Page 194 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

only to get off the bus and find this thing on our land. And then your goon in the

purple suit ordering us off our own land.”
“My father is not a thief!” Adel shot back. “Ask anyone in Shadbagh-e-Nau,
ask them what he’s done for this town.” He thought of how Baba jan received
people at the town mosque, reclined on the floor, teacup before him, prayer
beads in hand. A solemn line of people, stretching from his cushion to the front
entrance, men with muddy hands, toothless old women, young widows with
children, every one of them in need, each waiting for his or her turn to ask for a
favor, a job, a small loan to repair a roof or an irrigation ditch or buy milk
formula. His father nodding, listening with infinite patience, as though each
person in line mattered to him like family.
“Yeah? Then how come my father has the ownership documents?” Gholam

said. “The ones he gave to the judge at the courthouse.”
“I’m sure if your father talks to Baba—”
“Your Baba won’t talk to him. He won’t acknowledge what he’s done. He
drives past like we’re stray dogs.”
“You’re not dogs,” Adel said. It was a struggle to keep his voice even.

“You’re buzzards. Just like Kabir said. I should have known.”
Gholam stood up, took a step or two, and paused. “Just so you know,” he
said, “I hold nothing against you. You’re just an ignorant little boy. But next
time Baba goes to Helmand, ask him to take you to that factory of his. See what
he’s got growing out there. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not cotton.”

Later that night, before dinner, Adel lay in a bath full of warm soapy
water. He could hear the TV downstairs, Kabir watching an old pirate movie.
The anger, which had lingered all afternoon, had washed through Adel, and now
he thought that he’d been too rough with Gholam. Baba jan had told him once
that no matter how much you did, sometimes the poor spoke ill of the rich. They
mainly did it out of disappointment with their own lives. It couldn’t be helped. It
was natural, even. And we mustn’t blame them, Adel, he said.
Adel was not too naïve to know that the world was a fundamentally unfair

place; he only had to gaze out the window of his bedroom. But he imagined that
for people like Gholam, the acknowledgment of this truth brought no
satisfaction. Maybe people like Gholam needed someone to stand culpable, a
flesh-and-bones target, someone they could conveniently point to as the agent of