A thousand Splendid Suns

* * * 
 
  Theclimb washard for Tariq, who had to hold on to both Laila and Babi as they inc-
hed up a winding, narrow, dimly lit staircase. They saw shadowy caves along the way, 
and tunnels honeycombing the cliff every which way. 
  "Careful where you step," Babi said His voice made a loud echo. "The ground is treac-
herous." 
 
  In some parts, the staircase was open to the Buddha's cavity. 
 
  "Don't look down, children. Keep looking straight ahead." 
 
  As they climbed, Babi told them that Bamiyan had once been a thriving Buddhist cen-
ter until it had fallen under Islamic Arab rule in the ninth century. The sandstone cliffs 
were home to Buddhist monks who carved caves in them to use as living quarters and as 
sanctuary for weary traveling pilgrims. The monks, Babi said, painted beautiful frescoes 
along the walls and roofs of their caves. 
 
  "At one point," he said, "there were five thousand monks living as hermits in these ca-
ves." 
 
  Tariq was badly out of breath when they reached the top. Babi was panting too. But his 
eyes shone with excitement. 
 
  "We're standing atop its head," he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief "There's a 
niche over here where we can look out." 
 
  They inched over to the craggy overhang and, standing side by side, with Babi in the 
middle, gazed down on the valley. 
 
  "Look at this!" said Laila. 
 
  Babi smiled. 
  The Bamiyan Valley below was carpeted by lush farming fields. Babi said they were 
green winter wheat and alfalfa, potatoes too. The fields were bordered by poplars and 
crisscrossed by streams and irrigation ditches, on the banks of which tiny female figures 
squatted and washed clothes. Babi pointed to rice paddies and barley fields draping the 
slopes. It was autumn, and Laila could make out people in bright tunics on the roofs of 
mud brick dwellings laying out the harvest to dry. The main road going through the 
town was poplar-lined too. There were small shops and teahouses and street-side bar-
bers on either side of it. Beyond the village, beyond the river and the streams, Laila saw 
foothills, bare and dusty brown, and, beyond those, as beyond everything else in Afgha-
nistan, the snowcapped Hindu Kush. 
 
  The sky above all of this was an immaculate, spotless blue. 

---

  "It's so quiet," Laila breathed. She could see tiny sheep and horses but couldn't hear 
their bleating and whinnying. 
 
  "It's what I always remember about being up here," Babi said. "The silence. The peace 
of it. I wanted you to experience it. But I also wanted you to see your country's heritage, 
children, to learn of its rich past. You see, some things I can teach you. Some you learn 
from books. But there are things that, well, you just have tosee andfeel." 
 
  "Look," said Tariq. 
 
  They watched a hawk, gliding in circles above the village. 
 
  "Did you ever bring Mammy up here?" Laila asked 
 
  "Oh, many times. Before the boys were born. After too. Your mother, she used to be 
adventurous then, and…soalive. She was just about the liveliest, happiest person I'd 
ever met." He smiled at the memory. "She had this laugh. I swear it's why I married her, 
Laila, for that laugh. It bulldozed you. You stood no chance against it." 
 
  A wave of affection overcame Laila. From then on, she would always remember Babi 
this way: reminiscing about Mammy, with his elbows on the rock, hands cupping his 
chin, his hair ruffled by the wind, eyes crinkled against the sun. 
 
  "I'm going to look at some of those caves," Tariq said. 
 
  "Be careful," said Babi. 
 
  "I will,Kakajan," Tariq's voice echoed back. 
 
  Laila watched a trio of men far below, talking near a cow tethered to a fence. Around 
them, the trees had started to turn, ochre and orange, scarlet red. 
 
  "I miss the boys too, you know," Babi said. His eyes had welled up a tad. His chin was 
trembling. "I may not… With your mother, both her joy and sadness are extreme. She 
can't hide either. She never could. Me, I suppose I'm different. I tend to…But it broke 
me too, the boys dying. I miss them too. Not a day passes that I…It's very hard, Laila. 
So very hard." He squeezed the inner corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. 
When he tried to talk, his voice broke. He pulled his lips over his teeth and waited. He 
took a long, deep breath, looked at her. "But I'm glad I have you. Every day, I thank 
God for you. Every single day. Sometimes, when your mother's having one of her really 
dark days, I feel like you're all I have, Laila." 
  Laila drew closer to him and rested her cheek up against his chest. He seemed slightly 
startled-unlike Mammy, he rarely expressed his affection physically. He planted a brisk 
kiss on the top of her head and hugged her back awkwardly. They stood this way for a 
while, looking down on the Bamiyan Valley. 
 
  "As much as I love this land, some days I think about leaving it," Babi said. 
 
  "Whereto?" 
 

---

  "Anyplace where it's easy to forget. Pakistan first, I suppose. For a year, maybe two. 
Wait for our paperwork to get processed." 
 
  "And then?" 
 
  "And then, well, itis a big world. Maybe America. Somewhere near the sea. Like Cali-
fornia." 
 
  Babi said the Americans were a generous people. They would help them with money 
and food for a while, until they could get on their feet. 
 
  "I would find work, and, in a few years, when we had enough saved up, we'd open a 
little Afghan restaurant-Nothing fancy, mind you, just a modest little place, a few tables, 
some rugs. Maybe hang some pictures of Kabul. We'd give the Americans a taste of 
Afghan food. And with your mother's cooking, they'd line up and down the street. 
 
  "And you, you would continue going to school, of course. You know how I feel about 
that. That would be our absolute top priority, to get you a good education, high school 
then college. But in your free time,if you wanted to, you could help out, take orders, fill 
water pitchers, that sort of thing." 
 
  Babi said they would hold birthday parties at the restaurant, engagement ceremonies, 
New Year's get-togethers. It would turn into a gathering place for other Afghans who, 
like them, had fled the war. And, late at night, after everyone had left and the place was 
cleaned up, they would sit for tea amid the empty tables, the three of them, tired but 
thankful for their good fortune. 
 
  When Babi was done speaking, he grew quiet. They both did. They knew that Mammy 
wasn't going anywhere. Leaving Afghanistan had been unthinkable to her while Ahmad 
and Noor were still alive. Now that they wereshaheed, packing up and running was an 
even worse affront, a betrayal, a disavowal of the sacrifice her sons had made. 
 
  How can you think of it?Laila could hear her saying.Does their dying mean nothing to