ntidote； the moment Sanaubar had given birth to Hassan。 It had been a simple enough affair。 No obstetricians； no anesthesiologists； no fancy monitoring devices。 Just Sanaubar lying on a stained； naked mattress with Ali and a midwife helping her。 She hadn t needed much help at all； because； even in birth； Hassan was true to his nature：
He was incapable of hurting anyone。 A few grunts； a couple of pushes； and out came Hassan。 Out he came smiling。
As confided to a neighbor s servant by the garrulous midwife； who had then in turn told anyone who would listen； Sanaubar had taken one glance at the baby in Ali s arms； seen the cleft lip； and barked a bitter laughter。
There； she had said。 Now you have your own idiot child to do all your smiling for you！ She had refused to even hold Hassan； and just five days later； she was gone。
Baba hired the same nursing woman who had fed me to nurse Hassan。 Ali told us she was a blue…eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan； the city of the giant Buddha statues。 What a sweet singing voice she had； he used to say to us。
What did she sing； Hassan and I always asked； though we already knew……Ali had told us countless times。 We just wanted to hear Ali sing。
He d clear his throat and begin：
_On a high mountain I stood；
And cried the name of Ali； Lion of God。
O Ali； Lion of God； King of Men；
Bring joy to our sorrowful hearts。_
Then he would remind us that there was a brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast； a kinship that not even time could break。
Hassan and I fed from the same breasts。 We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard。 And； under the same roof； we spoke our first words。
Mine was _Baba_。
His was _Amir_。 My name。
Looking back on it now； I think the foundation for what happened in the winter of 1975……and all that followed……was already laid in those first words。
THREE
Lore has it my father once wrestled a black bear in Baluchistan with his bare hands。 If the story had been about anyone else； it would have been dismissed as _laaf_； that Afghan tendency to exaggerate……sadly； almost a national affliction； if someone bragged that his son was a doctor； chances were the kid had once passed a biology test in high school。 But no one ever doubted the veracity of any story about Baba。 And if they did； well； Baba did have those three parallel scars coursing a jagged path down his back。 I have imagined Baba s wrestling match countless times； even dreamed about it。 And in those dreams； I can never tell Baba from the bear。
It was Rahim Khan who first referred to him as what eventually became Baba s famous nickname； _Toophan agha_； or Mr。 Hurricane。 It was an apt enough nickname。 My father was a force of nature； a towering Pashtun specimen with a thick beard； a wayward crop of curly brown hair as unruly as the man himself； hands that looked capable of uprooting a willow tree； and a black glare that would drop the devil to his knees begging for mercy； as Rahim Khan used to say。 At parties； when all six…foot…five of him thundered into the room； attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun。
Baba was impossible to ignore； even in his sleep。 I used to bury cotton wisps in my ears； pull the blanket over my head； and still the sounds of Baba s snoring……so much like a growling truck engine……penetrated the walls。 And my room was across the hall from Baba s bedroom。 How my mother ever managed to sleep in the same room as him is a mystery to me。 It s on the long list of things I would have asked my mother if I had ever met her。
In the late 1960s； when I was five or six； Baba decided to build an orphanage。 I heard the story through Rahim Khan。 He told me Baba had drawn the blueprints himself despite the fact that he d had no architectural experience at all。 Skeptics had urged him to stop his foolishness and hire an architect。 Of course； Baba refused； and everyone shook their heads in dismay at his obstinate ways。 Then Baba succeeded and everyone shook their heads in awe at his triumphant ways。 Baba paid for the construction of the two…story orphanage； just off the main strip of Jadeh Maywand south of the Kabul River； with his own money。 Rahim Khan told me Baba had personally funded the entire project； paying for the engineers； electricians； plumbers； and laborers； not to mention the city officials whose mustaches needed oiling。
It took three years to build the orphanage。 I was eight by then。 I remember the day before the orphanage opened； Baba took me to Ghargha Lake； a few miles north of Kabul。 He asked me to fetch Hassan too； but I lied and told him Hassan had the runs。 I wanted Baba all to myself。 And besides； one time at Ghargha Lake； Hassan and I were skimming stones and Hassan made his stone skip eight times。 The most I managed was five。 Baba was there； watching； and he patted Hassan on the back。 Even put his arm around his shoulder。
We sat at a picnic table on the banks of the lake； just Baba and me； eating boiled eggs with _kofta_ sandwiches……meatballs and pickles wrapped in _naan_。 The water was a deep blue and sunlight glittered on its looking glass…clear surface。 On Fridays； the lake was bustling with families out for a day in the sun。 But it was midweek and there was only Baba and me； us and a couple of longhaired； bearded tourists…… hippies； I d heard them called。 They were
sitting on the dock； feet dangling in the water； fishing poles in hand。 I asked Baba why they grew their hair long； but Baba grunted； didn t answer。 He was preparing his speech for the next day； flipping through a havoc of handwritten pages； making notes here and there with a pencil。 I bit into my egg and asked Baba