The Taliban Cricket Club (28 page)

The Great Game

A
S WAS OUR HABIT NOW, WHEN WE WOKE
, J
AHAN
and I went up to the roof to check the street.

We expected to see the police car, but instead we saw a Land Cruiser with two Talib fighters, AK-47s cradled in their arms, smoking and waiting for us to leave. How would Jahan escape them? A battered pale blue minibus pulled up in front of it and they went to the driver to talk to him. We waited, holding our breaths. Would the driver back off and drive away? The chat was brief and the fighters returned to the Land Cruiser. The driver of the minibus slid back in his seat to nap.

“What do we do?” I panicked and pulled back from the edge.

“We'll have to talk to the others. It might not work with the Talibs.”

“They take bribes too,” I said, almost hopefully.

“Youseff will have to see.”

Jahan turned me around and held my shoulders, looking into my eyes.

“Whatever happens now, you will go with Veer. Do you understand that?” He shook me as if I was asleep. “Promise me that.”

“I will,” I said.

“No, you must promise, otherwise I won't speak to you. Ever.”

“Promise,” I said. I was near tears. “But what about you?”

“I can look after myself,” he said. “And look after you too. So don't break your promise to me.”

“I won't.”

“We must go and play the game,” he said after a long study of my face.

We had a morning to take our minds off the dread haunting us, and we went to the basement to practice. Although the light was gloomy, we didn't want to play in the garden, as the Talibs would hear bat against ball and want to find out what we were doing.

I remembered that first time I'd thrown the ball to Jahan, so long ago it seemed, and now when I did, he played it expertly. I threw it slow, then faster, as we both thought more of facing Wasim in the match, and we varied the bounce. We took turns batting and throwing the ball, correcting each other. If I was to bat, I needed more practice, as all I had done for three weeks was coach, and not play the game. I focused on every ball, remembering my old days and also how Veer had played yesterday. Footwork, straight bat, defense, attack.

We only stopped when Dr. Hanifa called down to us for lunch.

After lunch, I dressed in my crisp white pants with the pride of a matador and slipped on the white
shalwar
. Then, with meticulous care, I thickened my brows with the pencil and then darkened my skin with the cream. I ran a comb through my short hair, thinking of Noorzia. Had she reached safety? Was she alive? Had Fatima reached Tehran? I had not heard, even from Fatima, to say they had found safety somewhere. Were they . . . ? I could drive myself mad with the unanswered questions.

I focused on the present and lightly rubbed a drop of oil over my beard, giving it the glow of healthy life, and affixed the Velcro strips to my face. I gave the beard a slight tug; it held. I scrutinized the young man looking back at me, avoiding the troubled eyes and only studying the skin, the eyebrows, the mouth. I chewed on my lower lip; it looked pouty, feminine; I could be gay, and this was always acceptable to the Talib. They screwed boys,
bacha bareashs
, beardless boys, on Thursdays and prayed for forgiveness of their sins at Friday prayers. Now, crowning myself, I settled the white
pakol
on my head and pressed it down so that it slid to rest just above my eyebrows. I thought my glasses gave me a more scholarly look, more solemn, a madrassa student possibly filled with piety. I shrugged into my coat, and wrapped the shawl around my shoulders to mask half my face. This was the last time I would be Babur.

I went to Mother's room. Pale streaks of light filtered in to stripe the neatly made bed. I had not plumped the pillows, wanting the indentation of her beautiful head to remain there forever. She had just gone away on a short journey and would be back soon; this was how I still thought of her. I had cleared away all the medications, opened the windows, and now the air smelled of her favorite perfume. I knelt by the bed and performed my
namaaz,
and told her I was leaving and prayed for her guidance on this dangerous journey. I rose, locked the door, the click a final sound in the silence, and went down to the basement. I reformatted the hard drive on my laptop, instantly erasing my past, and tucked Veer's letters deep into my
shalwar
pocket.

