Written by: Amar Patel
Disclaimer:
The following story is fictional. The author (myself) is older than 21, anyone who is under the legal age (according to their country, state, or provincial laws) to view erotic material should immediately dissuade themselves from reading further.The story is fictional and similarities to events and persons (living or dead) are purely coincidental and unintentional. If you are offended by homosexual erotica or it is illegal for you to read such material. Please read no further.
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Dear Readers,
Thank you readers for all the kind letters and messages, they were living uplifting and cheered me up. I apologize again for the significant delay in between chapters, but I was balancing work between this story and my dissertation. After 85 pages of dissertation later, I finally have enough time to crunch out chapters. Please enjoy the latest chapter in the story, and I would like to wish my Muslim readers a blessing in the coming months of Ramadan.
Signed,
Amar Patel
Chapter V
Khaled
When I was younger, Baba used to take me to Bamiyan every Spring to visit Halmeoni (Grandma), and every visit, she would teach me about Korea. From the extensive histories and lores of dynasties long passed, to language and cultural tradition, Halmeoni knew it all, but I always enjoyed her stories more than everything else. Halmeoni often told me stories about when she was a young woman growing up in Korea, and how her country too was being repeatedly thrown into an endless cycle of restoration and devastation from war; however, there was a certain story that I will always remember. It was a day that was forcibly etched into her memories, a day where she lost nearly everything, and it was the day when the skies over Seoul turned dark orange from ash and flame... That morning, Halmeoni said that her father informed them of a battle that had broken out, and instructed them to gather everything they held dear. Without a single thought, she grabbed her favorite hanboks, her najeon chilgi, and as many family hierlooms that she could carry. Together with her parents and two older brothers, they bid their home farewell, fleeing as if the devil were at their heels. Their father told them that a refugee truck was awaiting just a few miles away, but warned them to duck their heads and take cover whenever possible; Halmeoni said that was when the myriads of bullets began raining down. She said that they reminded her of the heavy summer rain, how she could not count how many fell from the sky, but the horror they brought was fresh in her memory. I remember how tears began to run down her face as she told me that her father was the first to die that day, because he selflessly shielded their mother from a stray bullet, but fate was especially cruel that day. Not long after, the youngest of her brothers perished as he tried to retrieve their father's body, and Halmeoni said that she heard a cackle... no a malicious laughter as her brother's body fell to the ground, eyes wide open in shock. She wanted so badly to go back for them, but her heartbroken mother had to drag her away with a heavy heart. By the time they reached the truck, they were not only battered from dodging bullets, but exhausted as well. Pausing to catch their breath, they heard several neighbors call out to them, but they were silenced by a horrific sound. In terror, they watched as the truck began to move with or without them, and they made a mad dash for it. Tired and weary from travel, Halmeoni said that she began to fall further and further behind, and watched as her brother lifted their mother onto his back, pack and all. Running with inhuman speed, he managed to lift their mother then himself onto the back. Turning back towards her, Halmeoni said that she could still remember his expression of shear dread. She remembered how he screamed for her, how he begged her to drop her things and run, but she was young and foolish. Her brother leaned out as far as he could with an outstretched hand, screaming her name in utter desperation. Halmeoni paused then , and looked at me for the longest time. I watched as she lifted the chima of her hanbok to show me a large circular scar, and she told me how painful it is for a bullet to slice through your flesh. Halmeoni told me that the world seemed to stop as her fingertips grazed her brothers, and she watched as his face froze in shock. She fell to the ground, and saw her brother attempted to climb out of the truck to rescue her, but was held back by neighbors. He struggled with them, and held out his hand as the truck rounded the corner. Halmeoni never saw her family again, and soon passed out from the pain...
