Kabul: A Novel

Kabul: A Novel

by M. E. Hirsh
Kabul: A Novel

Kabul: A Novel

by M. E. Hirsh

eBookSecond Edition (Second Edition)

$11.99 

Available on Compatible NOOK Devices and the free NOOK Apps.
WANT A NOOK?  Explore Now

Related collections and offers


Overview

Modern events sometime demand the reissue of a book published several years ago. Hirsh's internationally acclaimed 1986 novel, Kabul, provides an almost miraculous window into a country and its people that now have captured the world's attention.

When the last Afghan king is deposed in the summer of 1973, the family of Omar Anwari, his loyal cabinet minister, is torn apart along with their country. Over seven turbulent years while Catherine, their American mother, struggles to hold them together, Mangal, the eldest son, breaks with his father to follow his own political conscience; daughter Saira in New York is torn between two cultures; and Tor, the youngest, most passionate of the three grows up to become perhaps the bravest of them all.

An epic tale of civil war, political intrigue, and family tragedy, Kabul is a moving, insightful portrayal of a proud nation brought to chaos.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466854123
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date: 10/08/2013
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 464
Sales rank: 853,592
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

M. E. Hirsh has written for the Boston Globe, the Washington Post, and the Los Angeles Times on subjects ranging from Afghanistan to Native American affairs. She is the author of Dreaming Back, a novel, and is currently at work on two others.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

When Tor Anwari came into the stable his horse pawed the floor, then stood with forelegs splayed, ears quivering in anticipation. He was a silver Waziri, with the grace and speed of an Arabian, and he had no name. Grand-uncle Yusef claimed Tor's first word had been a pet name for horse, Aspi, and Tor called him only that, like a whistle of wind.

Aspi kicked the stall gate, nodding his head in wide impatient arcs, and Tor threw his arms around the stallion's broad neck. "We're going out, alright." But closing his eyes, he let his weight relax against that solid warmth, breathing in the mix of straw, manure and leather oil with Aspi's own smell, acid and familiar. This was their place, no one else ever came here. No one but Karima. Who, according to Mummy-jan, was just the servants' daughter and not fit for him to love.

He pressed a hand hard along the gleaming coat. It was impossible to hurt Aspi, he was so strong, and he never got upset. "I wish I were a horse," Tor said. "You never feel like this."

Mummy screaming at him ... "In this case, it's you who's not good enough, Tor!" But if she'd caught him with a rich girl, he'd be the one getting married tomorrow instead of perfect big brother Mangal.

Besides, Mummy was American. They were supposed to believe in freedom. Hadn't she bragged a hundred times that she'd married Daddy-jan even though his Uncle Yusef and her parents didn't like the idea? What a hypocrite!

Tor's fingers touched something sticky on one wither. "Aspi, where did that come from?" He opened the gate. "We're always getting in messes. You're as bad as they say I am."

Choosing a metal curry brush, he began to work on the mat, carding it out in stiff clumps. Before Mummy-jan burst in last night, he'd brushed Karima's hair, curling it around his hands and covering his face with it, so soft and sweet.

Karima liked it too, he knew that much. Mummy made it sound as if he'd forced her into bed, but she liked it even if he had tricked her that first time, saying he'd brought her a secret present from Pakistan. It was only a necklace — and there was only one reason why he wanted to give it to her in his room. That soft hair of hers, and those smooth round arms reaching up to comb Aspi's mane. ... Karima had groomed Aspi all year while he was in Pakistan, and her letters were like pictures he could think about in bed at school — how she bandaged Aspi's cut leg and picked sweet grass to mix with his hay. Karima was the only one who cared. Mangal had wanted to send Aspi away to the Paghman house until she offered to look after him. Brave Mangal was afraid of horses, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

Tor put down the brush. "Let's get out of here."

