The Taliban Cricket Club (26 page)

“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

E
VEN 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.

I removed my beard; I hated it now. It had become like a loathsome fungus on my face, sucking out my life, my identity, my very sex. I had put it on to amuse myself, and teach my cousins a game, and now it caged me. I had to escape it, one way or another.

The Dropout

I
WOKE, WRETCHED WITH FEAR
. I
T HAD BEEN
with me as I slept, dreaming now that Droon was killing Veer. He had to leave, at least then I'd know he too was safe and alive. I wanted to climb the stairs to Mother, lie beside her and ask her guidance. If only she could reach down from heaven and move us, like chess pieces, out of danger's way.

“Please, Maadar, look after us,” I prayed. “Take us all away to safety. I thought last night of giving myself to Wahidi to save Jahan. I don't want to do that, it's against your wishes, so please guide me in these days ahead.”

I didn't need to look in a mirror to note the dark circles under my eyes, but I tried to hide them with even darker makeup to match the rest of my face. The team assembled in the front hall had a funereal air. They were as immaculate as they could manage in their white
shalwars,
sneakers, and white
pakols
for their first match. I too was in white and feeling much worse, worrying that I would be picked out, even in a crowd. I would stay as close to my team as possible. Qubad had his arm in a sling.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Hurting.” He removed his arm from the sling, flexed it, and slipped it back in. “And I had d-dizzy spells too—”

“Jahan told us we have a new player, Veer,” Parwaaze impatiently cut in.

“Is he any good?” Namdar asked.

“Will he win the match?” Daud wanted to know.

“Can he get us out?” Atash demanded.

“He's a very good cricketer.” I did exaggerate a bit about Veer's talent, never having seen him play. “He played for his university, but he can't win these games all by himself. You too are good players, and I know how you are feeling. It's in your faces. Don't think of Droon at all because then you'll try too hard and tense up. Stay calm. Just enjoy playing the game and you'll win.”

It was a warm day, with a clear blue sky and a slight breeze to cool us. When we went out, the police car slowly followed us up the road. We didn't look back and, as usual, I remained in their center. They too were quiet and I didn't want to waste any words until we reached the stadium. Veer would have to guide them once they were on the field, and I believed that he would have the talent and the ability to inspire them. We caught a taxi at Karte Seh Wat, and when we craned our heads back, we saw the police car trailing us.

The first match was set to start at eleven and we reached the stadium by ten thirty to limber up and study the opposition. The stadium looked deserted when we stopped at the gate and got out. The police car pulled up behind and two bored-looking policemen climbed out to lean against it and light their cigarettes. They were poor men and I was certain they would accept a bribe to look the other way. There was also a battered olive green Jeep in the car park, and a tired-looking minibus parked beside it. It had a banner on its side that said
AFGHAN STATE CRICKET TEAM.
Veer, mopping his face with an old towel, hurried over to us trailed by his driver, Youseff, thickset and gray bearded. Veer was looking only for me among the youths; seeing me in the center he gave that beautiful, joyful smile. I returned it through the wretched beard. Jahan stepped between us before we could even formally shake hands.

“Veer, I want you to meet the team.”

With grave formality, Veer shook hands with each of them, touching his heart, as they also did when he let go, and I saw them eyeing him hopefully. They saw a tall man, supple still, with an easy smile and a balance in his movements that reassured them. He could play cricket; after all, he was an Indian and they all excelled at the game, like the Pakistanis.

He finally shook mine, squeezing it, and I wanted to keep holding it and not let go. But there were watchers, and when I did let go, he placed his hand against his heart and held it there longer than he had for the boys.

“I've been here since dawn, trying to get back into shape,” he said, dabbing his face again. “And I was waiting for you, desperate to see you.”

“I knew you'd be here, and even if we can't speak, I want to just look and look at you. You'll know what I am thinking from my eyes, if not from my lips.”

I would not think of anything else. These might be the last, most precious hours of my life. I wanted so much to be with him, forever. I couldn't tell him now what I would have to do if our plan didn't work. I would just vanish, a coward who couldn't bear the pain of looking at his distraught face.