Halmeoni said that it was an eternity before her eyes opened again, and she found herself in a hospital bed, but she was ill prepared for the person who greeted her. Sitting with his arms folded and her pack at his feet, a foreign soldier gave her a sheepish smile. From the very first moment that she laid her eyes on him , Halmeoni said that he was everything her mother told her about the gentlemen of the west, and how she knew that they were bound by the red string of fate. Tall with fair alabaster skin, he was so handsome with his refined features and curly dark brown hair, but she will always remember his eyes. They reminded her of the foam that washed upon the shore with the waves, and she told me how his dimpled smile made them sparkle in the light. He did not speak much Korean, and did his best to introduce himself in simple sentences, but she understood him nonetheless. His name was Mathieu, and he came from a small country in the west called Belgium, and he truly was a gentleman. Halmeoni said that he came everyday to see her, and always brought large quantities of western sweets and chocolate from his homeland. They soon became close friends as they got to know one another, but soon friendship simply wasn't enough. As the bond between them grew tighter, they fell hopelessly in love, and Halmeoni soon became pregnant with his child. During those times, Halmeoni said that Korea was a xenophobic society, and those who loved westerners and their half foreign children were rejected by many. Mathieu knew the consequences all too well, and soon reached a solution of taking Halmeoni to Antwerp. She told me that she was selfish and afraid of going so far across the world, she feared the unknown, and told me that she refused his plea and love. Instead of abandoning her, Mathieu did what any gentleman would do, he arranged for her instead to go to Tajikstan in the west where many Koreans lived with their foreign husbands. Halmeoni said that Mathieu had the decency to take her to the transport, and left her with a basket of her favorite sweets and a letter sealed with a wax crest. She said that she could still see the look of agony on his face, and how she regretted her actions but did not have the courage to go back. Halmeoni never stopped loving him, and the letter he wrote was never opened. She remained chaste and unmarried, and arrived in Tajikstan alone. Maman was born several months later, and Halmeoni said that hardly anyone said a word. Halmeoni told me that I looked a lot like her lover, how my hair curls just like his, how my eyes are large like westerners. She told me that one day, I will come to love someone as she did, but told me to never repeat her mistakes, and to never let them go...
A gentle breeze swept past my feet as I lifted the next piece of clothing to be washed, and the heavenly scent of cinnamon and musk filled the air. Looking down, I let my fingers trail down the sleeve of Jahan-jan's shirt, and I dared to press the material to my chest. It smelled just like him, and I could almost feel my arms wrap around him... It has been almost two decades now if not longer since I came to be of service to agha, and now, not a day goes by where my heart does not grow more fond of him. After spending so many years, so many days and hours in his company, I could not help but love both his body and soul. He wooed me with those honey eyes of his, that midnight black hair so like his Baba's, but his charming smile was definitely his mother's. Agha reminded me of those Iranian films that are sold on the streets, he is so handsome with that sinewy frame, and I longed to run my hand down his chest, just to feel the light dusting of hair. Like Halmeoni who came before me, I find myself bound to him by the red string of fate, but my love could never be expressed. Agha and I are part of different worlds, he a respectable Pashtun, and I, a Hazara with foreign blood in my veins. We are divided by long standing rules, taboos that many Afghans feared worst then death. Not only is Agha part of a culture that is superior in their eyes, but he is also a man, and that was a line I could never cross. Even if I had the courage to tell him so, I could not risk putting agha in danger for such selfish affections. I promised baba all those years ago that I would protect Jahan from harm, even if it meant my own happiness, and that was a promise that I had to keep, but sometimes, this heart of mine is a burdensome thing... Lifting the now empty basket in one hand, I made my way back to the masjid, and gave a quick hello to baba. Opening the back door, I heard Jahan-jan chatting with someone in Pashto, and curiosity got the better of me. Agha was sitting with a man in sky blue turban, and I knew that he was one of the prominent merchants in the town, but I also knew that he was a man with unscrupulous reputation. Agha gave me a faint smile as I entered the room, but I saw the man wrinkle his nose as if a foul odor entered the room, and he spoke in Dari just so I could understand.
"My my sahib, you must be wealthy to have such a pretty Hazara working for you. Is it not his duty to serve us tea?' The man leered at me.
Agha looked at me with sympathy "Khaled, may you please bring some tea?"
I knew not to speak, and nodded my head. As I went to the kitchen and set the tray, I kept my ears perked as their conversation went on.
The man rubbed his beard as he spoke "Your Hazara is quite handsome, like a diamond ring in a pile of garbage sahib.'
I saw Jahan-jan clench his fist under the table. "He is of mixed ancestry sahib."
The man spat into the air "I suppose someone can be dumb enough to marry one, no wonder why his eyes are round."
I made my way over in silence, and I placed the tea tray on the table. As I began to pour the tea, I felt the man's eyes bore into me. "Are you not going to greet me Hazara?"
I looked up and his face was only an inch from mine. "Assalamu alaykum agha."
He flashed his yellow teeth "Much better. Jahan-sahib, you must let me borrow him sometime."
I turned towards agha, and saw an underlying anger "Khaled is needed here sahib."
"Too bad, you do not find many pretty ones like this one, all of them are too slanted eyed and lazy."
Jahan-jan patted my free hand under the table "Shall we get to the business of your visit sahib?"
The man nodded, and agha turned towards me "Go see how our other patient is doing Khaled."
