The Taliban Cricket Club (30 page)

Markwick, accompanied by Wahidi, strolled toward us, followed by minions and the interpreter.

“That was a very exciting game,” Markwick said and waited for the translation. “You all played your hearts out, and I know cricket will take root now in Afghanistan.” He turned to us. “You must return from Pakistan and teach as many boys as you can to play.” He paused a beat. “We would also like very much to encourage Afghan women to play the game, as you know women's cricket is played in most countries too.” This line, we noticed, as did he too, wasn't translated.

He went to the Afghan state team first. We followed the strict etiquette of cricket and the two teams lined up to shake hands. He went down the line, pausing long enough to say a few words before Wasim. The state team looked sulky at losing. Then Markwick came to us and also shook each hand, and then stopped before Veer.

“You played well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Veer replied, not surprising Markwick with his English.

I was next to Veer, smaller, and Markwick bent slightly to take my hand. I still had on my gloves to hide my softer hands and he shook the glove.

“That was a match-winning catch, young man. If you hadn't made it, they would have won. Congratulations.”

I nodded mutely.

Veer and Wasim shook hands, talked and laughed, knowing they were the ringers. It was in the nature of cricket that we held no animosity toward each other. Three dropped catches by the state team off Veer had swung the match. We had caught all our catches.

“You played well,” Wasim said to me. “If we'd had your wicket early, we would have won.”

I ducked my head in acknowledgment and said in a whisper, “Thank you,” and then retreated to Jahan's side, avoiding any further conversation.

The teams waited, looking up to the covered stand where Wahidi and the other officials had watched the game. Droon strode by with his brother, talking to him.

I mustn't move to Wahidi until Droon has left his side. No, don't think of that. I promised Jahan.

As if that was a signal, all the spectators descended from the stands to flow onto the field. Our fans reached us, patting us on the back, laughing and smiling. For a moment, it looked as if we had twenty-six players on our side until they moved away to allow others to flow between us.

Yasir pushed his way through the crowd, a notebook in his hand, a cigarette in his mouth, to talk to the winning captain.

“Do you believe cricket will be popular in our country?”

“Yes, it is a very good game,” Parwaaze said. “It encourages every player to express his own personality and to think for himself as he faces the opposition all alone on a field.”

Yasir made his notes and peered through the gloom. “I know you.” He took the cigarette out, dropped it, and crushed it into the pitch. He lowered his voice. “You were with Rukhsana at the announcement. Where is she?”

“Mazar.”

Yasir winced. “She should be elsewhere.” And then he went to interview the Afghan state team's captain.

Wahidi's fighters cleared a way for him through the crowd, now ten to fifteen deep, and everyone fell silent when they saw the guns. Wahidi beckoned Markwick to stand beside him.

Where's Droon? Stop thinking.

“
We in the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan are very proud that we have now introduced cricket to our country. As Mr. . . .”

He leaned to the interpreter, who whispered back.

“As Mr. Micwek has seen, the game was played in good and fair spirits. It is a game all our young men can enjoy, as it is appropriate in its dress and in its behavior. He will have observed the enthusiasm of our people too who enjoyed watching the matches. Our staff ensured the smooth functioning of the tournament. Quite rightly, as I announced three weeks ago, the team will be sent to Pakistan for further learning and they will return to teach other young men to play and occupy themselves with this sport.”

When that was translated, Markwick clapped, startling Wahidi, Droon, and the others. The crowd shifted nervously.

Wahidi continued, sending a silencing glance to his religious policemen. “Mr. Observer, now that you have seen these games, I hope you will tell the International Cricket Council to accept our application to join it as an associate member.”

“I will do so with all my heart,” Markwick said. “Mr. Minister, I was most impressed with the efforts of your government, and the players, for conducting such a splendid tournament. I hope you will hold one every year to nurture more talent so that one day Afghanistan can send a team to play cricket across the world. I would also like to thank everyone for their kindness and their hospitality to me.”

Wahidi gestured to a follower who stepped forward with a package. Wahidi opened it and reverently took out a beautiful pale gray
patoo.
He unfolded the wool shawl and draped it around Markwick's shoulders. The ends fell down to his knees.

Markwick caressed the texture. “It's beautiful. I'll treasure it always, and it will keep me warm on a long English winter's evening. Thank you.”

Darkness now was moving swiftly through the crowd, having already hidden away the outer circles. There was a half-moon, hazy behind the clouds, barely lighting the stadium. Wahidi took Markwick's arm in a friendly way.

“We will always welcome you to our country,” he said as he escorted him, still wearing the shawl, to the Nissan now waiting on the field.