He managed to slip in beside me and our hands touched and held as the team entered the grounds. The policemen shuffled along behind Youseff and us. Jahan moved to Veer's other side.

“Did your driver find someone to take the team?”

“Yes. He has, but it's going to be expensive. More money than I have on me, but I figure I can talk Youseff into giving me credit. The smuggler's ready anytime. If we lose today, we're all ready to move. Youseff will talk to the cops to sound them out. He's an expert in bribery.”

He pointedly looked at Youseff, who was drifting toward the two policemen. We saw him greet them courteously, offer them cigarettes, and settle down beside them. Apart from them, there were no Talib fighters with AK-47s, lounging against Cruisers, or religious police playing with those electric cables and caressing their guns. The quiet was innocently peaceful.

There were three other teams already on the field. They stood, well separated, around the pitch. Standing apart from them were two official-looking men, one clutching a file, and in between them a tall
khaareji.
He wore a pale cream linen suit and an elegant straw hat a shade darker than his suit, a red-and-yellow-striped band around the brim. His tie was the same pattern as the hatband.

“He's a member of the Marylebone Cricket Club,” Veer muttered. “Not that anyone here will recognize that tie.”

We moved to also stand near the pitch, keeping our distance from the others. I had thought there would be a few more teams. We had a fair sprinkling of spectators and we spotted our other cousins and friends, around fifteen to twenty of them, sitting together. The team waved and they returned the wave. The fans and supporters of the other teams were scattered around. I guessed that all in all we had a hundred or more spectators. If this had been a football match, the stadium would be packed; it was still the only other sport, and entertainment, permitted in this deprived country.

One of the officials approached us first. He opened a file, plucked a pen from his top pocket, and was poised to write.

“Your team name?”

“Taliban Cricket Club,” Parwaaze announced.

“Player names?” The official wrote our names, including Babur, without reacting to the team's name. Parwaaze changed Veer's name to Salar to blend in with the others.

The official moved on to the others. The state team was the Afghan State Cricket Team. Without doubt, they were the smartest among us. They wore new white trousers, shirts buttoned to their wrists, white
pakols
on their heads, and new sneakers, while the others, like us, were in our white
shalwars
and ordinary shoes. Only some of us had sneakers.

Azlam's team was the Azlam Cricket Club and he was one player short. Deliberately, he removed the
Rules of Cricket
book from his pocket and waved it at Parwaaze. The fourth team was the Karta-i-Aryana Cricket Club, named after their suburb. They looked around them with uncertainty, as if not sure why they stood in the middle of a football field beside a bare strip of pitch.

The official, a clerk in the ministry, an elderly man, addressed us, saying, “The man who has the keys to the dressing rooms hasn't come today.” He pointed to the tunnel leading into the stadium's interior. “He may come tomorrow. Today, you change outside. I have noted your team names and the observer will pick which teams play against each other.” He looked down at his file. “Each side has ten overs.” He looked back to us, hoping we understood, even if he did not, that mysterious sentence. “In tomorrow's final match each side has fifteen overs. The match starts at two
P.M
.”

“Let's look at this pitch,” Veer said to Parwaaze, and we moved together to stand beside it and pace its length.

It was sixty-six feet long and ten feet wide, three new wickets were planted at both ends, and there were white chalk lines for the batting and bowling marks.

“What do you think?” he asked me.

“It will wear quickly since it's not been rolled well,” I said and looked to Captain Parwaaze. “What will you do?”

“Try to bat first,” he said, and checked with Veer, who nodded.

“The ball will bounce badly.”

The Englishman too came to inspect the pitch with the other official by his side, a younger man, neatly dressed in a blue
shalwar,
a black waistcoat, and a black turban. The Englishman looked at ease in these surroundings, as only one of an imperial race, whose blood had soaked this land more than a century ago, could. His confidence seemed to announce that he knew us from our past history and belonged here. He crouched and poked a knowledgeable finger into the pitch and looked back at his companion.

