Zendagi migzara. Life goes on. Rahim Khan used to say that. You know what? He was wrong. I am so tired of living. I'm going to end it, right here, right now. The razor blade gleams softly in the palm of my hand. I pause for a moment. How did I come to this?
I had a happy childhood. I was born on a chilly winter evening in 1990. When I was little, I would pester Sasa to tell me the story of my birth. She would smile gently at me. I suppose to other children the scars that criss-crossed her face were frightening, but to me she was beautiful, especially when she smiled. As I snuggled onto her lap, she told me how she herself had delivered me into the world, and quickly wrapped me in a blanket to keep out the chill. "I held you close, Sohrab jan." I never quite understood the look of sadness that darted across her face as she said those words.
My other favorite story was that of my namesake, "Rotsam and Sohrab" from the Shahnamah. I loved it since it was my father's favorite story when he was a boy. Like many Hazaras, he could not read as a child, but he knew each line by heart. He told me that his friend would read it to him.
"Amir jan was like a brother to me." Baba would regale me with stories of the fun they had together as children. I loved the house we took care of because it was Amir- jan' s house, the garden because it was his garden, my name because it was his hero's name. I dreamed of having a friend like Amir. The most exciting tales were of the kite fighting tournaments Baba and he participated in.
Baba used to take me to watch the kites. He carried me high on his strong shoulders, and would run after fallen, defeated kites. "For you, a thousand times, over" he would say as I thanked him for each trophy. I thought my life would stay perfect forever.
Sasa died two weeks after my fourth birthday. I walked into her room that morning. She was so still, I thought she was sleeping. I tried to wake her, but the body lying on her pallet wouldn't respond. She couldn't feel me shaking her, or hear my sobbing. Madar and Baba held me as I cried, their tears mingling with mine.
"It was time for her to go, Sohrab. She is with Allah now; hush, child."
I tried to move on, and eventually grew accustomed to the ache her absence caused. Father took me to the zoo; we watched the monkey man in Shar-e-Nau. Rahim Khan bought me books. I would read them to her, late at night after everyone was quiet, and imagine Sasa's twisted smile.
As I grew older, Rahim Khan grew frailer. He used to take me down to the bazaar and give me balloons and sweet biscuits. He was like Ali, the grandfather I never knew. I was afraid he was going to leave me like Sasa did. He went to Pakistan to seek doctor's advice. When he returned, I heard him whisper the awful news to my parents. The three of them put on fake smiles, saying Rahim Khan was going to get better. I knew they were lying; I hated them for doing so. Yet, I pretended to believe them. I wanted their words to be true so badly. When Rahim Khan left for Peshawar, I knew it would be the last time we would see each other.
Less than a month after he left, the only people I had left to love were taken from me. The Taliban became enraged that a lowly family of Hazaras dared to live in Amir-jan's house. That morning began like any other. Madar woke up before the sun to prepare breakfast. It was my favorite: toasted naan and fresh persimmons. We were sitting down to eat when we heard a commotion in the yard. I looked outside to see a group of white-robed men: the Taliban.
" Farzana, Sohrab- you must stay here." My father rose to confront them. Madar clutched his arm, tears pooling in her brown eyes. They gazed into each other's eyes, for a few seconds. Baba put his hand on her face, tenderly stroked her cheek and then strode out the door. Madar followed. I crept up to the window sill and peered outside.
Three of the Talib remained silent as their leader shouted at my father. "Why are you here, flat-nose?"
My father's voice was calm. "We are taking care of the house for our friend Rahim Kahim, Agha." Neighbors were staring at us, fearful of what might happen nexst
"Don't lie to me, you filthy kaseef Hazara!" The man's sand colored beard shifted in the breeze. "Perhaps we will stay here to keep it safe from any thieves in the neighborhood," he leered at my parents. Ozhan, a middle aged neighbor who had just moved here from Pakistan, protested that we were telling the truth.
"Agha, we are honest." My father was staring at his sandals.
"Shut up, dog! Kneel, or I'll teach you a lesson you will never forget it."