My final pilgrimage was to Father's study to remove what was left of my depleted inheritance—emerald and ruby earrings and a gold necklace—from the safe, and tucked them into another pocket. I found our passports in the top drawer and caressed his desk for the last time. I locked this door too and joined Jahan.

Dr. Hanifa was waiting for us. “This is the day you will both leave. Don't return until the Talib lose power. I know that day will come.”

We both embraced her and I couldn't help my tears. Without her, I could not have carried the terrible burden of my mother's illness.
Khoda haafez.

The team waited for us in the front hall, as immaculate as they could manage in their white
shalwars,
sneakers, and white
pakols
. I was proud that they had grown in such confidence. They would walk out onto the field and play cricket the very best they could, and I prayed we would win. I had to help them win, whatever happened to me after the game, and I had to see their triumphant faces.

It might be my final appearance in the open air before I was caged like a bird, a cover draped over my bars so that I could not see the light and could no longer sing. There would be Droon and Wahidi, of course, prowling the boundary, Markwick in his immaculate suit. Would the press be there to report on our team's achievement and to protect us at the end when we won? I had, at least, left a small legacy behind me.

Parwaaze had the
Kabul Daily
and I read the small boxed item.

The Afghan State Cricket Team (75) beat the Karta-i-Aryana Cricket Club (15) in the first preliminary match of the tournament. The Taliban Cricket Club (27) beat the Azlam Cricket Club (25). All the teams played fine cricket. The final match between the two winning teams will be played today at 2
P.M.
in Ghazi Stadium.

It was the best Yasir could report on a game he didn't know at all.

“You saw the Talibs outside?” Jahan said.

“Yes.” The team sighed in desperation.

“We still have to stick to our plan of getting you out,” Parwaaze said, trying to reassure them.

“We have said our good-byes to our families too,” Namdar said sadly.

“We'll miss them, but we'll return when the Talib have gone,” Royan added.

“We have our passports and money,” Qubad said

I slipped in to walk in their center when we left, and at the gate, Jahan and I spoke softly to Abdul.

“We might be away for some time. Look after the house.”

“I will be here when you return one day,” he said wisely, not his usual inquisitive self. “Let the doctor know if you're safe and she will tell me. I will pray for you.”

Jahan gave him the keys to our front door. “Two of our cousins may come to stay the night, let them in.”

The Talib fighters, young Pakistanis with hardened faces, watched us climb into the bus and followed it. I wasn't sure whether they had looked specifically for Jahan.

The bodywork rattled over every bump, but the engine sounded fine tuned. Jahan and Bilal checked the emergency exit at the back of the bus. It was stuck, but a heave opened it, and they closed it again. The driver, a young man in his midtwenties, wearing a blue
shalwar
and a black turban, watched in the mirror.

“What did they ask you?” Parwaaze asked him.

“Why I was here,” the driver said. “I told them I was hired to take some people to Ghazi Stadium.” He swung the wheel to avoid a crater and we clung to the plastic seats. “Nothing more. Why are they watching you all?”

“To make sure we reach the stadium safely,” Royan said.

“They counted you as you got in and they will count you on the way back.”

“We know. They frighten you?” Parwaaze asked.

“Only a fool isn't frightened of them.” He watched us for a long moment before continuing with a friendly smile. “But like all men they have needs, and they're no different from us. How else can we pass their checkposts without satisfying them?” He rubbed a forefinger against his thumb.

The weather was gloomy, and as we moved, a dust storm blew through the windows and we covered our faces, trying not to breathe. When it passed, the air was a dusty dun color and it would take time for that to settle. The air was still murky when we reached the stadium. A few makeshift stalls were setting up to sell kebabs, naan, fresh fruits, and plastic toys.

The Jeep was there already. Our bus parked beside it and the Land Cruiser stopped some distance away. The fighters climbed out with their weapons and followed us into the stadium.

Veer was doing his stretching exercises and came toward us, looking for me, our eyes meeting, and mouthing our hellos.

