The Kite Runner

by Khaled Hosseini

“Would I ever lie to you, Amir agha?” Suddenly I decided to toy with him a little. “I don’t know. Would you?” “I’d sooner eat dirt,” he said with a look of indignation.

better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”

As an Afghan, I knew it was better to be miserable than rude.

A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer.

In Afghanistan, the ending was all that mattered. When Hassan and I came home after watching a Hindi film at Cinema Zainab, what Ali, Rahim Khan, Baba, or the myriad of Baba’s friends—second and third cousins milling in and out of the house—wanted to know was this: Did the Girl in the film find happiness? Did the bacheh film, the Guy in the film, become kamyab and fulfill his dreams, or was he nah-kam, doomed to wallow in failure? Was there happiness at the end, they wanted to know.

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.

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.

He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints. He moved as if not to stir the air around him. Mostly, he slept.