The Taliban Cricket Club (9 page)

“I'm fine. Why?” I replied as usual.

“The frown, the distant look . . .”

“School,” I said and shrugged.

“You should relax. Why don't you go shopping? That always helps me.”

“I don't feel like shopping. I'll go see a movie.”

I sat in the back row, and I didn't look up when a man sat down next to me as the lights went down. He handed me a Coke and I took it. “I hoped you might come.”

“I followed you,” he said. “Nargis called your house and your mother told her you were going to a movie, so I waited and followed your taxi.”

I turned my face to Veer, and he was waiting. Our lips first touched gently, brushed each other, and then pressed more firmly, more insistently. When we drew apart, I felt as if I had been submerged in water all my life, looking up at the opaque sunlight, and the kiss had shot me to the surface to release my pent-up breath; I was no longer a girl. I had been awakened from the dreamy sleep of adolescence and innocence. That was my moment of maturity, my discovery of what it felt like to experience passion as a woman. I was unprepared for such a rush, my heart ached with the freedom. I couldn't hush it, and the remainder of the film was a blur. Afterward, we didn't speak as we walked to his car, though, for the first time, we held hands, dry palms pressed tightly against each other. When we climbed into the stifling car, cluttered with paper, his backpack, and camera case, I peered into the mirror—my lipstick was smeared.

“Why didn't you tell me?” I said, and touched up my mouth.

“You looked cute,” he said. “You looked as if you'd been kissed for the first time and hadn't thought about your makeup.”

I punched him gently.

He reached out and stroked back the curl of hair that fell across my eyes. I let him do that. “I wanted to do that the very first time I saw you.”

He dropped me off at the corner; we blew each other good-bye kisses. Mother was home, and I told her the story of the film as proof that I had been to it, alone.

In my room, I studied my face. And then, of course, I could not escape Shaheen. He burst into the room to circle me; he was furious, he raged, his honor had been insulted. “You're a whore, a prostitute, a cheap woman. You gave your lips up to a man when that first kiss was my sole right on our wedding night.”

I fought back. “It was only a kiss. It was a friendly kiss, that's all.” My justifications didn't calm him.

“I know what will happen after the kiss. You'll go to bed with him, you'll give him your body next. That's what all women do. They're weak and can't control their passions.”

I refused to be intimidated. “And what about men? They don't even want to kiss, they just want to take us, and that's all you want from me. You want an obedient wife who'll sit at home making babies and cooking for you. I am sick and tired of being told how I must behave as a woman.” I slammed on my headphones, turned up the music, and lay back in bed, driving him out the window.

As my fury faded, I was awash with guilt, but my tongue caressed my kissed lips.

The next day, Nargis called to tease me. “What have you done to my brother? I've never seen him looking so dreamy in my whole life.”

Jahan was studiously watching a cartoon, within earshot.

“Nothing . . . ,” I said.

“Well, I'm inviting you out for dinner—just with me—so can you come tomorrow night?”

“As long as it's not too late and you pick me up.”

We went to the university canteen and sat at our usual table. Nargis was still smiling, still teasing.

“My brother's nuts about you.”

I had suspected that already, but hearing it made it even better. It felt wonderful.

“I don't believe it. He must have hundreds of girlfriends.”

“No, that's just it. He's had a few but never for very long. Oh, they throw themselves at him, but you've caught him. So what happens next?”

She saw my hesitation as the smile slipped off my face. “I don't know. My family would be so angry if they knew I was seeing him and my father will forbid it . . .”

Nargis took my hand. “I know that. It's you I'm worrying about more than him. My father won't be happy, but he'll never withhold his consent. And my brother's a grown man. But I can see you're both going to be hurt when the time comes. All I can say is, be careful and enjoy yourselves.”

