Sohrab？ The streets are full enough already of hungry orphans and every day I thank Allah that I am alive； not because I fear death； but because my wife has a husband and my son is not an orphan。
I wish you could see Sohrab。 He is a good boy。 Rahim Khan sahib and I have taught him to read and write so he does not grow up stupid like his father。 And can he shoot with that slingshot！ I take Sohrab around Kabul sometimes and buy him candy。 There is still a monkey man in Shar…e Nau and if we run into him； I pay him to make his monkey dance for Sohrab。 You should see how he laughs！ The two of us often walk up to the cemetery on the hill。 Do you remember how we used to sit under the pomegranate tree there and read from the _Shahnamah_？ The droughts have dried the hill and the tree hasn t borne fruit in years； but Sohrab and I still sit under its shade and I read to him from the _Shahnamah_。 It is not necessary to tell you that his favorite part is the one with his namesake； Rostam and Sohrab。 Soon he will be able to read from the book himself。 I am a very proud and very lucky father。
Amir agha；
Rahim Khan sahib is quite ill。 He coughs all day and I see blood on his sleeve when he wipes his mouth。 He has lost much weight and I wish he would eat a little of the shorwa and rice that Farzana Jan cooks for him。 But he only takes a bite or two and even that I think is out of courtesy to Farzana jan。 I am so worried about this dear man I pray for him every day。 He is leaving for Pakistan in a few days to consult some doctors there and； _Inshallah_； he will return with good news。 But in my heart I fear for him。 Farzana jan and I have told little Sohrab that Rahim Khan sahib is going to be well。 What can we do？ He is only ten and he adores Rahim Khan sahib。 They have grown so close to each other。 Rahim Khan sahib used to take him to the bazaar for balloons and biscuits but he is too weak for that now。
I have been dreaming a lot lately； Amir agha。 Some of them are nightmares； like hanged corpses rotting in soccer fields with bloodred grass。 I wake up from those short of breath and sweaty。 Mostly； though； I dream of good things； and praise Allah for that。 I dream that Rahim Khan sahib will be well。 I dream that
my son will grow up to be a good person； a free person； and an important person。 I dream that lawla flowers will bloom in the streets of Kabul again and rubab music will play in the samovar houses and kites will fly in the skies。 And I dream that someday you will return to Kabul to revisit the land of our childhood。 If you do； you will find an old faithful friend waiting for you。
May Allah be with you always。
…Hassan
I read the letter twice。 I folded the note and looked at the photograph for another minute。 I pocketed both。 How is he？ I asked。
That letter was written six months ago； a few days before I left for Peshawar； Rahim Khan said。 I took the Polaroid the day before I left。 A month after I arrived in Peshawar； I received a telephone call from one of my neighbors in Kabul。 He told me this story： Soon after I took my leave； a rumor spread that a Hazara family was living alone in the big house in Wazir Akbar Khan； or so the Taliban claim。 A pair of Talib officials came to investigate and interrogated Hassan。 They accused him of lying when Hassan told them he was living with me even though many of the neighbors； including the one who called me； supported Hassan s story。 The Talibs said he was a liar and a thief like all Hazaras and ordered him to get his family out of the house by sundown。 Hassan protested。 But my neighbor said the Talibs were looking at the big house like……how did he say it？……yes； like wolves looking at a flock of sheep。 They told Hassan they would be moving in to supposedly keep it safe until I return。 Hassan protested again。 So they took him to the street……
No； I breathed。
……and order him to kneel……
No。 God； no。
……and shot him in the back of the head。
……Farzana came screaming and attacked them……
No。
……shot her too。 Self…defense； they claimed later……
But all I could manage was to whisper No。 No。 No over and over again。
I KEPT THINKING OF THAT DAY in 1974； in the hospital room； Just after Hassan s harelip surgery。 Baba； Rahim Khan； Ali； and I had huddled around Hassan s bed； watched him examine his new lip in a handheld mirror。 Now everyone in that room was either dead or dying。 Except for me。
Then I saw something else： a man dressed in a herringbone vest pressing the muzzle of his Kalashnikov to the back of Hassan s head。 The blast echoes through the street of my father s house。 Hassan slumps to the asphalt； his life of unrequited loyalty drifting from him like the windblown kites he used to chase。
The Taliban moved into the house； Rahim Khan said。 The pretext was that they had evicted a trespasser。 Hassan s and Farzana s murders were dismissed as a case of self…defense。 No one said a word about it。 Most of it was fear of the Taliban； I think。 But no one was going to risk anything for a pair of Hazara servants。
What did they do with Sohrab？ I asked。 I felt tired； drained。 A coughing fit gripped Rahim Khan and went on for a long time。 When he finally looked up； his face was flushed and his eyes bloodshot。 I heard he s in an orphanage somewhere in Karteh Seh。 Amir jan…… then he was coughing again。 When he stopped； he looked older than a few moments before； like he was aging with each coughing fit。 Amir jan； I summoned you here because I wanted to see you before I die； but that s not all。
I said nothing。 I think I already knew what he was going to say。
I want you to go to KabuL I want you to bring Sohrab here；