Our fans were already in their places, twelve of the thirty or more of them dressed in exactly the same way we were. Among them was Hoshang, who gave us a sad wave. There were twice the number of spectators as yesterday in the stands and more were trickling in. Fathers were bringing their sons, but not their daughters, to learn the game. I recognized Yasir sitting by himself, smoking, looking bored. I wished I could go over and say good-bye. With the increasing numbers, five religious policemen also menacingly drifted in to monitor behavior.

Parwaaze moved toward our fans, and the team started to follow, but he gestured them to stay, as he didn't want the fighters to take notice of the matching clothes. He spoke to them and I saw them nodding and glancing toward the fighters, who settled themselves a few rows higher up.

Youseff ambled up the tiers to greet them as they laid their guns down at their feet, and he sat heavily. He offered them the first gift, cigarettes, and each took one and he lit them.

A groundsman, almost bent double with age and a gray beard that flowed down his chest, shuffled over to us studying a scrap of paper in his hand. He pointed to the tunnel under the main stand leading out to the field. “You are in dressing room two.”

“Who is in number one?” Bilal asked.

“The state team,” he snapped. “You can bathe in room number four, room three is for the state team, and don't waste the water. Don't leave your dirt in there for me to clean up when I come tomorrow.”

Our dressing room was spartan and gloomy, with a barred window filtering in dirty sunlight, and smelled of stale sweat. Two benches lined the opposite walls and above them, at head height, was a series of nails for the team to hang their clothes. We had no clothes to change into or out of and dumped our shabby cricket equipment in the center. Veer looked relaxed—he was used to such rooms from his cricketing days—while the others looked around as if expecting a booby trap.

“Babur will be playing, as my brother can't,” Parwaaze told him.

“She . . . he is, that's fantastic,” he said, grinning across at me. Then a quick frown. “It'll be dangerous for her.”

“I'll be the wicketkeeper,” I said.

“That's a great idea.” The grin returned.

We heard the voices and clatter of the state team. Two of us stuck our heads out as they went into their room. Each one was carrying his new kit case, along with a bulging blue plastic bag. They looked very confident and didn't even glance at us as they went in. We counted thirteen, as they even had two reserve players who would watch from the sidelines like Qubad. They closed their door to change.

We went out together, with me in the center. There was a key in the door and Parwaaze locked our room and pocketed the key. Room numbers 3 and 4 were opposite our rooms and Qubad unlocked the doors for us to peek into. They were alike, with eleven taps and eleven buckets for us to wash ourselves with after the match. The small windows were barred and didn't even allow in a patch of light. He locked the doors again.

The air was clearing as the dust drifted away. Parwaaze and Veer led the way to the center of the football field to study the patchy, naan-colored surface, looking for cracks and bumps along it. The state team emerged out of the tunnel, immaculate in their cream trousers, cream long-sleeved shirts, new boots, and green caps. Their portly coach strode the length of the pitch, stopping here and there to press a thumb down on the hard earth. It hadn't changed since yesterday, as no one had rolled it. It was scuffed from the bouncing balls and the footmarks of the bowlers. I remained in the center, and, as if I were the sun, my cousins circled to keep me constantly there.

A black Nissan drove to the edge of the field, followed by a Land Cruiser with two Talib gunmen in the back. Markwick, hatless, his hair the color of river sand, was the first to step out. He capped his head with the same hat and wore the same suit, now slightly rumpled, that he'd worn yesterday. His shirt today was pale blue. Wahidi climbed out the other side, and the interpreter from the front passenger seat. The three came together and strolled toward us.

I backed away, as if there were an invisible force pushing me. Markwick was a head taller than Wahidi and they talked through the interpreter. Droon was still in the Land Cruiser and hurried to catch up with them. Wahidi introduced him to Markwick and the Englishman shook hands, smiling, with a man I truly hated.

And, even as they approached, Droon and Wahidi seemed to step into our present time, accompanied incongruously by a man they opposed. The two worlds lay, parallel, on this cricket field and the Taliban could move easily between them, not even conscious that they were doing it. But I could not move from mine to theirs. My heart, mind, and body were rooted deeply in the present and I would wither and die in their medieval fantasy.