“It's going to break up,” he also pronounced. “We must send you one of our experts to help you lay a proper pitch. You'll have to dig this up, then lay down gravel, then layers of clay, and sow good grass to bind it. I'm sure we can provide that too. And lots of water until the grass has grown, then mown to its correct length, and . . .”

His companion nodded to each word and murmured, “Yes, yes,” as if he understood what the man was talking about, and looked doubtful that this would ever happen.

The Englishman stood and looked at us as we edged nearer. “My name is Phillip Markwick and I've been sent by the International Cricket Council as an observer. We at the ICC are delighted that your government has applied for an associate membership. We will do everything possible to encourage cricket here, and we welcome every new nation that wants to learn this splendid game into the growing family of cricket-playing countries. Cricket today is played in more than eighty-nine countries, even in the United States of America.” He stopped to turn to his companion. “Do they understand English?”

The other official looked across and saw mostly blank faces. “No.”

“Pity, I thought they would have,” Markwick complained. “They do in India and Pakistan. Now please translate what I am saying.” Markwick turned back to us and began again. “My name is . . .”

The translation was hesitant and the interpreter stumbled from the start over Markwick's name and many more words, finally giving us just the gist of the speech.

“As you all know,” Markwick continued when the interpreter stopped. “Your country is known as the graveyard of empires.” He laughed and drew smiles from the teams, though not all understood since the translator waited. “My great-grandfather is here in one of your graveyards, the British Cemetery in Kabul. A tribesman assassinated him in 1867. So, as you see, my family, among many other English ones, does have a long relationship with Afghanistan.”

“I knew he'd say that,” I whispered to Veer.

“Well, I won't keep you from the game any longer.” Markwick went among us, shaking all our hands, murmuring his “good lucks.” “I'll leave the ministry person to schedule the play.” He returned to his interpreter and we overheard him say, “I must visit my great-grandfather's grave before I leave the country.”

“It will be arranged for you tomorrow, sir.”

The elderly official had written down the team names on strips of paper, folded them neatly, and jumbled them in his cupped palms. He approached Markwick and made his offering. Markwick picked out a slip, opened it, frowned, and passed it to his interpreter. It was written in Pashtu.

“The Afghan State Cricket Team will play the first match against . . .”

He waited for Markwick to draw another slip, and we held our breaths. We didn't want to play them in the preliminary nor did the other two teams.

I didn't believe the state team would be better, except for their ringer. Through the grapevine we knew his name was Wasim Khan, a nephew of their coach, Imran, and he played for his college in Rawalpindi. He stood, relaxed, a cricket ball in his hand, looking over the opposition with a satisfied air.

They were no competition for him, until he scanned us. He passed over Veer, and then returned to settle on him. Veer sensed someone watching and turned to see Wasim; a smile lifted both their mouths as they recognized each other's nationalities and knew it would be another historical confrontation in this game between India and Pakistan. We would be spectators in their conflict.

Markwick was pulling out another slip and passing it on.

“ . . . the Karta-i-Aryana Cricket Club,” the official announced. “These two teams will play first. The Taliban Cricket Club will play the Azlam Cricket Club following this match.”

“Now we can see how the Afghan state team plays,” Veer said to Parwaaze, who was still smiling in relief that we had to play his old nemesis Azlam.

“We must beat Azlam,” he insisted. “We must thrash him.”

Markwick waited for the two playing captains to stand in front of him, and then took a coin out of his pocket.

“Call,” he said, ready to toss it, and waited for the interpreter to explain this little ritual to start the match.

The Afghan State Cricket Team won the toss and decided to bat first.

“Who'll be the umpire with me?” Markwick asked no one in particular but from his tone demanded an answer.

The Afghan team coach, in his tracksuit, stepped forward, and the two men walked out to the pitch to await the start of play. We expected, in the spirit of the game, the coach would be impartial in his judgments.

Wasim and his teammates strode out, impressive in their clothes and equipment. We settled in the lowest stand, Veer next to me, our knees touching, to watch the match.