Over the following months, Veer and I found time to be together. He traveled for work and I waited impatiently for his return. I would pace in my room, trying to suppress my longing for him, trying also to suppress the guilt of betraying my parents and Shaheen that sometimes overwhelmed me and brought me to tears. Veer was the pleasure and the pain in my life. We never talked of the future; we lived for the present. Although I never spoke the name Shaheen, he knew there was a ghost haunting me. We had our lunches and coffees, we had our movies, and we had our kisses.

As Nargis had predicted, the time, which I hoped would never come, came. I woke with dread when I should have been rejoicing. I had graduated from college and Father wanted me to return to Kabul. Shaheen awaited.

On our last afternoon together, we sat again in silence across from each other at a table, neither of us touching our food. We kissed there, in the restaurant, not with passion but with tenderness.

“I'll talk to your father? I'm sure he will understand.”

“No,” I said, holding his hand tightly. “He will never permit it. He is a kind and understanding man, but if he'd known about us, he would have sent me back to Kabul already. I haven't even told my mother. I cannot disobey my father like this. He will think it dishonors him. I love you so much, but I have no choice. I can't marry you.”

He pulled away. “You're a coward,” he said angrily. “You'll risk your life returning to Kabul and the civil war between the Talib and the Northern Alliance but won't risk staying here with me.”

“Yes, I am a coward. I can't defy my family,” I cried. “Please, please understand that. You know the problems I would have. My father, my family, would never forgive me. They would throw me out, maybe worse. I just wanted to love you, to experience love with you. But I have to go home.”

“Things could change, we mustn't give up.”

“They may. Anything can happen.” But I didn't believe my words.

“We'll keep in touch,” he insisted. “You will change your mind.” He tried a smile, but it distorted his face. “I don't quit that easily.”

We remained silent on the drive to my home, and he parked at the usual spot, on the corner, and waited for me to say something. He had said all that he could.

“You must forget me. I must forget you,” I said as if it would be that easy. “Please don't write to me or call me.” My voice broke. “It'll be too painful.”

Tears fell from his brown eyes, and I leaned across to kiss them dry, tasting the saltiness.

He held my hand. “I won't promise that, and I won't promise that I won't call you, wherever you are, or write to you.”

“If you write, I won't open the letters. And I won't speak to you if you call.”

“I'll keep writing in the hope that one day you will. And calling too. You know I love you, and it's madness to know I'll never be able to say those words to you again.”

I flew to Kabul the next morning and did not look down for a last glimpse of the city in which I had fallen in love. I was breathless from the pain and furious at my cowardice. I didn't have the courage to break with my family for love. I loved Veer with all my heart, and now it was tearing into pieces and the agony was unbelievable.

Grandfather met me at the Kabul airport and drove me home through a city as damaged as I felt. Grandmother noted my silence, the distraction in my eyes, and she believed me when I told her I had caught the flu. I hid away in my childhood room and waited for the sadness to drain out of me. After three weeks, I began my career in the
Kabul Daily
office, reporting on the continued fighting. I convinced myself that I'd locked Veer away in a secret corner of my mind and knew, with time, he would gradually fade to a beautiful and painful memory of my first, and only, love. I pushed him into the back of my mind, and locked him away in a very dark corner. Shaheen visited us, but as my parents were still in Delhi, we agreed to defer the engagement ceremony until they returned.

J
AHAN CLOSED THE ALBUM
and looked at me in surprise, not having known anything about Veer or my teammates.

“I should have burned these,” I said, and couldn't hold back the tears.

“No.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You'll want to remember Delhi. You must keep them to remind you that there were better times and that they will come again when we get out of here.” He hugged me.

I leaned against him, my tears soaking into his shirt. He let me weep, uncertain as to what to do. He had never seen me crying like this—for no apparent reason. He patted my shoulders, caressed the top of my head, and held me tighter.

“I hope you're right.” I sniffled.

“Aren't I always?”

