*The story happened when Hassan was harassed by peers as he was trying to chase the kite for his master Amir.

Hide, hide away. Hiding away was all I could think of.

The blue sky I last saw had now turned into misty purple vapor with shameful red streaks climbing all over it. I was only grabbing the hems of my trousers because the vulnerability in my stomach disabled me from pulling it all over. The winter dawn was moist despite the dry, cold air, blended with the throbbing smell of rust and indignation. Luckily, I had clenched the kite all the while.

Releasing my stiff arm to hug the kite at my chest, I realized that it had only been broken in the corner, where my fingers had strained their nerves to protect. One last greeting for Amir and I could hide away for some time. I finally gathered the strength to stand up again, running back to the serene white house standing gloriously at the side of the road filled with retired stalls strangled with confetti specially designed for kite running day. The fastening steps reawakened the blood running through my veins, rejuvenating yet also torturing me. I could feel the blood swimming down my legs, barely covered by my shorts. The motion of blood triggered my worn memory of what happened just now: a painful, lifelong twenty minutes. “You call him your friend? Then why does he exclude you every time he has other friends to come over and play?” The nonhuman snicker merely lingered in my mind, but every single word it uttered was like a blunt blade rubbing on my skin as if it were going to make itself sharp again.

When I saw his eyes, I knew that he had seen. Amir avoided any eye contact, and I knew he tried to conceal his knowledge with harsh words. But how could I blame him? Would I want him to risk his life for my safety? Certainly not.

However, deep in my heart, I knew I answered a “yes” to that folded question, because I knew I would if it were him who had been hurt.

Yet I still felt peaceful, almost like putting soil back to earth, when I saw Agha sahib sincerely smiled at Amir, the smile that he had yearned since we first went up the hill together at the age of two. The hill was bloomed with spring butterflies. Would those days ever come back? I wanted them to, so badly.

The stinging pain streaming down my thighs pushed me to my bed. I had a long dream.

Amir was laughing at the end of the street, behind the wall. He was watching me, along with the two friends of Assef. He laughed his teeth out; his teeth became were elongated into tusks. I was scared. So scared. I wanted my Amir back. The laugh was so loud that it became a cry, and I realized Amir wasn’t laughing; he was weeping, and the white streaks on his face weren’t tusks but tears. Don’t cry, Amir. I’ll be back in a minute. Pray don’t cry, Amir. Father dislikes it. Then, Amir evaporated into a black shadow hanging over his blue, perfect kite. The shadow swallowed the kite and vanished. I was pushed by a strange force to run and to pursue Amir’s shadow with his kite. I wanted to tell him that a corner of his kite was broken, and I owed him an apology. Tracing the black blood that the shadow left behind, I followed him, but I never saw him again. It was a thousand sunrises and sunsets that I’d spent.

Something woke me. It was father’s stroke.

“Do you feel well enough to eat?” he asked softly, “Come, it’s dinner time.” But I couldn’t stand, and did not feel like eating at all.

“Hassan, you can trust me with anything,” father hissed softly, “I know something happened.” I uttered nothing in return.
Lying flat in bed, I watched the stars climb slowly up into the dark night. The Kabul night sky was so tranquil, so softened, and so undisturbed that I was almost afraid I would lost it within seconds. Was Amir having a great time now? I hoped he was. I truly did. I believed Agha Sahib wouldn’t mind the broken hole in the left corner of the final blue kite that Amir and I flew together. Father was back from Agha’s mansion. I wanted to call him into the hut, but he sat alone outside on the door steps, looking shrunk. He stayed up all night, and I knew it because I did, too.

The energy instilled by the fresh sunlight next day pulled me up on my feet, but the first thing I discovered while looking around struck me. Father was talking to Amir. After no more than a minute, Amir strode away, and I could sense the rage in his steps. “Papa….” but Father stopped my words. His brows furrowed, looking frustrated yet soft. “Let’s go,” he said, “should be gardening now.” I knew I could not keep deceiving those bent, worried, innocent eyes anymore, but I wasn’t sure if I was in the place to tell it. What about Amir? What if he ever knew that I’d told someone? I thought I should try to handle this on my own, at least for another week or so.

So I asked Amir if he would like to trek up the little hill with me the next day. I was so anxious for his answer that I even asked for a second time after his first annoyed rejection, and he finally gave me a yes. The gentle sun was blowing its whistle, patting us with the sweetest spring breeze, and the hill was spotted with buds having not taken shape yet. I didn’t speak along the way, and neither did he. I thought it was better to converse after we’d stopped, sitting still, face to face, maybe after some light reading. The tree trunk at the top of the hill was still carved with–Amir and Hassan: The Sultans of Kabul. It brought me light, and I wanted to start by asking Amir if he could read Shahnamah for me.

“Can we just go home?” Amir didn’t plan to sit down by the tree at all. He was standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down, then bent his neck and frowned at me, “Are you going or not?”

I wiped my face, sweeping away the tears that were never able to be born. I stood up. I guessed it was just not the right time yet.

So I made my effort every day after that.

“Amir, it’s a sunny day. I’m going out to buy some nann.”

“Amir, here’s your clothes.”

“Amir, what is the book you are reading at hand?”

“Amir, the flowers on the hill have started to bloom…”

The constant invitations even annoyed myself. I came to understand that it wouldn’t work, but I wouldn’t like to give up just yet.

