches.”

“What h-happened? My head h-hurts and my ears too,” Qubad said, still puzzled. “I was running and then . . .”

“I hit a high ball to you and—” I began.

“When it fell it triggered the mine—” Jahan continued.

“You were thrown back—” Daud cut in.

“You fell,” Bilal ended.

I still held him. “Thank god you weren't able to catch it. You would've died.”

“We'll carry you,” Royan said and gestured. His cousins immediately moved to lift Qubad between them.

“I can walk.” He stood, but swayed and nearly fell. He shook his head, trying to clear away the ache.

“You have a slight concussion.” Royan held up three fingers. “How many?”

“Three.” He held up four fingers, and Qubad said, “Four.”

Royan looked relieved. “It's not a bad wound, but I don't want it to open up any further by you walking; you must rest.”

Qubad sat on his cousins' linked hands and the procession hurried out of the campus. I followed, glancing back at the crater that could have killed him. It was a shallow hole, scorched around the sides and blackened at the bottom. The air was bitter with the stench of explosives. How innocent it had looked moments before Qubad nearly stepped on this spot, nothing at all to distinguish it from the surrounding area, which I scanned, looking for another mine.

It could be there, it could be here, it could be under a clump of grass. How long did they wait before they exploded? Forever? Or did they have a life span, like a torch battery, as they waited for that fatal footstep? I tried to think of the man who had buried it. He must have knelt on the earth just there, on the edge of the small crater, and dug his death hole, lowered the mine down into it tenderly, and then, lovingly and carefully, replaced all the earth he had removed. He would have smoothed that out with the flat of his palm, scattered a few pebbles across the disturbed grounds, and then stood back to admire his handiwork. He would not have thought about whom his device would kill or when, only certain that it would commit the murder for which it had been invented. I felt a surge of terrible fury at the possibility that any of us could be next—and it could be so much worse.

At the Malalai Hospital, a nurse cleansed the wound, probed it to check that there wasn't a sliver of metal still remaining, and put in eight stitches. Then she bandaged it and discharged him. The hospital didn't have any painkiller tablets left.

All the way home, surrounded by his escort, Qubad could not stop repeating himself. “I was just a few feet away and I could h-have easily stepped on it. There was only a few feet . . . I could be dead by now.” He blinked back tears, more from fear than from anything else. “Just a few steps to my left and I would h-have been blown to pieces.”

“It's a hard ball,” Atash, the frustrated engineer, said. “It was falling at thirty-two feet per second from a height of at least thirty feet. So when it hit the ground, it had the same weight as a man stepping on the mine.”

The cousins discussed the laws of physics, but we knew what each of us was thinking: I could have stepped on that mine.

“No more fielding practice,” Parwaaze the captain announced. “Only bowling and batting tomorrow.”

“We'll be one short,” Royan said. “Qubad can't play with that arm.”

“You'll just have to find another player. I told you there should be twelve or thirteen on the team.”

“I know, I know,” Parwaaze said, rightly distraught. “But he won't know the game.”

“Hide him near the boundary then, and he'll bat last.”

They all accompanied Qubad to his house except for Jahan and me. We returned home by the back lanes, deserted except for wandering dogs and a lone cyclist.

“I'll try to find Juniad again,” he said. He had gone the evening before and Juniad's relative told Jahan that he was away and wouldn't say where. “Lock this gate behind you. I'll come back through the front gate.”

I let myself in through the kitchen and hung up the keys. When I climbed the stairs, I heard Dr. Hanifa open the door to Mother's room.

“How is she?” I asked as she came out, closing the door behind her, blocking my way.

“She's sleeping, don't disturb her.” Dr. Hanifa gently stroked the fake beard. “She worries all the time about you. Why are you still here?”

“I want to leave tomorrow night, or Saturday at the latest,” I said as we walked slowly down the stairs, Dr. Hanifa leaning on me for support. “But how can I leave Maadar?”

“I'm here,” she said gently. “And she'll be at peace when she knows you and Jahan are safe.” At the front door, she added, “I increased the dosage again. I'll be back early in the morning to see how she is.”

I made dinner and waited in the dark for Jahan to return. I thought that by this time tomorrow I would be squeezed into Juniad's car with many others, praying we would be carried safely across the border and find a new life in a foreign country. I would carry a small bag with a change of clothes to reclaim my identity. All along those dangerous roads, I knew I would think only of Mother and pray for her forgiveness. If I left Saturday night, Jahan would join me on Sunday, after winning the preliminary Saturday game and, I prayed, the final match. I would wait in Karachi for him and we'd leave for Delhi.

I was so lost in thought I didn't hear Jahan return until he was standing beside me, scaring me for a moment.

“Juniad's not at home,” he said wearily, and my stomach knotted. “I asked when he'd be back, but no one would tell me.”

“You'll have to try again tomorrow.”

