t。 He had bee much chattier since our overnight stay at Wahid s house。 He had me sit in the passenger seat and looked at me when he spoke。 He even smiled once or twice。 Maneuvering the steering wheel with his mangled hand； he pointed to mud…hut villages along the way where he d known people years before。 Most of those people； he said； were either dead or in refugee camps in Pakistan。 And sometimes the dead are luckier； he said。
He pointed to the crumbled； charred remains of a tiny village。 It was just a tuft of blackened； roofless walls now。 I saw a dog sleeping along one of the walls。 I had a friend there once； Farid said。 He was a very good bicycle repairman。 He played the tabla well too。 The Taliban killed him and his family and burned the village。
We drove past the burned village； and the dog didn t move。
IN THE OLD DAYS； the drive from Jalalabad to Kabul took two hours； maybe a little more。 It took Farid and me over four hours to reach Kabul。 And when we did。。。 Farid warned me just after we passed the Mahipar dam。
Kabul is not the way you remember it； he said。
So I hear。
Farid gave me a look that said hearing is not the same as seeing。 And he was right。 Because when Kabul finally did unroll before us； I was certain； absolutely certain； that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere。 Farid must have seen my stupefied expression； shuttling people back and forth to Kabul； he would have bee familiar with that expression on the faces of those who hadn t seen Kabul for a long time。
He patted me on the shoulder。 Wele back； he said morosely。
RUBBLE AND BEGGARS。 Everywhere I looked； that was what I saw。 I remembered beggars in the old days too……Baba always carried an extra handful of Afghani bills in his pocket just for them； I d never seen him deny a peddler。 Now； though； they squatted at every street corner； dressed in shredded burlap rags； mud…caked hands held out for a coin。 And the beggars were mostly children now； thin and grim…faced； some no older than five or six。 They sat in the laps of their burqa…clad mothers alongside gutters at busy street corners and chanted Bakhshesh； bakhshesh！ And something else； something I hadn t noticed right away： Hardly any of them sat with an adult male……the wars had made fathers a rare modity in Afghanistan。
We were driving westbound toward the Karteh…Seh district on what I remembered as a major thoroughfare in the seventies：
Jadeh Maywand。 Just north of us was the bone…dry Kabul River。 On the hills to the south stood the broken old city wall。 Just east of it was the Bala Hissar Fort……the ancient citadel that the warlord Dostum had occupied in 1992……on the Shirdarwaza mountain range； the same mountains from which Mujahedin forces had showered Kabul with rockets between 1992 and 1996； inflicting much of the damage I was witnessing now。 The Shirdarwaza range stretched all the way west。 It was from those mountains that I remember the firing of the Topeh chasht； the noon cannon。 It went off every day to announce noontime； and also to signal the end of daylight fasting during the month of Ramadan。 You d hear the roar of that cannon all through the city in those days。
I used to e here to Jadeh Maywand when I was a kid； I mumbled。 There used to be shops here and hotels。 Neon lights
and restaurants。 I used to buy kites from an old man named Saifo。 He ran a little kite shop by the old police headquarters。
The police headquarters is still there； Farid said。 No shortage of police in this city But you won t find kites or kite shops on Jadeh Maywand or anywhere else in Kabul。 Those days are over。
Jadeh Maywand had turned into a giant sand castle。 The buildings that hadn t entirely collapsed barely stood； with caved in roofs and walls pierced with rockets shells。 Entire blocks had been obliterated to rubble。 I saw a bullet…pocked sign half buried at an angle in a heap of debris。 It read DRINK COCA CO……。 I saw children playing in the ruins of a windowless building amid jagged stumps of brick and stone。 Bicycle riders and mule…drawn carts swerved around kids； stray dogs； and piles of debris。 A haze of dust hovered over the city and； across the river； a single plume of smoke rose to the sky。
Where are the trees？ I said。
People cut them down for firewood in the winter； Farid said。 The Shorawi cut a lot of them down too。
Why？
Snipers used to hide in them。
A sadness came over me。 Returning to Kabul was like running into an old； forgotten friend and seeing that life hadn t been good to him； that he d bee homeless and destitute。
My father built an orphanage in Shar…e…Kohna； the old city； south of here； I said。
I remember it； Farid said。 It was destroyed a few years ago。
Can you pull over？ I said。 I want to take a quick walk here。
Farid parked along the curb on a small backstreet next to a ramshackle； abandoned building with no door。 That used to be a pharmacy； Farid muttered as we exited the truck。 We walked back to Jadeh Maywand and turned right； heading west。 What s that smell？ I said。 Something was making my eyes water。
Diesel； Farid replied。 The city s generators are always going down； so electricity is unreliable； and people use diesel fuel。
Diesel。 Remember what this street smelled like in the old days？
Farid smiled。 Kabob。
Lamb kabob； I said。
Lamb； Farid said； tasting the word in his mouth。 The only people in Kabul who get to eat lamb now are the Taliban。 He pulled on my sleeve。 Speaking of which。。。
A vehicle was approaching us。 Beard Patrol； Farid murmured。
That was the first time I saw the Taliban。 I d seen them on TV on the Internet； on the cover of magazines； an