I did not like how the man followed my every footstep as I walked away, and I felt his eyes piercing into my back. As I rounded the corner, I felt the pressure lift, but also felt my heart flutter. Agha was always there for me, always giving me a voice that many of Hazaras did not have, and the least I could do was honor his wishes. Making my way down the hall, I heard agha's and the man's voices fading away, but soon their voices were replaced by another sound. It was a somber sound, one that I have heard many times, and it has become as familiar as breathing. It was the sound of someone weeping in grief or pain, and it reminded of the many nights where I awoke to agha screaming and weeping in his sleep. As silently as possible, I pressed my ear to the door, and heard the soldier let out another sob. He was speaking rapidly in a language that I could not understand, but the words flowed from his lips so poetically and fluid. Even though they were foreign words, I felt my heart go out to him, and waited for his sobs to subside before knocking. I heard his gasp as my knocks resounded throughout his room, and he did not say anything for the longest time. I waited several moments before I dared to knock again, and I waited several moments. I heard him clear his throat, and he called out to me in a trembling voice.
"Wh-who is it?" His voice was slighty hoarse and feeble.
I spoke in the most gentle tone possible "It is me Khaled, may I come in bachem?"
After a long silence, he responded "Yes sir."
Opening the door, I found him sitting cross legged on his bed, head looking downwards towards his lap as if in shame, and I felt so sympathetic towards his aching heart. Shutting the door behind me, I made my way over to him with cautious steps, and kneeled down so my face was across from his. Timidly, he lifted his face to look at mine, and I saw that the seas in his eyes have been overflowing for sometime. Puffed with the slightest pink hue , his lips still quivered from his ordeals, and he clasped his hands tightly. Removing the patu (afghan shawl) from my shoulders, I passed it to him with a warm smile. In silent comprehension, the soldier's trembling fingers took it from me, and he wrapped it around himself. I was not sure what to say really, and I struggled to find the right words to say. I sat on the bed next to him without saying a word, and I finally mustered the courage to speak.
"Why were you crying bachem?"
He clasped his wrists as he spoke "I was thinking about my parents, and my friends sir."
It was a pain that I knew all too well. "You must miss them bachem."
He nodded "I miss my parents, my friends... I fear for them sir."
I did not know what came over me, but my lips moved before I could stop them. "Can you tell me about your family bachem?"
Amal turned towards me, and he wiped his face. "What do you want to know sir?"
"I am curious bachem, you do not look like any American I have ever seen."
He smiled weakly. "My parents aren't American sir."
That peaked my curiosity "Where are they from bachem?"
"My father, he is from Morocco, and my mother from Spain."
I only heard of those places from Kaka Omir, and I wanted to know more and more. "What are those places like bachem?"
"It depends on which city and region you're from sir."
"What cities are they from bachem?"
"My father was born in Marrakesh, but he moved to La Gomera when he was young, and my mother is from Sevilla."
"Are they beautiful places bachem?"
He nodded "Both of those places are very special to me sir, many of my favorite places and memories are there,"
"Could you tell me about some bachem?"
"You've never been outside of Afghanistan have you sir?"
"No bachem."
He smiled "Well sir, La Gomera is an island off the coast of Spain. It has many ravines, and I always like to take long walks on the hills overlooking the sea, because of all the ravines, people there have developed a special way of talking to one another."
"What do you mean bachem?"
"It's a language, and nearly everyone knows it."
"Can you show me bachem?"
I waited for him to speak , but instead he awed me by pressing his fingers to his lips. Suddenly, a series of melodic whistles came flowing forth, and it reminded me of the nostalgic sound of birdsong in the morning. He chuckled slightly at my expression. "We call it El Silbo or the whistle, and those that speak it are called Silbadores."
"What did you whistle right now bachem?"
He smiled " I said that I am in Afghanistan."
"Do all people in Spain talk like that bachem?"
"No sir, only on La Gomera. Otherwise, it depends on what region you're from, but everyone knows Spanish."
"What about Sevilla bachem?" I was not used to this foreign tongue.
"Sevilla is perhaps the most beautiful place in Spain, to me at least sir. It's known for being very cultured and one of my favorite places it there sir."
"And what is that place sir?"
"They call it La Catedral de Santa María de la sede, and it's a church that was built after the Reconquista. It was built on top of a masjid. It's known for the its elegant archways and stained glass windows, and they say that the walls are lined with gold. When you let your eyes look upon it sir, it takes your breath away."
I could just picture it as he described it , the stone walls and elegant tile floors, but then he continued. "But Sevilla is also known for dance sir."
"Dance bachem?"
He nodded "Sevilla is known as the heartland of Flamenco, a dance that is accompanied by claps, a guitar, and singing."
"Could you show me bachem?"
Amal looked at his thigh "Maybe when I heal sir."
"But why did your parents go to America?"
"My mother got a job sir, and we've lived there all my life."
"Is America beautiful bachem?" I could just picture the Statue of Liberty.
"It can be sir."
"What do you mean by that bachem?"
He smiled sadly at me "When you go through the things I've gone through sir, you don't really see it as a beautiful place anymore."