Baba sank to his knees slowly. My mother let a moan escape her lips. I had to do something. Shaking with fear, my hand strayed to my slingshot. The Talib grinned, glanced at the window. As he saw me, his lips twisted into a sneer that still haunts my dreams. A gunshot broke the tension that enveloped. My father slumped to the ground. I thought he had moved to avoid the shot, but then I saw crimson splashes on the sand. Hurling herself at the man who murdered my father, Madar screamed, clawing at him. A second shot. Her screams ceased. My sobbing did not.
I could hardly breathe. The leader laughed, cruelly, then turned to face the small group of onlookers. "We have evicted trespassers. I shot them in self defense. Understand?" He gestured with his gun menacingly. A few nodded their heads numbly.
The four robed men left as quickly as they had come. I sank to the floor, weeping. Ozhan found me, curled up like a flower scorched by the desert sun. He lifted me to my feet.
"Sohrab, I am so sorry. Hurry, you must leave before they return. You cannot stay with me." His eyes were tender. "My own children are starving," he murmured softly. "I have heard of an orphanage in Karteh-Seh. I will take you there."
The journey to the orphanage was a blur of grief. In the span of ten minutes, my life had ended. Ozhan left me with the skinny, grey-bearded, middle-aged director. Zaman's black eyes looked at me not unkindly. He looked like I felt- worn, exhausted. He took me to a room with a group of metal-framed beds pushed against the wall. Other children lay huddled on the pallets, doubling up on the beds in order to save room.
"I am sorry, we do not have enough room as it is." He pressed a tattered blanket that might have once been blue into my hands as he motioned to a corner of the floor. I was too numb to say anything. I fell into sleepy unawareness.
I made few friends in the next few weeks. I didn't want to talk to anyone, or play with anyone. One girl, however, could not be ignored. She was twelve, two years older than I. Her dark eyes and soft brown hair reminded me of my mother. Saja. Her name meant "calm" and her humble attitude reflected it perfectly. I noticed how she was kind to the younger children, offering to skip rope with them or play games. Sometimes she told stories to the little ones under the shade of an ash tree in the courtyard. On those days, I made sure to practice with my slingshot nearby so I could listen too. Hearing her voice reminded me of my family.
Two weeks later, she was gone. I felt sad, of course, but managed to comfort myself with the thought of her happy, away from this awful place. The days passed without incident. Then, one Wednesday, as I was walking past Zaman's office, I heard unfamiliar voices from behind the closed door. Angry voices. I darted into an empty room. A Talib official stormed out. In the brief seconds that passed by I recognized him instantly. He did not see me.
Soft crying caught my attention. Saja was standing in the office with Zaman, head buried in the palms of her hands. He placed his hand gingerly on her shoulder. "I'm sorry Saja." His voice broke. "Please, try to understand."
She whirled on him, a strangled sob issuing from her throat. "Don't touch me!" She ran out of the room still sobbing.
The next time I saw Saja, she was swinging beneath the bows of the ash tree in the courtyard. During the night, she had twisted her blanket into a rope and hanged herself. While we were sleeping, she gasped out her life. I caught a glimpse of her face. It was swollen, tinged purple, lifeless. As I retched onto the dry, sandy ground, I wondered why she did it. She was so beautiful, so full of life!
Now I know why. I feel like an old man. I'm so tired. I'm alone. Everyone I love is gone. Their faces float through my mind. Sasa, Baba, Madar, Rahim Khan, Saja. Now, Amir. He died as soon as he told me I was going back to an orphanage. I had hoped that he would be my friend as he was my father's. Hope is for fools.
I slip out of my clothes and turn on the hot water. As I watch the water rise, I realize that my hand is clenching the blade that I took from Amir's razor too tightly. It has left a thin red line across my palm. No matter. I slip into the warm water. What I am about to do feels cleansing, soothing. Before I lose my nerve I cut my wrists quickly. The blade falls with a plink to the bathroom floor. Blood drips into the water, making pink swirling patterns. I watch them idly. They grow fainter. The room dims.
At last, I am free.
A/N: I had to write this for school and thought I might as well post it.