The crowd opened a path for Wahidi and Markwick, and when they reached the open rear door of the car, Wahidi shook Markwick's hand and placed his own against his heart, half bowing. Markwick, now familiar with our greetings and good-byes, quickly copied the action before getting in. Wahidi watched the car move off, and Droon joined him as a Land Cruiser now pulled up to take Wahidi away.

Wahidi turned to face us.

“I must congratulate both teams for learning to play cricket,” he announced. “One day soon, Afghanistan will play in international matches, so we must make sure that we have good players.” He beamed at both teams, holding the letter of authorization, and turned to us. “But we cannot send you to Pakistan to improve the sport, as we have already arranged for the Afghan State Cricket Team to go there for training. It will be confusing for the Pakistan Cricket Board if we send a new team.”

Twelve Lives

“G
AFOOR
,” W
AHIDI CALLED, AND THE CAPTAIN OF
the state team hurried forward. “Here is the permission for the team to leave this evening. All arrangements have been made for your team's training in Pakistan.” He addressed the state team. “My nephew Gafoor is the state's representative and you must all obey him.”

The silence hung for a long moment. We couldn't believe his words at first and then we realized he had planned this all along. Droon knew too. I felt hollow and then angry. I glanced at the faces beside me. Qubad was near tears. Veer's face showed disgust at such a betrayal. In Namdar's face I glimpsed the anger passing quickly to panic and worry. The shoulders of those in front of me bowed under the weight of the pronouncement.

The crowd murmured finally, a simmering of disappointment and discontent that Wahidi had reneged on his word. They stopped when Wahidi glared around.

How could I even have thought of giving myself to such a dishonorable man?

Veer held my hand to reassure me.

Wahidi handed over the letter and embraced Gafoor. He did not even apologize to us for breaking his word as he hurried to his Land Cruiser. His fighters jumped in behind him and it raced out of the stadium.

“What do we do now?” I whispered.

“We all run for the border,” Veer said harshly. “It's going to be a long, hard ride in the Jeep and I hope we'll make it.”

We saw Droon approaching and Jahan going to meet him so that he wouldn't come too close to me, still hidden by Veer and my team. The state team scurried away toward the tunnel to get ready for their departure, not hiding their smiles. They didn't even look at us.

Droon crossed to Jahan and put an arm around his shoulders to draw him away from the others.

“See, I told you your team wouldn't leave the country.”

Jahan seethed. “And your brother broke his word.”

“He had not given it,” Droon said and smiled. “When I meet your sister, in person, with my wife, you will be safe, but only then. She will be there in your house or else I will punish you despite my brother's affection for you as a brother-in-law. But until then, remember what I said. Tomorrow at what time is convenient for you?”

“Nine. I pray she will have reached us by then.”

“Eight. I think that will be the best time. Tell your sister to be ready to meet my wife. I will bring the gifts. My brother will join us later to pay his respects to your sister.”

I prayed I would not be there to receive them. Droon patted Jahan, more a slap, to remind him, and went to his Land Cruiser, waving as he drove away.

We waited for the silence once more, listening to the fading engine. Our fans and friends stood in despondent silence, waiting for us to tell them what to do. The groundsman was nowhere in sight. I looked for Yasir—he had to write this up—but he had left. Even if he had heard Wahidi, I doubt he'd have written the story. But he was a stickler for facts and he'd write: “In the final match, the Taliban Cricket Club (95) beat the Afghan State Team (93) and won the tournament.”

Our two Talib minders were waiting for the team by the main exit, cradling their guns. The religious police, their duty done, left the stadium.

“Jahan, we have to do this now,” Parwaaze said. “You go with our cousins. One moment . . .” He counted; with Jahan there were eleven for the bus today. He pulled aside the youngest, around Jahan's age and build. “There must be eleven. You wait until Jahan gets out of the back door and then you climb in quickly.” The boy drifted away, moving slowly so as not to be noticed. Parwaaze embraced Hoshang. “Make sure this works.”

“We'll get our kit first, and you take it with you,” Veer said, then told us, “Come on, we must hurry so the crowd is still around and Jahan can get out of that bus.”

We hurried down the tunnel to our dressing room. The state team was just emerging from theirs, carrying towels and soap, laughing and bantering as they crossed to their washroom. They again avoided looking at us. We waited for them to pass before moving and glanced into their room.

A dim forty-watt bulb pushed the darkness to the corners. Green blazers, with a vague crest on the pocket, hung neatly from the nails. On the floor were the blue plastic bags in which they had been hidden.

“They knew all along and came ready to leave,” I said bitterly.

The others were hurrying to collect our kit.

I stepped in and took down the nearest blazer. It was made of a cheap cotton-nylon mix, and the green, in this dull light, was anemic.

I put my hands into the side pockets and then into the inside pocket. I felt something in it and pulled out an Afghan passport.