We sat and ate in the gloomy light, both fatigued and depressed by the day. He had a boy's appetite and finished all the rice and chicken, while I could only manage a mouthful with a cold salad.

The Good-bye

I
N THE MORNING, HAVING DOZED FITFULLY IN THE
cramped space, eyes burning from tiredness, I made tea and took it to Mother's room.

A pale glow, falling softly across the bed, filtered through the drawn curtains, and it was from the silence that I knew my mother had passed from this world to the next. I placed the glass and the plate of biscuits down on a table with surprisingly steady hands and stood by her bedside.

Mother was beautiful, the pain lines vanquished, and she even seemed to be smiling. Her right hand crossed her chest, the left lay by her side. I leaned down to kiss the cool forehead and brush my palm against the chilled cheeks. Mother could have died early in the morning, even while I lay hidden in the room far below. If only I could have been beside her to hold her hand, a last touch before life left. I didn't cry, the tears would come later, and was relieved Mother had finally escaped the pain that had ravaged her.

Mother had given me so much and now whom could I talk to? No one. I would still tell Mother everything, even though my words would fall into silences. I had revealed my deepest secret to my mother—Veer—and she understood and blessed me. I wished they could have met, Mother would have liked Veer.

I went to Jahan's room. He was huddled in sleep and I watched his strong, steady breathing before sitting on the bed. I shook him gently awake and he knew from my face why I woke him. He sat up and we held each other, the orphans now alone in the world.

“When?”

“In her sleep. When I went to give her tea, she wasn't with us. How are you feeling?”

“I dreamed I was Qubad and had taken those twenty or thirty steps, and the earth had opened its jaws and swallowed me.”

I led him downstairs to Mother's room and Jahan leaned over and kissed her cold forehead. He looked steadily at his mother's face, wanting to remember it and carry the serene image with him for the remainder of his life. When tears blurred his vision, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and sniffled into it.

“You must call Uncle Koshan in Mazar and tell him. And then send Abdul to go to our cousins' homes and inform them.”

He went to the telephone; he would probably spend the morning there, while I sat beside Mother. I wept after kissing her again but made sure that not a tear dropped on her body, as its bitterness would be carried into the next world. Dr. Hanifa came in, looked down at Mother with just a slight smile, and then held me in her arms so I could cry against her.

“It's for the best,” she said.

“Did you help her . . . ?”

“As a doctor, I did not,” she protested, with little conviction, and I didn't press her. I knew they had conspired in this eventual moment.

She helped me perform the
ghusl
, gently bathing Mother with scented water. I caressed the shrunken frame, remembering Mother as a robust woman who once had heavenly warm flesh to cuddle and cradle me.

“You must think only that she has escaped from this world finally and left her pain behind,” Dr. Hanifa said as we performed the rituals.

“I know. I only wish I'd been beside her at the time.”

“You are now, you are saying your good-byes.” Dr. Hanifa sighed. “Who will say farewell to me when I go? My children are so far away.” She saw me about to reply. “And don't tell me you will look after me, because your mother wanted you to leave. You must get away.”

“I will, tonight or tomorrow.”

When we finished the
ghusl
, we dressed Mother in clean clothes and then tenderly wrapped her in a pure white sheet, again, not allowing a tear to stain it. We covered her face and tied the straps around the ankles, across the stomach, and over the chest to keep the sheet in place. We stood back to study our handiwork, a white shroud vaguely shaped like a woman lay on the floor beside us. Jahan came in and we knelt on either side of our mother. We looked down at her earthly outline and then up at each other's distressed face. Jahan wiped away his tears with his sleeve, head averted, reminding me of him as a small boy. We were alone now, forever, with no parent to witness him grow into a man or to witness my marriage. We lifted her tenderly, Mother as light as a soul in flight, and then, alone, refusing my outstretched arms, he carried her down the stairs to place her in the
zanaana
for our female relatives to pay their last respects. Dr. Hanifa accompanied him downstairs to receive the female mourners in my place.

I looked numbly at the unmade bed, and the table cluttered with medications and syringes. I emptied them into a wastebasket. I lay on the edge of the bed, as I always had, and caressed the indentation in the pillow, breathing in her spirit. It had not left yet. When I heard the gates open and the murmur of approaching mourning voices, I closed the door; the click of the latch sounded so final. I retreated down to the basement.

“Where's Rukhsana? Why isn't she here?” Qubad's mother.

“In Mazar, I called her . . .” Jahan.

“She should have been here, beside her
madaar
.” Parwaaze's mother scolded in between crying.

“She'll be here as soon as she can.” Jahan.

“Her
madaar
's more important than a wedding . . . very uncaring girl . . .” Daud's father.

Others spoke too, men and women, as they crowded into the house. I wanted to walk up and tell them all, “I'm here.” But Mother whispered her reminder in my ears, “Keep your mouth shut.” And I clamped my ears against hearing the censure heaped on my head.