At the bottom of the trunk was my cricket bag. He unzipped it and pulled out my kit. There were pads, gloves, wrinkled whites, grubby socks, and dirty boots. I had always been immaculate on the field but, after the last game, knowing I had to leave for Kabul the next day, I wanted only to forget and stuffed my kit, unwashed, into the bag.

Jahan handed me the pads and batting gloves. “Come on. Show me what these things are for.”

I placed the pad on my leg and fastened the Velcro straps, then repeated the action for the other leg.

“Can you run with those on?”

“Of course. They just protect your shins and kneecaps from the ball.”

I slipped on my gloves, worn, supple, and smelling of my own sweat still. I felt that I was arming myself for battle. My old accomplishments flooded back to me.

Jahan unearthed another layer of the trunk and lifted out the bat from its blue plastic sheath. He drew it out like a sword from a scabbard. He wielded it awkwardly, first like a tennis racquet and then like a hockey stick. I took it from him and held it up to the light. The foot-long round handle still had its rubber grip. The attached blade was exactly 4.25 inches in width and 26 inches in length and the flat side still retained a pale golden sheen and was liberally marked with the red stains of cricket balls. The back of the bat was curved to give it weight. Many of the hits were in the center of the blade, in the sweet spot, and I was proud that I had had a good eye for this game. My left hand reflexively gripped the top of the handle and swung it in the straight line that I had perfected. I swung it back and forth like a pendulum.

The body never forgets.

It was all rushing back to me as I held the bat. The strategy, the competition, the joy.

Now, emboldened by a good memory, I searched the trunk for the ball, rooting through familiar objects, pulling out papers, a plastic bag, and finally finding it rolling around the bottom. It was brand new, still shiny red leather, and wrapped in tissue paper. It fit comfortably in my hand, my fingers curling around the seam.

“What is this?”

Jahan was holding in one hand the plastic bag I'd thrown aside, and in the other he held what looked like a strange furry animal.

I took the animal from him. “That's my Shylock beard from
The Merchant of Venice
. I played him in our college play.” I laughed and fit the beard on my face, masking me from ears to chin. The hair was woven into a net and thin black cords slipped over my ears to hold it and the mustache in place. I took a dramatic stance.

“ ‘Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases?' ”

He clapped. “You made quite a man.”

“I thought I was pretty good,” I said modestly. “I liked doing comedy more; we could fool around then and make our audience laugh. We did a few Monty Python sketches too.”

I shut the trunk firmly when we heard Abdul banging on the door and went upstairs. I slipped on the burka, with the pads still on my legs, and remained hidden behind the door, only to find Parwaaze and Qubad on the steps. They saw the bat and ball in our hands.

“So that's a cricket bat?” Parwaaze said, and I kept it out of reach. “Now can we start?”

“Azlam's forming a t-team too,” Qubad said.

“Who's he?”

“He was in school and college with us. A
hila,
” Parwaaze said, slightly embarrassed, meaning a cheater. “I saw him this morning and he said he was going to learn cricket. He didn't say how. We have to beat Azlam's team if we play them.” He paused and smiled. “But he doesn't know anyone who can teach him, and we have a coach who has nothing better to do.” He reached eagerly for the bat again.

“First, I'll show you how to use it.”

We went down the steps to the lawn. It wasn't long enough for a cricket pitch and we could break all the windows if we practiced here.

With my left hand gripping near the top and my right in the middle of the handle, I crouched over the bat, forgetting where I was, looking straight ahead, over my left shoulder, toward the bowler running up to the opposite wicket. Through the mesh, I could barely focus on a bowler, let alone the ball. But I wanted them to see the batting stance. My elbow pointed at the bowler. The ball came toward me, bounced once, and, keeping the bat straight, I lifted it back and brought it down in a perfect arc to hit an imaginary ball. I felt a sweet, joyful surge of nostalgia that nearly choked me.

“That looks easy.” Jahan took the bat and tried to swing it the way I had, losing his balance.

“Don't worry,” I said. “On television I've seen even the greatest cricketers lose their balance trying to hit the ball.”