he back seat before Baba turned left at the street corner where we d played marbles so many times。
I stepped back and all I saw was rain through windowpanes that looked like melting silver。
TEN
_March 1981_
A young woman sat across from us。 She was dressed in an olive green dress with a black shawl wrapped tightly around her face against the night chill。 She burst into prayer every time the truck jerked or stumbled into a pothole； her Bismillah！ peaking with each of the truck s shudders and jolts。 Her husband； a burly man in baggy pants and sky blue turban； cradled an infant in one arm and thumbed prayer beads with his free hand。 His lips moved in silent prayer。 There were others； in all about a dozen； including Baba and me； sitting with our suitcases between our legs； cramped with these strangers in the tarpaulin…covered cab of an old Russian truck。
My innards had been roiling since we d left Kabul just after two in the morning。 Baba never said so； but I knew he saw my car sickness as yet another of my array of weakness……I saw it on his embarrassed face the couple of times my stomach had clenched so badly I had moaned。 When the burly guy with the beads……the praying woman s husband……asked if I was going to get sick； I said I might。 Baba looked away。 The man lifted his corner of the tarpaulin cover and rapped on the driver s window； asked him to stop。 But the driver； Karim； a scrawny dark…skinned man with hawk…boned features and a pencil…thin mustache； shook his head。
We are too close to Kabul； he shot back。 Tell him to have a strong stomach。
Baba grumbled something under his breath。 I wanted to tell him I was sorry； but suddenly I was salivating； the back of my throat tasting bile。 I turned around； lifted the tarpaulin； and threw up over the side of the moving truck。 Behind me； Baba was apologizing to the other passengers。 As if car sickness was a crime。 As if you weren t supposed to get sick when you were eighteen。 I threw up two more times before Karim agreed to stop； mostly so I wouldn t stink up his vehicle； the instrument of his livelihood。 Karim was a people smuggler……it was a pretty lucrative business then； driving people out of Shorawi…occupied Kabul to the relative safety of Pakistan。 He was taking us to Jalalabad； about 170 kilometers southeast of Kabul； where his brother； Toor； who had a bigger truck with a second convoy of refugees； was waiting to drive us across the Khyber Pass and into Peshawar。
We were a few kilometers west of Mahipar Falls when Karim pulled to the side of the road。 Mahipar……which means Flying Fish ……was a high summit with a precipitous drop overlooking the hydro plant the Germans had built for Afghanistan back in 1967。 Baba and I had driven over the summit countless times on our way to Jalalabad； the city of cypress trees and sugarcane fields where Afghans vacationed in the winter。
I hopped down the back of the truck and lurched to the dusty embankment on the side of the road。 My mouth filled with saliva； a sign of the retching that was yet to e。 I stumbled to the edge of the cliff overlooking the deep valley that was shrouded in dark ness。 I stooped； hands on my kneecaps； and waited for the bile。 Somewhere； a branch snapped； an owl hooted。 The wind； soft and cold； clicked through tree branches and stirred the bushes that sprinkled the slope。 And from below； the faint sound of water tumbling through the valley。
Standing on the shoulder of the road； I thought of the way we d left the house where I d lived my entire life； as if we were going out for a bite： dishes smeared with kofta piled in the kitchen sink； laundry in