Although it was Friday, Mother had to be buried as soon as possible. I listened to the muffled sounds above my head and the weeping increase as they carried Mother out to the waiting van. Her spirit, which had filled this home and sustained me for so many years, even from her sickbed, accompanied her and slipped out the door. I was, for the first time, alone in our house, a child abandoned. I leaned against the wall for support, slid down to sit, clutching my knees tightly, bending my head, protecting myself from the loneliness.

I knew the rituals from the past. The men would carry the body to our local mosque, a small, unpretentious building only slightly damaged. A few bullet holes were lodged in its side and there was a large crack in the dome. The women would wait in an adjoining hall. Jahan and his cousins would lower Mother's body to the floor, just within the entrance of the mosque. The old mullah, who knew the family, would slowly move to them, dragging his left foot, clutching the holy book. “This is a woman,” he would announce to all within hearing. He would not remove the covering on her face, and would pray over the body. The brief ritual over, the funeral procession of men would move along Asamayi Wat. They would travel in silence along the dusty road, steadying the body for the bumps and ruts in the road.

I listened; something had fallen—a cup, a book—carelessly left on the edge of a table.

I returned to my thoughts, accompanying my mother to her grave. The procession would take half an hour to reach the cemetery, which began by the roadside. It sloped gently up the hill, forested with headstones, some protected by iron railings, and one day the graves would reach the summit and flow down the other side. The van would turn onto a narrow road, with graves on either side, a carpet of mounds, headstones, and iron railings protecting the graves of the more affluent. Halfway way up the slope, hidden by a grove of trees, was a small shrine. I thought Mother would lie, looking down at the city she had loved, and wished Father lay beside her too. To love and then be separated by such a distance in death saddened me. One day, we would disinter Mother and take her to lie near her husband, or at least in the same cemetery. But now, they would have dug a fresh grave and lowered her body into it so that her head pointed toward Mecca. Then Jahan would—

I stopped.

The
zanaana
door was opening upstairs, sly, hesitant, menacing. A whisper of feet. Then another door opened, the latch loud as the safety flicked off a weapon, and another sound of feet. I remained glued against the wall, unable to free myself. There were thieves in the house. They had mingled with the crowd of mourners, knowing that in the confusion they could remain hidden.

“She could have gone to the funeral too,” a woman said, not even whispering. I recognized the voice. The one who had claimed to be my friend.

“We're searching there too,” a man replied. “We'll start from the top, see if you can find anything that will tell us where she is.”

When I heard them climb, unhurried, knowing they had hours of privacy, talking to each other as if on the street, I managed to stand with the wall's support. I edged away from the stairs—the faintest sound would carry—and moved to the storeroom. Above, I heard them opening a door. I waited, then, as gently as I could, inch by inch, I twisted the handle and stepped into the room. I closed it as quietly as possible and in the darkness finally started breathing again. Panting for air, I crossed to the secret room, the door ajar, a sepia glow of light coming from it, and locked myself in. I sat on the divan, still sucking in air. I controlled myself, silencing even the sound of my breathing. These were not illiterate policemen and I stared at the frail door protecting me, expecting it to crash open. I didn't move, as even the sound of a sleeve brushing my arm sounded so loud. I don't know how long it took them before I heard their murmurings in the basement. The storeroom door opened.

“Nothing but useless books,” the woman said. “They should be burned.”

I didn't hear it close and I sensed she was prowling among the books, reading titles, pulling them out.

“There's a cellar here,” the man called to her.

I heard her leave and then the man grunting to pry open the granite slab.

“Empty,” the woman said in disgust and the slab fell back into place, causing the floor to vibrate. “She'll have to be back soon for the other ceremonies.”

I didn't hear them leave; they could be standing still, as alert as predators waiting for the prey to run. I was uncomfortable, my legs cramping from the tension, but I wouldn't move. Stay still, stay still, they're listening.

They were there, at the outer door. They had found the secret latch. Who had told them? The door opened slowly. I shrank back.

“Rukhsana!” Jahan was faintly outlined in the frame. When I couldn't move, he knelt in front of me. “Are you okay?”

“Two of them were here,” I said, surprised by my own calm. “The woman who said she was a friend and the man with her. They searched for me.” I stretched up my hands. “Help me up, I think I have a cramp in my legs.” He held and steadied me as I stretched. “They weren't here when you came in?”

“No.” He helped me walk. “The police went into the women's hall searching for you. A woman went with them. She wanted all the women to reveal their faces, and they were angry at being disturbed on such a sad occasion. But they had to when the police threatened them.”

“I want to see her grave one day.”

“We must place a marble headstone on it,” he said and then went on. He gestured dejectedly. “Now there's a police car parked opposite our gate.”