After all, life is not a Hindi movie. Zendagi migzara, Afghans like to say: Life goes on, unmindful of beginning, end, kamyab, nah-kam, crisis or catharsis, moving forward like a slow, dusty caravan of kochis.I wouldn’t know how to answer that question. Despite the matter of last Sunday’s tiny ARRIVED HOME about seven months ago, on a warm day in August 2001. Soraya picked us up at the airport. I had never been away from Soraya for so long, and when she locked her arms around my neck, when I smelled apples in her hair, I realized how much I had missed her. “You’re still the morning sun to my yelda,” I whispered. “What?” “Never mind.” I kissed her ear. After, she knelt to eye level with Sohrab. She took his hand and smiled at him. “Sataam, Sohrab jan, I’m your Khala Soraya. We’ve all been waiting for you.”Looking at her smiling at Sohrab, her eyes tearing over a little, I had a glimpse of the mother she might have been, had her own womb not betrayed ab shifted on his feet and looked away. SORAYA HAD TURNED THE STUDY upstairs into a bedroom for Sohrab. She led him in and he sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets showed brightly colored kites flying in indigo blue skies. She had made inscriptions on the wall by the closet, feet and inches to measure a child’s growing height. At the foot of the bed, I saw a wicker basket stuffed with books, a locomotive, a water color ab was wearing the plain white T-shirt and new denims I had bought him in Islamabad just before we’d left--the shirt hung loosely over his bony, slumping shoulders. The color still hadn’t seeped back into his face, save for the halo of dark circles around his eyes. He was looking at us now in the impassive way he looked at the plates of boiled rice the hospital orderly placed before ya asked if he liked his room and I noticed that she was trying to avoid looking at his wrists and that her eyes kept swaying back to those jagged pink lines. Sohrab lowered his head. Hid his hands under his thighs and said nothing. Then he simply lay his head on the pillow. Less than five minutes later, Soraya and I watching from the doorway, he was snoring. 畢竟，生活並非印度電影。阿富汗人總喜歡說：生活總會繼續。他們不關心開始或結束、成功或失敗、危在旦夕或柳暗花明，只顧像遊牧部落那樣風塵僕僕地緩慢前進。我不知道如何回答那個問題。儘管上個星期天出現了小小的奇蹟。7個月前，也就是 2001年 8月某個溫暖的日子，我們回到家裏。索拉雅到機場接我們。我從未離開這麼長時間，當她雙臂環住我脖子的時候，我聞到她頭髮上的蘋果香味，意識到我有多麼想念她。“你仍是我的雅爾達的朝陽。”我低聲說。 “什麼？” “沒什麼。”我親吻她的耳朵。 隨後，她將身子蹲到跟索拉博一樣高，拉起他的手，笑着對他說：“你好，親愛的索拉博，我是你的索拉雅阿姨，我們大家一直在等你。”我看到她朝索拉博微笑，眼噙淚水的模樣，也看到假如她的子宮沒有背叛主人，她該會是什麼樣的母親。 索拉博雙腳原地挪動，眼睛望向別處。索拉雅已經把樓上的書房收拾成索拉博的臥房。她領他進去，他坐在牀沿。牀單繡着風箏在靛藍的天空中飛翔的圖案。她在衣櫥旁邊的牆上做了刻度尺，標記英尺和英寸，用來測量孩子日益長高的身材。我看到牀腳有個裝滿圖書的柳條籃子，一個玩具火車頭，還有一盒水彩筆。索拉博穿着純白色襯衣，和我們離開之前我在伊斯蘭堡給他新買的斜紋粗棉褲，襯衣鬆鬆垮垮地掛在他胛骨畢現的瘦削肩膀上ｗωｗ奇Qìsuu書com網。除了黑色的眼圈，他的面龐仍是蒼白得沒有其他顏色。現在他看着我們，神情冷淡，一如看着醫院那些整齊地擺放在他面前的裝着白米飯的盤子。索拉雅問他喜不喜歡他的房間，我注意到她竭力避免去看他的手腕，但眼光總是瞟向那些彎曲的粉紅傷痕。索拉博低下頭，把手藏在大腿之間，什麼也沒說。接着他自顧把頭倒在枕上，我和索拉雅站在門口看着他，不消五分鐘，他就呼呼入睡。