"What kind of things bachem?"
He shook his head. "I rather not talk about it sir, all I can say that I used to live everyday with the fear of going out alone, and with the thought that I'm seen as the enemy, a threat."
It was a pain that I knew all too well."So you are like me then bachem."
He gave a sad smile "I guess so sir."
We did not say anything to one another, and he broke the silence " Do you want to go to America sir?"
"Everyone wants to go to America bachem."
"What about your family sir? Won't they miss you?"
Baba's face flashed in my thoughts, and I struggled to reply "I do not have any family left bachem."
"Oh... I'm sorry."
"They are with Allah now, but there is hope still bachem."
"What about Dr. Ebadi's family sir?"
The door opened before I could reply, and Agha stepped into the room. "That is none of your concern bachem." His voice was stern and frigid.
Amal clung to my patu sheepishly, and I averted my gaze from agha's.
Agha's eyes softened " Khaled, would you please help out guest out to the sitting room? We must discuss the situation."
"Ne agha." I stood and held out my hand to Amal, and he took it without hesitation. I pulled him to his feet, and I took one of his arms over my shoulder.
Agha awaited us at the front table, his face in a stern yet concerned expression as I sat the soldier down, and I saw that the Pashtun man with the sky blue turban had left a basket of naan. In silence, I made sure that Amal sat without opening his wounds, and sat in silence.
Agha cleared his throat, and his honey eyes bore into Amal's. "As you can see, Khaled and I have been living in this abandoned masjid for quite sometime, and I welcome you as a guest. In accordance with Pashtunwali and my own beliefs, I will protect you; however, I expect certain rules to be followed. Is that understood?"
Amal nodded "Yes sir."
Agha continued "It will take sometime for your wounds to heal completely, but I am telling you that we all must execise caution in the coming months. This town is large enough that a new face will be easily missed, but that does not mean that concealment will be an easy task. Do you known farsi or dari bachem?"
"I only know the basics in farsi sir."
Agha frowned and pressed his fingers to his temple. "You also have a rather thick Bostonian accent bachem. Do you know any other languages?"
"Spanish, Berber, and Arabic sir."
I was amazed, and I saw a glimmer of interest in Agha's eyes. Agha clasped his hands. "Arabic is a language of Mullahs and prestige here, and will help you very little. Berber is virtually unknown, and Spanish as well. I am sorry, but it will be too risky to let you outside these walls.
Amal nodded "I understand sir."
"I assure you that I can get you whatever you may need, I have many friends within the town bachem."
The boy's face filled with some hope "Do you have a phone or postal office sir?"
Agha and I both knew the answer to that one. "No." Agha replied solemnly "The postal office was destroyed years ago, and Afghanistan is a country of personal conversation."
Amal clasped at his heart. "I see..."
"We have a television bachem, it is not much, but it may help pass the time." Agha smiled softly.
"Thank you sir."
Agha shook his head "Nay, it is the least I can do to help you."
"But can I do anything for you sir?"
Agha gave a quick glance towards me. "I do not want you to do anything that will jeopardize your recovery, but I would like you to assist Khaled in his daily chores. Is that alright with you Khaled-jan?"
I felt surprised yet grateful. "Yes agha."
Agha returned his gaze to Amal. "Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to submerge your wounds for now, but Khaled will take up the duty of bathing you."
Amal's face became flustered and pink. " I... uhm.. alright."
I saw a smile play on agha's lips. "Those are my orders as your doctor bachem. Are you able to stand?"
Amal shook his head. "With great difficulty and pain."
Agha nodded "You will have pain for days to come, but for now just relax while Khaled and I prepare food."
Amal nodded "Yes sir."
Standing in silence, Jahan-jan made his way to the kitchen and urged me to follow with the wave of his hand. Amal's face filled with concern, and I smiled to comfort him. Heading into the kitchen, I shut the door behind me and found Agha leaning over the pot of Qurma. His expression was no longer tense , rather relaxed and relieved. Opening the drawers and cabinets, I began preparing chai and bowls for lunch, and felt Agha's eyes follow me throughout the room.
"Khaled?"
I shut the drawer and opened another "Ne agha?"
"I am sorry for burdening you with extra work."
I looked towards Jahan-jan, and saw an emotion I thought lost, sheepishness."Nay agha, I know you are busy. I am happy to do any task."
"We must keep a close eye on him Khaled. Unfortunately, he had to end up in a small village outside of Kandahar of all places. Warlords and Talibs alike will express interest in him, and we must conceal him by any means. Fahmidi? (Is that understood?)."
"Bale agha." I lifted the tray of Qurma.
"Good, shall we eat then?"
End of Chapter V
I am sorry once again for my prolonged delay between chapters, and hope I am still in good favor with my readers.