The Kite Runner

No book that I have ever read made me feel like crying. Several time a sob rises up my throat as I continue reading the Kite Runner. Perhaps, it is a work that dissolves the abstractness of words like poignance and despondence into hard core truth.

I read this book in the typical European weather. Under the yellow light of the lamp on bedside, on the couch where sunlight filters through the large French window and on the small 4 seater dining where I drink my coffee with some delicious upma.

It is foggy this morning and I have finished my book. I feel foggy too. At loss with words. It is as though I have been to those streets in Afganistan, as though I have met Hasan-seen him grow up into a fine young father. It is as though I am Amir, and I feel like kneeling down and seek forgiveness from my Khuda. It is as though I am Soraya Jaan, waiting for Sohrab to speak. But I cannot be Sohrab, I cannot fathom the depth of sorrow the little one went through.

It is only a story I tell myself, as I choke on tears. But what a story it is!

A bout of ...

She hurried to the toilet and doubled over the pot. She was sure that she was getting sick. But nothing came out of her mouth. She straightened herself looked at her reflection in the little mirror that hung on the opposite wall. Eyes stung from crying, hair a little dishevelled and the tip of her nose, it had gone a little red. It was an adorable nose. Beautiful by the definition of beauty in their caste. Sharp nose, curving ever so gently.

She wiped her tears, which had already dried .Had Avinash not been away for the last few months, she would have wondered if she had gotten pregnant. She crinkled her nose and smiled. It must be the chickpeas that she had for lunch. Not easy to stomach. Specially when you are eating alone. She tried to shoo away loneliness which had again descended in her little house. She hummed a song and moved about wondering when he will come back.