Page 252 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 241

about this land. But I hadn’t. And, under the bony glow of a half-
moon, I sensed Afghanistan humming under my feet. Maybe
Afghanistan hadn’t forgotten me either.
I looked westward and marveled that, somewhere over those
mountains, Kabul still existed. It really existed, not just as an old
memory, or as the heading of an AP story on page 15 of the San
Francisco Chronicle. Somewhere over those mountains in the
west slept the city where my harelipped brother and I had run
kites. Somewhere over there, the blindfolded man from my dream
had died a needless death. Once, over those mountains, I had
made a choice. And now, a quarter of a century later, that choice
had landed me right back on this soil.
I was about to go back inside when I heard voices coming from
the house. I recognized one as Wahid’s.
“—nothing left for the children.”
“We’re hungry but we’re not savages! He is a guest! What was
I supposed to do?” he said in a strained voice.
“—to find something tomorrow.” She sounded near tears.
“What do I feed—”
I tiptoed away. I understood now why the boys hadn’t shown
any interest in the watch. They hadn’t been staring at the watch at
all. They’d been staring at my food.

We said our good-byes early the next morning. Just
before I climbed into the Land Cruiser, I thanked Wahid for his
hospitality. He pointed to the little house behind him. “This is
your home,” he said. His three sons were standing in the doorway
watching us. The little one was wearing the watch—it dangled
around his twiggy wrist.