Something was growing inside him, black and angry. When they were out riding in the hills he would feel better, but ... still, it was so unfair. No one ever told Mangal what to do. Oh no, he was "the eldest." Mangal with his three-piece suits and little colored notebooks, acting so important about his newspaper job. It was always, "Mangal-jan, will you be home for dinner?" And, "Mangal-jan, is there anything you need?" His only sister was flying in from the States tonight after years at Radcliffe, but Mangal had "too much work" to meet Saira at the airport. Some excuse, when Daddy was cutting short his secret mission for the king in order to greet her.

And because of the wedding, of course.

Mangal's wedding tomorrow. That's what all the fuss was for. "Such a brilliant boy!" His fiancée, Roshana, was a big brain too, a college teacher, yakking about politics all the time. How could they stand it? And everyone said, "Oh, Tor, why can't you be more like Mangal!"

Because I'm not dead yet, that's why, he thought, leading Aspi into sunlight. Why can't I be happy my own way?

Reaching over his cavalry saddle he took down the high-horned BuzKashi saddle hanging on the dark wall by the door. Today they would really fly! Then he smiled. In the old days, men stole brides on horseback, in the middle of the night, just rode off with them. If Mangal ever tried that with Roshana, he'd fall right on his fat nose.

But I could do it, Tor thought.

He fit the silver-studded bridle over Aspi's head. And what if I did, he thought, what could they do about it? Karima would be "ruined."

So what? She already was. And he was eighteen now. A man.

He felt his stomach turn. Why not? They could sneak out tonight, disappear for a few days, and then everyone would just have to accept it. Things like that used to happen all the time. Mummy would be watching him, but he could slip Karima a note and she could answer....

He knew what she'd say. Exactly what Mummy said: Never. After last night she wouldn't dare make them madder, even though Mummy had promised not to tell anyone so long as it never happened again. "Never! You aren't to go anywhere near her! Do you hear me, Tor?"

Now that Karima knew she'd got into Kabul University she wouldn't come to his room so often anyway. She wanted to be "honorable." But they wouldn't let him marry her, or even stay in Kabul. That awful school at Lawrence College in Pakistan ... that was so he could go to Harvard next fall, or Columbia, or Moscow, or the Sorbonne like Mangal. "And if you don't behave, it will be Moscow, Tor!"

Everything he loved was here: Karima's glowing eyes, the strength and beauty of Aspi, and Saira — she was coming home. It could be so much fun. But never mind, Tor, go away and just be miserable.

They wouldn't even miss him.

Grabbing the horn, he swung up into the saddle. They were such a bunch of liars. Mummy said: If you love her, Tor, you must never, never, never. Mangal was supposed to love Roshana, but when did he ever touch her? And Karima ... at night she claimed to love him, but sometimes the next day she'd hardly look at him, always claiming she had to study. As if he'd never read a book and that was so much more important. None of them knew what feelings were, they just used his to stuff him into a box of "You can't, no, never, I have to study, Tor!"

If that's their love I might as well hate them, he thought, kicking Aspi's flank.

As the horse leapt forward someone called out — Mummy-jan, on the terrace, "No, Tor, no!" A dark red Mercedes was coming at him, Miss Roshana driving, making such a face, and that was Karima beside her. Aspi reared back and Tor was looking straight down at them, two scared little faces behind the windshield under Aspi's plunging hooves. But Aspi was bucking hard — he was frightened too, and turning him, Tor dug in his heels, feeling nothing but a rush of air as he galloped down the drive and out of the compound.

Damn them. They could all go to hell! Even Karima, if she was going to side with Mummy. He wouldn't even think about them now, but only ride with his legs free in these long stirrups, not bent and cramped like in those stupid English saddles they used at Lawrence College. He could post, but why would anyone want to? Bounce, bounce, bounce like a goose in those silly breeches — that wasn't riding. No wonder the British had never conquered Afghanistan.

Dar-al-Aman Avenue stretched out flat in the hot sun, edged by high compound walls. He trotted Aspi quickly through its border of trees, out of their district, Carte Seh, toward the old palace and the brown hills beyond.

