Page 119 - The Kite Runner

108 Khaled Hosseini

Creeks where Hassan and I skipped stones all spring turned dry,
and rickshaws stirred dust when they sputtered by. People went to
mosques for their ten raka’ts of noontime prayer and then
retreated to whatever shade they could find to nap in, waiting for
the cool of early evening. Summer meant long school days sweat-
ing in tightly packed, poorly ventilated classrooms learning to
recite ayats from the Koran, struggling with those tongue-twisting,
exotic Arabic words. It meant catching flies in your palm while the
mullah droned on and a hot breeze brought with it the smell of
shit from the outhouse across the schoolyard, churning dust
around the lone rickety basketball hoop.
But it rained the afternoon Baba took Ali and Hassan to the
bus station. Thunderheads rolled in, painted the sky iron gray.
Within minutes, sheets of rain were sweeping in, the steady hiss
of falling water swelling in my ears.
Baba had offered to drive them to Bamiyan himself, but Ali
refused. Through the blurry, rain-soaked window of my bedroom,
I watched Ali haul the lone suitcase carrying all of their belong-
ings to Baba’s car idling outside the gates. Hassan lugged his mat-
tress, rolled tightly and tied with a rope, on his back. He’d left all
of his toys behind in the empty shack—I discovered them the next
day, piled in a corner just like the birthday presents in my room.
Slithering beads of rain sluiced down my window. I saw Baba
slam the trunk shut. Already drenched, he walked to the driver’s
side. Leaned in and said something to Ali in the backseat, perhaps
one last-ditch effort to change his mind. They talked that way
awhile, Baba getting soaked, stooping, one arm on the roof of the
car. But when he straightened, I saw in his slumping shoulders
that the life I had known since I’d been born was over. Baba slid
in. The headlights came on and cut twin funnels of light in the
rain. If this were one of the Hindi movies Hassan and I used to