After dinner, I bumped into Rahim Khan on the hallway. Seeming as if he were looking for me all the time, he smiled with relief, and took me to Papa and my hut, sitting at the same old door steps that Father did when he had thoughts winding round his mind.

“What is it that lands on your friendship with Amir?” Rahim’s way of speaking was always straightforward, yet encouraging, uplifting, soft, and warm at the same time. I decided to keep trying, and I withheld my urge to pour it all over to my almost uncle. Maybe I should be more sincere and candid with Amir?

“I want you to stop harassing me and go away.” That’s what Amir said when I told me to ask me for anything. I guessed for all those days I was only trying to mend our friendship because I felt bad about breaking it. I didn’t care whose mistake it was or what I needed to do to have him back. All I need was a relief by returning to the normal life.

Yet, the upturn showed up anyway, surprisingly. Amir asked me to trek up the hill together, saying that he was going to share me his latest story. The journey was no longer silent as it was the last time. We had small talk. Amir’s school stories enlightened me a lot, while also frightening a little with the mullah’s violent actions toward students. Would a Mullarh really do that? I always wondered.

At the top of the Hill, Amir opened the notebook he bought along. A brand new story, I couldn’t do anything but feel exhilarated, finally. I even laughed a little, clenching my teeth so that I wouldn’t show Amir I’d recovered so quickly. It was like a balloon burst itself in my stomach, and I could finally feel joy running out without hindrance. Yet, just at that moment, Amir closed his notebook.

“What would you do if I hit you with this?” he weighed the pomegranate that we just picked together in his hand, a weird smile hanging over his face. I felt taken back. There was another weight in my stomach now, not the balloon, but a tank of water filled with salt, its heaviness silencing my voice.

“What would you do?” Amir repeated, but I just couldn’t move my lips. What would I say to him? What would he want me to say? I still remember, under that tree back in kite running, when he asked me if I’d do anything for him. Anything, including the stupidest, cruelest, most unreasonable murders and jokes. I always wondered if he was only teasing me, playing a joke on me because I was his friend, no, his, servant. Or, was he trying my limit? Testing my loyalty? Testing if I was ever going to be mad? Papa told me not to show madness at all. Containment solves everything.

Then, “splash—”, he smashed me with the pomegranate. After that, it became the pomegranates. Two, three, four… Sorry, Papa, I think I’m finally showing my anger this time. I spat out any pomegranate seeds that ever tried to slip into my mouth. I spat them out, one by one, and I tasted to strange viscous liquid mixed with sweetness and salt from sweat. It was maliciously tasty. I smelled regret, pain, and most of all, satisfaction within it. I even felt peaceful because I knew if I successfully withstand this, I would win, and Amir would never let me punish him, and maybe this could save our friendship, because friendship is never meant to be equal. I would never have to fight my inner man about how to take the old days back. I almost laughed again, but it was more like busting the water tank in my stomach than really laughing with joy. No, it was actually because I knew it was over. Everything had become meaningless by now.

Amir grew to 13, a reminder of my turning 13 soon, too. It was a bustling night, with all the most noble aghas coming from all over the neighborhood and beyond. I felt almost as peacefully joyful as when I used to climb up the hill was Amir. Secretly, Papa and I had planned our present for Amir, our goodbye present, carried with it our best wishes. After I finally told Papa and Rahim about the whole story, Papa insisted on us leaving here. I didn’t think that was necessary, but I guessed there was no prospect of lingering here with a frozen memory anymore.

As usual, Papa and I served all the guests that night, including Assef, who made me almost overturn the whole plate of wines. Luckily yet hilariously, his somehow timid parents were here, guarding their brutal son so perfectly.

For the last few weeks at Agah’s house, I tried to collect all scraps from memories, put them away, and lock them up. I folded every one of the clothes, trying to remember when was the first time their masters wore them, and I would store any withered flowers blown to the ground in the garden. The days were long and sunny, allowing me to indulge in ceaseless musings. I climbed up the hill again and again, alone, counting how many steps I needed to finish the thread that seemed endless to me in childhood. While hanging the clothes, I would pinch the sunlight among my fingers, carving into my skin the special and only sunlight that had accompanied for almost 13 years now. I run up the down the street, trying to catch the gist of running a kite, which I might never have the chance to do again in my entire life. I occasionally also peered at Amir’s window, and saw that he never opened the pile of presents.

The excuse for leaving was that I stole something from the house, though pretended. It was Papa’s idea, a simple yet preposterous idea that no one truly bought, as Agha always believed that theft was the single worst crime in the whole world. I’d thought I’d be unable to look at Agha Sahib, but I did. It was no pain, no nostalgia to me anymore after weeks of attempts to seal the memory from this place. But I did have not enough courage to face Amir. I was afraid he might make me reminisce something. I’d rather leave this place with all the plain but purely naive memories.

As I watched Agha Sahib holding out his hand one to Ali last time at the bus station, I pictured the long roads decorated with white houses on both sides fading away on our road here. Agah’s voice was blurred, then completely muted in my mind gradually. The Agha Sahib bidding farewell was merely an illusion of Papa and my 13 years of happiness and fortune. Maybe now it was time for us to return to the life we ought to have. Papa used to say that facing the music was part of growing up. Stupidly, I used to think that I had been old enough, running up and down that hill a thousand times over, a thousand times over.