Mummy was right about one thing. He felt too much. Sometimes he even wanted to cry to stop the pressure in his chest. But men never cried. He'd be alright if he let the feelings out, as he had in Pakistan when he rode ahead of the class, dropping his feet from the stirrups and spurring his horse until it knew it could run free with Tor light on his back. That always made him feel better when he was mad or scared about something, but it didn't seem to help too much with love.

The whole thing was unfair, confusing, maddening. There were only three people who mattered, and now Mummy-jan, whom he could always count on, was pushing him away. He'd been miserable in Pakistan, and instead of comfort her letters were full of: You must, you must, you must. Then there was Karima. Till two years ago it was fine that they were friends, but suddenly everyone started saying it was wrong. "You're both getting older, Tor, you can't play like children anymore. You must have more respect for Karima now." Instead he felt angry, betrayed by the curving hips that took her away from him.

At the same time it was exciting — his own body answered the new gentle sway in her walk with so much desire it almost made him sick. For a while that made him frightened, and disgusted with himself — for spying on her like a sneak, peering down from the roof while she dried her long hair in the sun or cut herbs with a little silver scissors, each one very carefully, as though they might have feelings too.

Everything Karima did was sweet and graceful now — things they used to do together — and he missed her smiles and teasing, wanted so much just to trace the side of her throat with the tip of one finger, and maybe for a second let his hand fall down to touch the soft breasts pressing against her blouse. Watching from the roof was bad, but it was better than nothing. It made him happy to whisper things and pretend she could hear. "Karima-jan, you're the prettiest girl in Kabul and I'll love you till the day I die" ... though whenever he met her by accident in the garden or the hall, he jabbered like a fool, trying desperately not to look at her body and not in her eyes either, because she would see what he was trying to hide.

But finally in Pakistan, he just stopped feeling guilty. He did respect Karima, that was why he loved her — it was as if she'd grown beautiful just for him. That seemed so true he couldn't believe it was wrong. Why should they want him to love a stranger instead? At Lawrence College he'd spent many nights imagining she was beside him whispering in the dark, and this summer, touching her, loving her, had been the strongest thing in his whole life. He'd had sex once in Pakistan on an adventure with his friend Satpal and it was fun, but not so exciting as riding Aspi through the mountains and nothing compared to how he felt with Karima. That was like being lost, unbalanced, even scared, but knowing what to do in that instant, not thinking or looking past it, but being alive. He could be good if he also had that clash like a fall knocking the air from his lungs, leaving him quiet and empty for a while. With Karima and Aspi he knew what to do, Mummy had got that backward too. It was spying, sneaking around that was bad — that was why Karima wouldn't talk to him. If they got married everything would be alright again. Why couldn't they understand? He loved her and wanted to marry her. What was wrong with that?

Maybe Saira could help, he thought. At least he still had his sister left. Saira, little nightingale, her voice was just that sweet. She never shouted, "Oh, Tor," and always took his side against Mangal — though of course they could never contradict Mangal to his face. Why should being born first give him the right to be such a bully? Mangal talked about respect as if it were something only he deserved, and Tor was there just to be stepped on. But Saira would come to comfort him, resting his head on her shoulder and smoothing his hair, singing little songs she made up to make him laugh, about how Mangal's nose was so big because he even made the bees mad and they stung it. Then Mangal, who hadn't heard the words, would tell her how nice her singing sounded!

The day Saira left for Radcliffe, Mangal said, "Well, Tor, you won't have her to run to anymore." And that morning at the airport was the first time he'd felt like crying. Instead he hugged her close, copying Daddy-jan's deep voice. "You're the flower and the honor of our family, don't forget that!" But he'd meant it, and he still did. Now she was all he had left.

He clapped his knees hard against Aspi. "Come on, I'll find some grass for you later. Let's go now — Saira's coming home tonight, and I might even let her ride you!" At the turning of the Chilsitoon road his good mood shattered and he reined Aspi in tightly. Two old friends from Habibiya High School were standing at a tiny fruit stall buying melons. The tall boy, Farouk, had been his best friend before he went away to Pakistan, but now Farouk spent all his time with this idiot, Abdullah. Even now Abdullah was laughing ... and then Tor saw why.

