One night that winter, with the big contest only four days away, Baba and I sat
in his study in overstuffed leather chairs by the glow of the fireplace. We were
sipping tea, talking. Ali had served dinner earlier--potatoes and curried
cauliflower over rice--and had retired for the night with Ha**an. Baba was
fattening his pipe and I was asking him to tell the story about the winter a
pack of wolves had descended from the mountains in Herat and forced everyone to
stay indoors for a week, when he lit a match and said, casually, “I think maybe
you'll win the tournament this year. What do you think?”
I didn't know what to think. Or what to say. Was that what it would take? Had he
just slipped me a key? I was a good kite fighter. Actually, a very good one. A
few times, I'd even come close to winning the winter tournament--once, I'd made
it to the final three. But coming close wasn't the same as winning, was it? Baba
hadn't _come close_. He had won because winners won and everyone else just went
home. Baba was used to winning, winning at everything he set his mind to. Didn't
he have a right to expect the same from his son? And just imagine. If I did
win...
Baba smoked his pipe and talked. I pretended to listen. But I couldn't listen,
not really, because Baba's casual little comment had planted a seed in my head:
the resolution that I would win that winter's tournament. I was going to win.
There was no other viable option. I was going to win, and I was going to run
that last kite. Then I'd bring it home and show it to Baba. Show him once and
for all that his son was worthy. Then maybe my life as a ghost in this house
would finally be over. I let myself dream: I imagined conversation and laughter
over dinner instead of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware and the
occasional grunt. I envisioned us taking a Friday drive in Baba's car to
Paghman, stopping on the way at Ghargha Lake for some fried trout and potatoes.
We'd go to the zoo to see Marjan the lion, and maybe Baba wouldn't yawn and
steal looks at his wristwatch all the time. Maybe Baba would even read one of my
stories. I'd write him a hundred if I thought he'd read one. Maybe he'd call me
Amir jan like Rahim Khan did. And maybe, just maybe, I would finally be pardoned
for k**ing my mother.
Baba was telling me about the time he'd cut fourteen kites on the same day. I
smiled, nodded, laughed at all the right places, but
I hardly heard a word he said. I had a mission now. And I wasn't going to fail
Baba. Not this time.