Page 372 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 361

“It’s okay, Soraya,” I said, taking her hand. “It’s okay. General
Sahib is quite right. People will ask.”
“Amir—” she began.
“It’s all right.” I turned to the general. “You see, General
Sahib, my father slept with his servant’s wife. She bore him a son
named Hassan. Hassan is dead now. That boy sleeping on the
couch is Hassan’s son. He’s my nephew. That’s what you tell
people when they ask.”
They were all staring at me.
“And one more thing, General Sahib,” I said. “You will never
again refer to him as ‘Hazara boy’ in my presence. He has a name
and it’s Sohrab.”
No one said anything for the remainder of the meal.

It would be erroneous to say Sohrab was quiet. Quiet is
peace. Tranquillity. Quiet is turning down the VOLUME knob on
life.
Silence is pushing the OFF button. Shutting it down. All of it.
Sohrab’s silence wasn’t the self-imposed silence of those with
convictions, of protesters who seek to speak their cause by not
speaking at all. It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a
dark place, curled up all the edges and tucked them under.
He didn’t so much live with us as occupy space. And precious
little of it. Sometimes, at the market, or in the park, I’d notice how
other people hardly seemed to even see him, like he wasn’t there
at all. I’d look up from a book and realize Sohrab had entered the
room, had sat across from me, and I hadn’t noticed. He walked
like he was afraid to leave behind footprints. He moved as if not to
stir the air around him. Mostly, he slept.
Sohrab’s silence was hard on Soraya too. Over that long-