I winced at the smell of whiskey still clinging to my chestnut coloured blazer. My father's red velvet suit next to me smells of saffron and authority. Before us, slouches a porky faced Pashtun against a blue wooden booth. His name is Karim. He fumbles a lighter, igniting a cigar that shrouds his face with vintage tobacco. The sky emanates a drowsy morning, the clouds a depressed heap of fluff illuminated by a soft hue of orange.
"This your son, your honour?" Karim gestured to me.
My wayward crop of unkempt curly hair, frizzled and unshaven beard, dark lines under my eyes.
"Indeed Agha Sahib" Father responded curtly.
They both shook hands, exchanged quiet oaths of respect. I zoned out of their conversation, my body unsure whether to collapse or to vomit. I was a tad bit hungover. Surrounding us, stretched miles of barren Afghanistan desert, fragmented by lifeless hawthorn shrubs and giant cacti that resembled gravestones.
"This way then" Karim huffed, marching into the desert.
How we got here was nebulous in my memory. I recall being kicked awake, hastily dressed, lumbered outside into the frigid dawn. Last night, Father had thrown one of his parties. Our halls had erupted with flaring colours, eloquent dresses, the deep rumble of laughter, and the waft of frying bolani. Owing to Father's most recent triumph in court, people overwhelmed him in congratulations. Only one of them did he truly wish to speak to. Trudging in with long sweeping arcs, in a white garment and brown khet partug, was Ali. Rostam! He had cheered, embracing me, his eyes full of precious innocence. I sneered, the tingle of alcohol obscuring Ali's words. He was not alone. She danced in blue denim overalls, her hips oscillating to the music. The fireplace illuminating her gold circle earrings, the spell of light casting halos across her slim figure. An angel perhaps. A devil, more likely. Her name was Sanaubar, Ali's wife.
Karim began to whistle.
Why had I done it? Was it jealousy? Envy? Had I drunk too much? Sanaubar caught my eye. I tried to rifle my thoughts, what I had done. Her suggestive stride. My sins. Karim stopped in his tracks. Thunderheads were rolling in, painting the sky an iron-grey, sheets of rain swelling in my eyes.
"Over the plateau" he pointed, his gaze sketched a path towards the barrelling clouds.
"Balay! Thank you, my friend" Father's enthusiasm seemed out of place.
He parted, marched the path back down to the booth. Once Karim's silhouette faded off the horizon, Father's expression trailed from dignified to shallow and grave.
"Follow" he said. No curtness, no politeness, just follow.
We threaded into a valley, rock formations bordering a thin winding track. We became submerged in stone and rain, descending down deeper each second. Where was Father taking me? I tried to concentrate, but my head felt like a town ravished by a tsunami. Bit and pieces drifted, either sinking below or resurfacing in waves of nausea, regret or pain. Her tempting whispers. The events of last night thundered like a bass drum. I squinted, trying to force the memories away. Her body pressed close to mine. It was hopeless. I desperately fought the urge to scream. The rain grew ferocious, but Father pursued relentlessly, unfaltering. Blue flashes flickered in the sky, as I tore my blazer over to shield me from the rain.
"Where are we going!" I yelled.
We crossed a corner, the darkness evaporating as we emerged from the rocks. And before us, in the rainfall, lavished in torn garments, built of dull sandstone and clay, balanced a small hut.
"What is this?" I asked
Father said nothing. The air looked like it had run out of his chest. Sweat prowled down his brow, his face looked tired. Old. The hut resembled a stripped carcass, all bones and no inside.
"Father, why have you brought me here?" I was slightly annoyed, partly afraid.
Again silence. A bitterness which hung in limbo between us. Till he finally spoke
"Ali was born here."
After those words, all those overturning, festering thoughts in my head vanished.
"I took him in when he was five. He had no otherworldly possessions or inheritance to speak of."
The hut was withered, left dormant after Ali's parents had passed. After he came into my life.
"Ali has nothing, but he gives everything, Rostam" It was impossible, but I swear there were tears welling in his eyes.
Father placed both hands on my shoulders.
"So what are you going to do?" Father resembled both an aggravated bull and a peaceful buddha.
Betrayal never felt so black, it's shadow encrusted in my blood. I froze, his words echoing throughout my head. Yet for the first time since today, my head was clear. I knew one thing. I had to get back. Her hands intertwined with mine. I didn't know what I was going to do or even say, but I needed to fix this. I went to reply, but Father burst into a parched coughing spree, crumpling to his knees. My father was not as young as he once was. I wrapped my arm around him, as the rain simmered to a light drizzle.
***
A memory
There was an orange burn where the sun had been, and fluffy animal-shaped clouds floated across the sky. A gentle breeze drifted the smell of steamed mantu and fried pakora. To my side, bathing in the marigold fields, bold blue eyes gazing to the stars, was Ali.
"Ali?" I said
"Yes Rostam Jan?"
I pause, running over the words in my head
"Promise me you'll always be there for me."
Without hesitation he replied
"I promise Rostam. Forever"
