The Taliban Cricket Club (32 page)

Authors: Timeri N. Murari

BOOK: The Taliban Cricket Club

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“You are Mr. Hukam?”

“Yes, yes, Afghan Sports Ministry.” Hukam put out his hand and they shook.

“I am Anwar Khan from the Pakistan Cricket Board. Welcome to you all. Now, if you give me your passports I'll have you all cleared.” We handed over the state team passports, praying he wouldn't open them. He didn't, instead passing them on to immigration and saying with authority, “They're state guests. Stamp them quickly.” He turned back to Hukam. “I'll meet you outside. There's a bus waiting.”

We followed Hukam past immigration to the luggage carousel. It wasn't moving and we stared at it in silence. He checked his watch.

He told Parwaaze conversationally, “We will hold your passports until it's time to return home. So don't get ideas.” He looked around. “Where is the toilet?” he demanded, as if we had hidden it away.

We looked around and Veer pointed to the far side of the baggage hall.

“Gafoor, you collect my case too. It's black with a white stripe,” he ordered and ambled across to the toilet, lighting a cigarette as he negotiated his way through the other passengers.

When he reached it, he looked at us; we hadn't moved and he entered and the door closed behind him. We left the carousel and passed the customs checkpoint.

“We better get rid of our blazers,” Parwaaze said.

We slipped them off and dropped them in a dark corner.

I removed the beard and started to stuff it in the blazer's pocket, but then had second thoughts. I still hated it, but I wanted it as a memory of the days when I was Babur, though I hoped I'd never need it again. I slipped it into my
shalwar
pocket.

Veer stroked my bare cheek. “At last.”

“If only it was that easy for us,” Parwaaze said, stroking his sparse beard. “We're all going to shave first thing in the morning.” The team smiled and murmured their agreement.

We looked through the glass doors leading out and I sensed our hesitation.

We had only to take a few more steps, but like birds or other animals that see their cage doors opened, we were suspicious of the freedom beyond. Was it a trick? We looked back and couldn't see Hukam.

We had negotiated the maze up to this point, and the final doors would slam shut as we tried to pass through them. We were leaving the security of our familiar prison. My cousins had never left their homes and their families, and they were about to exchange familiar dangers for unknown ones.

Their faces were taut with anxiety. We stood rooted to the floor.

T
HE SENTRY HAD HEARD
their indistinct shouts and believed that they were the dead spirits calling out to one another. He had stopped his ears and closed the door of his sentry box. By the time Droon heard the news and called the Kabul airport, the flight had landed in Karachi more than an hour and forty-five minutes before. Now, he would be calling the Karachi airport to stop us from leaving the terminal. I imagined Droon racing to our house. He would smash in every door and find the secret roomÂ .Â .Â .

“C
OME ON
.” V
EER TOOK
my hand.

As a herd, we rushed the door and it opened.

It was only when we stood outside, surrounded by strangers, hearing an alien language, that we all began to laugh and clap and embrace one another.

I saw the faces of women everywhere, only a few veiled, revealing their beauty for all to see. I imagined Noorzia passing among them on her way to a distant city.

I wanted to cry, not out of despair, but for the sheer relief of escaping the predatory Droon and Wahidi.

I was free, I could love the man I wanted to love, live my life the way I wanted to live it.

Yet the heart is strange. A tiny flicker of compassion for Wahidi seeped in from this safe distance. I believe he had fallen in love with me and would mourn the woman who had not requited his love. But Droon would be relieved. He would find a new, younger wife for his brother, one who would not be such an obsession that she disturbed a man's mind. For him, women are a sinful vice.

But that feeling was extinguished in the instant we heard music from somewhere, a strange sound after so many years of endured silence, and the notes lifted our spirits even higher. Even though we didn't know the tune, we danced together, arms on one another's shoulders, forming a circle, still laughing like lunatics. We stopped finally even though the music hadn't.

