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I drifted to sleep. And dreamed of Hassan running in the snow, the hem of his green chapan dragging behind him, snow crunching under his black rubber boots. He was yelling over his shoulder: For you, a thousand times over!
Rich scents, both pleasant and not so pleasant, drifted to me through the passenger window, the spicy aroma of pakor and the nihari Baba had loved so much blended with the sting of diesel fumes, the stench of rot, garbage, and feces.
I see America has infused you with the optimism that has made her so great. That’s very good. We’re a melancholic people, we Afghans, aren’t we? Often, we wallow too much in ghamkhori and self pity. We give in to loss, to suffering, accept it as a fact of life, even see it as necessary. Zendagi migzara we say, life goes on. But I am not surrendering to fate here, I am being pragmatic. I have seen several good doctors here and they have given the same answer. I trust them and believe them. There is such a thing as God’s will.
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