in the driveway。 I yelled for Hassan and he helped me carry her into the house； to the living room。 We lay her on the sofa and took off her burqa。 Beneath it； we found a toothless woman with stringy graying hair and sores on her arms。 She looked like she had not eaten for days。 But the worst of it by far was her face。 Someone had taken a knife to it and。。。 Amir jan； the slashes cut this way and that way。 One of the cuts went from cheekbone to hairline and it had not spared her left eye on the way。 It was grotesque。 I patted her brow with a wet cloth and she opened her eyes。 Where is Hassan？ she whispered。
I m right here； Hassan said。 He took her hand and squeezed it。
Her good eye rolled to him。 I have walked long and far to see if you are as beautiful in the flesh as you are in my dreams。 And you are。 Even more。 She pulled his hand to her scarred face。 Smile for me。 Please。
Hassan did and the old woman wept。 You smiled ing out of me； did anyone ever tell you？ And I wouldn t even hold you。 Allah forgive me； I wouldn t even hold you。
None of us had seen Sanaubar since she had eloped with a band of singers and dancers in 1964； just after she had given birth to Hassan。 You never saw her； Amir； but in her youth； she was a vision。 She had a dimpled smile and a walk that drove men crazy。 No one who passed her on the street； be it a man or a woman； could look at her only once。 And now。。。
Hassan dropped her hand and bolted out of the house。 I went after him； but he was too fast。 I saw him running up the hill where you two used to play； his feet kicking up plumes of dust。 I let him go。 I sat with Sanaubar all day as the sky went from bright blue to purple。 Hassan still had not e back when night fell and moonlight bathed the clouds。 Sanaubar cried that ing back had been a mistake； maybe even a worse one than leaving。 But I made her stay。 Hassan would return； I knew。
He came back the next morning； looking tired and weary； like he had not slept all night。 He took Sanaubar s hand in both of his and told her she could cry if she wanted to but she needn t； she was home now； he said； home with her family。 He touched the scars on her face； and ran his hand through her hair。
Hassan and Farzana nursed her back to health。 They fed her and washed her clothes。 I gave her one of the guest rooms upstairs。 Sometimes； I would look out the window into the yard and watch Hassan and his mother kneeling together； picking tomatoes or trimming a rosebush； talking。 They were catching up on all the lost years； I suppose。 As far as I know； he never asked where she had been or why she had left and she never told。 I guess some stories do not need telling。
It was Sanaubar who delivered Hassan s son that winter of 1990。 It had not started snowing yet； but the winter winds were blowing through the yards； bending the flowerbeds and rustling the leaves。 I remember Sanaubar came out of the hut holding her grandson； had him wrapped in a wool blanket。 She stood
beaming under a dull gray sky tears streaming down her cheeks； the needle…cold wind blowing her hair； and clutching that baby in her arms like she never wanted to let go。 Not this time。 She handed him to Hassan and he handed him to me and I sang the prayer of Ayat…ul…kursi in that little boy s ear。
They named him Sohrab； after Hassan s favorite hero from the _Shahnamah_； as you know； Amir jan。 He was a beautiful little boy； sweet as sugar； and had the same temperament as his father。 You should have seen Sanaubar with that baby； Amir jan。 He became the center of her existence。 She sewed clothes for him； built him toys from scraps of wood； rags； and dried grass。 When he caught a fever； she stayed up all night； and fasted for three days。 She burned isfand for him on a skillet to cast out nazar； the evil eye。 By the time Sohrab was two； he was calling her Sasa。 The two of them were inseparable。
She lived to see him turn four； and then； one morning； she just did not wake up。 She looked calm； at peace； like she did not mind dying now。 We buried her in the cemetery on the hill； the one by the pomegranate tree； and I said a prayer for her too。 The loss was hard on Hassan……it always hurts more to have and lose than to not have in the first place。 But it was even harder on little Sohrab。 He kept walking around the house； looking for Sasa； but you know how children are； they forget so quickly。
By then……that would have been 1995……the Shorawi were defeated and long gone and Kabul belonged to Massoud； Rabbani； and the Mujahedin。 The infighting between the factions was fierce and no one knew if they would live to see the end of the day。 Our ears became accustomed to the whistle of falling shells； to the rumble of gunfire； our eyes familiar with the sight of men digging bodies out of piles of rubble。 Kabul in those days； Amir jan； was as close as you could get to that proverbial hell on earth。 Allah was kind to us； though。 The Wazir Akbar Khan area was not attacked as much； so we did not have it as bad as some of the other neighborhoods。
On those days when the rocket fire eased up a bit and the gunfighting was light； Hassan would take Sohrab to the zoo to see Marjan the lion； or to the cinema。 Hassan taught him how to shoot the slingshot； and； later； by the time he was eight； Sohrab had bee deadly with that thing： He could stand on the terrace and hit a pinecone propped on a pail halfway across the yard。 Hassan taught him to read and write……his son was not going to grow up illiterate like he had。 I grew very attached to that little boy……I had seen him take his first step； heard him utter his first word。 I bought children s books for Sohrab from the booksto