Page 193 - The Kite Runner

182 Khaled Hosseini

“Is there any more rice, Madar?” Soraya said.
After the general excused himself to meet some friends in
Hayward, Khala Jamila tried to console Soraya. “He means well,”
she said. “He just wants you to be successful.”
“So he can boast about his attorney daughter to his friends.
Another medal for the general,” Soraya said.
“Such nonsense you speak!”
“Successful,” Soraya hissed. “At least I’m not like him, sitting
around while other people fight the Shorawi, waiting for when the
dust settles so he can move in and reclaim his posh little govern-
ment position. Teaching may not pay much, but it’s what I want to
do! It’s what I love, and it’s a whole lot better than collecting wel-
fare, by the way.”
Khala Jamila bit her tongue. “If he ever hears you saying that,
he will never speak to you again.”
“Don’t worry,” Soraya snapped, tossing her napkin on the
plate. “I won’t bruise his precious ego.”

In the summer of 1988, about six months before the Soviets
withdrew from Afghanistan, I finished my first novel, a father-son
story set in Kabul, written mostly with the typewriter the general
had given me. I sent query letters to a dozen agencies and was
stunned one August day when I opened our mailbox and found a
request from a New York agency for the completed manuscript. I
mailed it the next day. Soraya kissed the carefully wrapped manu-
script and Khala Jamila insisted we pass it under the Koran. She
told me that she was going to do nazr for me, a vow to have a
sheep slaughtered and the meat given to the poor if my book was
accepted.
“Please, no nazr, Khala jan,” I said, kissing her face. “Just do