By the side of the road an old Hazara was trying to move a donkey loaded with fruit baskets, but its knees were locked, its eyes rolling wildly, it was starting to lie down. Sweat spilled from creases around the old man's slanting eyes to stain the edge of his turban, and every time he scrambled back jerking on the lead, Abdullah and Farouk laughed even harder.

The Hazara tribe was treated as the lowliest of the low — people said their Mongolian features were inherited from Genghis Khan, and a year ago, Tor thought, he might have laughed at this too. But today he felt as distant from his friends as he guessed that old man must. Abdullah and Farouk didn't have their own horses, but in every other way they were lucky. Their fathers weren't important, so nobody watched them and they didn't have to be home for afternoon tea. Abdullah and Farouk could go to Kabul University. They might never leave Afghanistan at all.

He remembered running to see Farouk the day he got home from Pakistan, when instead of a bear hug Farouk embraced him stiffly as if he were Mangal. Tor teased him about it, and gradually Farouk relaxed enough to ask about the rifles used for target practice at Lawrence, and what the universities in America might be like. But each time Tor tried to steer their talk back to old companions, Farouk just smiled and shrugged. "Ah, you know, it's the same. It will always be the same with us. But you, Tor, why, you've already traveled to the States! Tell me about that again." In despair, Tor had recited descriptions of the New York he had seen years ago, exaggerating to amuse his friend.

"And the buildings are really a kilometer high?"

"Oh, several. You can't see the tops! They disappear into the sky. And the women wear no clothes."

Farouk's grave eyes widened. "None at all?"

"Well —" Tor marked his thigh. "Only a little skirt that comes to here. And people drink wine on the street corners and the restaurants never close. You can dance till two in the morning! Or see five cowboy movies in a row on TV."

He had said all this before. It was a story Farouk loved to hear. But that time the telling had a ghostly sound, as if he were already gone. Even Farouk seemed to be pushing him toward some grim hopeless future, and though he spoke of it with awe and called Tor "fortunate" there was a wariness in his voice that said Tor could no longer be trusted. Stung, he had not visited Farouk again, and watching him now, he was glad. If Farouk preferred this Abdullah's company to his own, well, they could just have each other. He would never beg for anything again.

The Hazara's donkey skidded forward, and Farouk and Abdullah turned back to their fruit. Swerving to avoid them, Tor loosened Aspi's reins and started toward the Dar-al-Aman palace.

This palace, with its domes and arched windows, was ten times as beautiful as the one in Pashtunistan Square, even though poor King Amanullah never got to finish it. That was what happened when you did things from your heart, when you tried to give your best to other people. Amanullah had been pushed out of the country too, and Daddy-jan's parents, who worked for him, were murdered for their wonderful ideals. Daddy-jan was only twelve years old then.

Now Daddy-jan worked at King Zahir's palace in Pashtunistan Square, but it was like a fortress, ugly and forbidding — and if that's what people needed, Tor thought, then they deserved it, but he would never be part of it no matter what anyone expected.

He imagined walking solemnly across Pashtunistan Square with a briefcase and laughed out loud. No, that would never work. They could send him away now, but by the time he finished college he'd be too old to push. Maybe he wouldn't come back at all. Why should he? To find Karima married to someone else? To be saddled and driven like that donkey? Maybe he'd stay in the United States and dance till two in the morning. Grandmother and Grandfather Lowe should like that — hadn't Mummy promised to send him there for a while, as she had Mangal and Saira? That must be why she wouldn't let him stay in Kabul. She was just as scared of making them mad as Karima was of her.

Well, I'm not afraid of any of them, he thought, they can all shout all they want.

(Continues…)



Excerpted from "Kabul"
by .
Copyright © 1986 M. E. Hirsh.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

From the B&N Reads Blog

Customer Reviews