Last evening after work Aaron, Jayitha and I went to Salang Pass for dinner. For me it was iftar time and the opportunity to get some fine Afghani food before I got on a plane to Los Angeles. Salang Pass, like a lot of Muslim eateries during Ramadhan, had an iftar buffet going. And where there's a buffet, there's bound to be a lot of hungry people.
Aaron and Jayitha had reached the restaurant before me and found a place very close to this group of young Afghanans, 8 of them, who were busy eating and discussing plans for the evening and the week.
As we played catch-up on our table, I could simultaneously overhear what these gals were talking about. They were giggling away, discussing movies, places they wanted to go shopping and boys. The content of their conversation was banal, but from this group a warmth emanated that really seemed to make the place more welcoming and refreshing in a strange way.
I told Aaron about what my Dad was doing in Afghanistan with the United Nations. How I was so proud of the fact that he didnt flinch at leaving stately comforts in New Delhi to go help build the Independent Election Commission of Afghanistan. How his compound had been attacked several times by terrorists. His account of a day spent in a bomb bunker. His report of the people and the country. (I'm so happy to be his son and if I was even an iota of what he is today, I'd be satisfied human being.)
I told Aaron about the twenty odd books I had read on Afghanistan since my Dad had been there. And how I wanted to visit the country sometime soon. I even told him how I had once contemplated quitting my job and becoming a UN Volunteer in Afghanistan, but decided against it. Afghanistan for me has became Coleridge's Xanadu. Someday..
Aaron told me that he got into swimming and Spanish classes, while I sipped away my Aush (Afghani noodle soup.) That Google's been treating him quite well. He'd been to London lately. That a erstwhile common friend who we both despised for his womanising habits had finally packed up his bags and left the US for good. And then he gesticulated with an oblique movement of the head towards the Afghanans. Or so I thought and looked over his shoulder.
Two of them were staring at me with their heads frequently turning only with brief intermissions of conversation, which I am presume referred to Aaron and I. I couldnt discern if they pitied me because my father was in Afghanistan, or if they were a little taken aback from the accounts that I had been yapping about for the past few minutes. I became keenly aware that sometimes I talk loud enough for the whole world to hear. I smiled politely and looked away. I was hungry, my food was before me and I had company. There was no need to be distracted.
We finished our meals, my flight was at 9 and the clock was ticking way to signal that it was nearly 8pm. I knew I'd have to go stand-by on the next one. So in a hurry, I took care of the check, walked both of them out and ran to my car.
As I buckled up, I reminded myself to make sure that I hadnt forgotten my credit card at the restaurant. I have a nasty habit of forgetting things in strange places. I actually had. So quickly, I walked back into the restaurant and asked the hostess if she had my card. There was a silence.
I looked at her and explained that I had just eaten here and pointed to my table and reiterated that I had left my card behind. More silence. Irritation began to set in, when suddenly she said in a mish-mashed accent that sounded Iranian to me; "Youre the guy talking about your father in Afghanistan?" News did travel fast in the subcontinent, but I was flustered that she knew. "Here's your c(o)rd. Sharjeel, that sounds like a Persian name." I really had no time for small talk, I took my card, told her that it was Hebrew, that the food was good, and said my goodbyes. She gave me a small plastic snack pack which had cookies and dates, complimentary, for folks to break their fasts. I bowed and rushed out.
Driving like a madman on the 880 to get to the airport on time, I tried to make sense of why I got a cookie pack, eventhough I had clearly fed myself enough to put Takeru Kobayashi to shame. I pulled into the rental car facility and quickly grabbed the bag of cookies. It had a note. An Afghan fortune cookie.
It read:
Aaron and Jayitha had reached the restaurant before me and found a place very close to this group of young Afghanans, 8 of them, who were busy eating and discussing plans for the evening and the week.
As we played catch-up on our table, I could simultaneously overhear what these gals were talking about. They were giggling away, discussing movies, places they wanted to go shopping and boys. The content of their conversation was banal, but from this group a warmth emanated that really seemed to make the place more welcoming and refreshing in a strange way.
I told Aaron about what my Dad was doing in Afghanistan with the United Nations. How I was so proud of the fact that he didnt flinch at leaving stately comforts in New Delhi to go help build the Independent Election Commission of Afghanistan. How his compound had been attacked several times by terrorists. His account of a day spent in a bomb bunker. His report of the people and the country. (I'm so happy to be his son and if I was even an iota of what he is today, I'd be satisfied human being.)
I told Aaron about the twenty odd books I had read on Afghanistan since my Dad had been there. And how I wanted to visit the country sometime soon. I even told him how I had once contemplated quitting my job and becoming a UN Volunteer in Afghanistan, but decided against it. Afghanistan for me has became Coleridge's Xanadu. Someday..
Aaron told me that he got into swimming and Spanish classes, while I sipped away my Aush (Afghani noodle soup.) That Google's been treating him quite well. He'd been to London lately. That a erstwhile common friend who we both despised for his womanising habits had finally packed up his bags and left the US for good. And then he gesticulated with an oblique movement of the head towards the Afghanans. Or so I thought and looked over his shoulder.
Two of them were staring at me with their heads frequently turning only with brief intermissions of conversation, which I am presume referred to Aaron and I. I couldnt discern if they pitied me because my father was in Afghanistan, or if they were a little taken aback from the accounts that I had been yapping about for the past few minutes. I became keenly aware that sometimes I talk loud enough for the whole world to hear. I smiled politely and looked away. I was hungry, my food was before me and I had company. There was no need to be distracted.
We finished our meals, my flight was at 9 and the clock was ticking way to signal that it was nearly 8pm. I knew I'd have to go stand-by on the next one. So in a hurry, I took care of the check, walked both of them out and ran to my car.
As I buckled up, I reminded myself to make sure that I hadnt forgotten my credit card at the restaurant. I have a nasty habit of forgetting things in strange places. I actually had. So quickly, I walked back into the restaurant and asked the hostess if she had my card. There was a silence.
I looked at her and explained that I had just eaten here and pointed to my table and reiterated that I had left my card behind. More silence. Irritation began to set in, when suddenly she said in a mish-mashed accent that sounded Iranian to me; "Youre the guy talking about your father in Afghanistan?" News did travel fast in the subcontinent, but I was flustered that she knew. "Here's your c(o)rd. Sharjeel, that sounds like a Persian name." I really had no time for small talk, I took my card, told her that it was Hebrew, that the food was good, and said my goodbyes. She gave me a small plastic snack pack which had cookies and dates, complimentary, for folks to break their fasts. I bowed and rushed out.
Driving like a madman on the 880 to get to the airport on time, I tried to make sense of why I got a cookie pack, eventhough I had clearly fed myself enough to put Takeru Kobayashi to shame. I pulled into the rental car facility and quickly grabbed the bag of cookies. It had a note. An Afghan fortune cookie.
It read:
You ask me about that country whose details now escape me,
I don't remember its geography, nothing of its history.
And should I visit it in memory,
It would be as I would a past lover,
After years, for a night, no longer restless with passion,With no fear of regret.
I have reached that age when one visits the heart merely as a courtesy.
It was then I realised that , like that hostess, I dont have a place to call home anymore. India, the country of my birth, UK the country of my childhood, Singapore the country of my youth and the US the country of my future, but neither a country I could can home. And that I had become a glorified vagrant, an entity in the modern economy. Period.
It was then I realised that , like that hostess, I dont have a place to call home anymore. India, the country of my birth, UK the country of my childhood, Singapore the country of my youth and the US the country of my future, but neither a country I could can home. And that I had become a glorified vagrant, an entity in the modern economy. Period.
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