“Look there.” Parwaaze pointed to a man in a khaki uniform.

He was holding up a placard:
PAKISTAN CRICKET BOARD WELCOMES AFGHAN STATE CRICKET TEAM
.

We moved away from him quickly to mingle with the crowd. Even if Hukam charged out now, he wouldn't find us.

“We're going to Delhi first to get our visas and then on to New York,” Veer said in the sudden quiet among us. “There's a flight to Delhi in four hours.”

“I'm going to marry Veer,” I said, looking at him and then at them, wanting their consent as well. Their eyes flicked to Jahan, and I caught the imperceptible blink, assuring them that he, my
mahram,
consented to the marriage.

“We're not blind.” Royan laughed.

“You haven't let go of his hand since we left the stadium,” Omaid said shyly.

“You have our blessing,” Parwaaze said.

Then each one shook Veer's hand, placing their hands on their hearts.

“You all will always be welcome in our home,” Veer said. He took out a roll of dollars, peeled off most of them, and held them out to Parwaaze, who shook his head. “You'll all need more money. I am family now.”

Parwaaze took the money. “Thank you. And you come and watch us play cricket in Australia.”

We all looked at one another, the light on our faces, wanting to remember every tiny feature of one another's faces so we would never, ever forget. I knew I would carry those memories all the way to my grave, even if I never saw them again.

One by one, they stepped forward to embrace me. They held me tenderly, as if I were a crystal vase that would shatter at their clumsy touch, and I experienced the warm pleasure of love in their arms.

They whispered words into my ear and I replied into theirs, so that only one at a time heard me. Then they embraced Jahan and finally Veer.

My team stood together, waving as we entered the departures terminal. Then they melted away into the darkness.

“What did you say to each other?” Veer asked.

“
Khoda haafez
, God protect us.”

Acknowledgments

I
MUST THANK
S
UKUMAR
K
ARTHIK FOR HIS HELP, ADVICE,
and support and for introducing me to many of his Afghan friends in Kabul. They were all, in true Afghan tradition, courteous, kind, and very hospitable, answering all my questions on living under the Taliban regime between 1996 and 2001. Among them Obaidullah Noori (who has one hundred cousins in Kabul), Noor Ahmad Darwish, Qudratullah Khan (who was so generous with his time), Dr. Obaidullah Sabawoon, Professor Abdul Karim Waseel, Najiba Ayubi of the Killid Group, Aunohita Majumdar, Kalyani Sethuraman, and Katharina Merkel. I listened to the life stories of many Kabul women, working freely under the present government, who preferred not to be named. I'm indebted to my driver, Zalmay, who protected and kept me out of trouble in Kabul. And much gratitude to Nick Webb, Mary Sandys, Anupama Chandrasekhar, and Bill Shapter who supported and encouraged me in writing this novel. I am lucky to have great agents in Kimberley Witherspoon and William Callahan, and truly fine editors in Lee Boudreaux, Abby Holstein, and Lorissa Sengara, who worked so hard to keep me on track.

In 2000, the Taliban regime, backed by Pakistan, did apply for associate membership to the International Cricket Council. The ICC did not respond until
after
the regime was defeated in 2001. The rest is fiction. Today, Afghanistan plays in international cricket tournaments and is an affiliate member of the ICC. There is also a nascent women's cricket team and a touring women's football (soccer) team.

About the Author

TIMERI N. MURARI
is an award-winning writer, filmmaker, and playwright.
Time
magazine chose his film,
The Square Circle
, for its top ten of the year. His works include the bestselling novel
Taj
, which was translated into twenty-one languages. Murari lives with his wife in his ancestral home in Madras, India.

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www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Credits

Cover design, typography, and illustration by nathanburtondesign.com

THE TALIBAN CRICKET CLUB.
Copyright Â© 2012 by Timeri N. Murari. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-209125-3

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2012 ISBN: 9780062091277

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