Veer checked another blazer. It too had a passport in the inside pocket.

We stood for a long moment, staring at what we had in our hands.

The others came out of our room, carrying the kit, and saw what we held and then, in unison, looked at the blazers hanging up in the room.

I think we all counted silently—there were thirteen blazers, each with a passport in its pocket.

We looked at each other, and then to the closed washroom door.

Our cousins and their friends waited at the mouth of the tunnel.

“Grab the other blazers,” Veer said.

We thought with the same mind.

They rushed in, grabbed them, and, without checking to see whether they fit or not, slipped on the blazers. Mine was a size too large.

Parwaaze found Gafoor's blazer, Wahidi's permission neatly folded in with the passport. We took the thirteenth blazer too.

Without a word, Qubad darted across the hall and, as quietly as he could, turned the key of the state team's washroom, locking them in. We could hear the splash of water and laughter inside.

Namdar locked their dressing room too. They kept both keys, and when we locked our dressing room door we took that key too.

We hurried down the tunnel. Night had slipped its shawl over the stadium and the distant hills. The moon remained clothed in clouds. Our cousins looked at us in surprise. We passed our kit for them to carry and flourish so that the Talib would see it.

“Jahan, go with them,” Parwaaze said. “We'll follow, with your blazer.”

I prayed as hard as I could. Jahan moved with the others, and pretended to make conversation. They fell in with that, and they passed the Talib fighters.

I saw them counting as they followed the “team” out of the stadium. It was too dark to distinguish any faces. The crowd had thinned to thirty or forty still meandering around, while others crowded the stalls buying kebabs and naan to have as snacks on their way home. A neon light flickered at the far entrance to the main stand.

We followed as close as possible.

The “team” reached the bus and Jahan was the first one on; the others followed him, milling around, talking.

Inside, the bus was so dark that we couldn't even see him moving. We passed close to the side of the bus.

The Talibs counted eleven and then slammed the door shut.

Jahan opened the rear exit and jumped down. The cousin climbed in to take his place, then closed the door quietly as the bus started.

Veer tossed Jahan the blazer and he slipped it on as we hurried to the state team's bus, parked next to the Jeep.

Our team bus moved away slowly, too slowly, as if trying to make up its mind. The Land Cruiser crawled behind it.

Youseff appeared out of the night. “I paid fifty dollars to the driver to go slowly and also fifty each to the Talibs.”

“Did they ask what for?” Veer said.

“A tip for looking after the team so well,” he said and grinned, only his teeth visible. “They counted eleven in and that will keep them happy.”

“Follow us. If this doesn't work, we may all have to travel by Jeep.”

“And break my axles,” Youseff complained.

The state team's bus driver climbed in wearily and started the bus without a glance at us as we climbed in and filed into the darkness. It had been a long day for him. The other bus had reached the exit and turned onto the main road, moving toward Karte Seh.

“Airport,” Parwaaze said to our driver. “We are late. Hurry.”

As the bus moved painfully slowly, we exchanged our blazers to fit our builds. I needed one that fit the slightest build, and we checked the passport in the dying light. The boy looked around my age, with a thin beard and a delicate face. In bad light, I could pass for him if I kept my head down. At the back of the bus was a dozen small suitcases.

We didn't exchange another word; we were all holding our breath. We kept looking back to see if a car followed us, but the road remained deserted except for Veer's Jeep and the billows of dust our bus churned up. The bus rocked, it rolled, avoiding the potholes, and the driver seemed content to take his own sweet time while I knew we were all screaming internally—hurry, race, speed up, hurry.

The airport was a few kilometers northeast of Kabul and our road skirted the city, passing through depressed neighborhoods. I sat hunched in my seat, clutching Veer's hand, imagining the state team finding their door locked, banging on it, breaking it down, and reporting what had happened to the sentry.

They would use walkie-talkies to pass on the information to Wahidi and Droon and, even at this moment, they could be sending their armed men to intercept our bus. Droon, with his suspicious mind, could at this moment be searching my home for me.

The police would also arrive at any moment. We would see their headlights bearing down on us.

“How long before someone frees the state team from the washroom?” I wondered anxiously.

“Long,” Bilal said. “The security guard's in his box and, even if he hears them shouting, he will believe that they're the spirits calling out to one another.”

“We'll make it,” Veer whispered.

“I'm praying,” I replied, and I was.

We were moving out of Kabul, the road straightening and leading toward Jalalabad, a four-hour drive. Another hour beyond that city was the Pakistan border.

The traffic was heavy. Trucks sped toward us in the center of the narrow road and our driver held his own center until both swerved at the last moment. Other trucks and buses behind us tried to overtake him but he would not give way.

“The police.” We heard the whisper from the back shiver through the bus.