us, he reached into the shirt pocket of his baggy shalwar kameez. Pinched between his fingers was the 500-Afghani note. Ali snatched it from Hamza. Holding the note, my brother put his eyes to the ground, ashamed by his desperation.
I need someone to watch my shop tonight, said Hamza. If you boys do that, others will likely have business for you in the morning.
You would trust us with your shop? asked Ali.
I ask no man to trust me and I trust no one. Trust is a burden one puts on another. Then he spoke the proverb: But he is my friend that grinds at my mill .
Hamza left us two blankets and an oil lamp. We wrapped ourselves in them and placed the lamp between us. Our blankets smelled of straw and dirt, the lamp of diesel. It was warm inside the stall, and we slept.
In the morning there was work. The other merchants agreed—it was difficult to find someone who’d make an honest delivery for a 500-Afghani note. All through that winter and the following seasons, Ali and I hauled goods to and from the bazaar. Flour to the bakers, bolts of fabric to the tailors, we stacked our wheelbarrow’s load so its height often exceeded our own. We’d soon earned enough money to buy a handcart or even a mule, but Ali refused to spend it. Instead he saved every coin, and at the end of each day the last merchant to close up would let us sleep on the dirt floor of his shop.
The next fall was our fourth away from home. This is when the Americans came. The militants in Orgun hid in the border mountains. At night they’d return. Some were Haqqanis, I think, but most now called themselves Taliban. A few were honorable men who practiced Pashtunwali, but many did as they pleased, taking what they wanted from homes and shops. We heard stories of far greater crimes outside Orgun. Militants accused men of being informants and beheaded them in front of their families. Americans accused men of being militants and disappeared them in the night on helicopters. The militants fought to protect us from the Americans and the Americans fought to protect us from the militants, and being so protected, life was very dangerous. Those who came to the market from smaller, far-off villages spoke of gun battles and bombings. We learned the names of commanders such as Sabir, Hafez, and later, Gazan. They fought on all sides and lived with us like shadows, like those of the boys we’d once slept beside in the mountains. The merchants in the bazaar picked no side. The politics of their war never changed—survival. Ali and I continued to make deliveries. We also gavethe merchants a watchful set of eyes at night. For this we were valued and that seemed very good.
One night more than a year after Ali punched Rafi Jan, now one of our best customers, my brother said he had a gift for me. I asked him what it was, but he would tell me nothing. Instead, he turned down the flame of the oil lamp that sat between us on the floor. The room grew dark and he held his index finger to the sky as he spoke.
Look there, Aziz, what do you see?
Father’s ring, I said. The ring shone in the dim lamplight, and I thought perhaps he would give it to me.
Khar , donkey! Ali snapped, and clapped me on the back of the head. I point at the moon and you stare at my finger. Do you see the moon, there?
I looked past his finger and through a small shuttered window.
Yes, I said. I see it.
And what do you know of it?
It is a half-moon tonight.
Do you know why? Ali asked.
No.
No, he repeated. Do you feel any shame that you don’t know?
You don’t know either, I reminded him.
You’re right, he said. I don’t. But I feel shame because of it.
Between us it became quiet.
And this, Father’s ring, he said. How would you replace it if it were lost?
I would never lose it.
Someday it will be lost, he said. And if we haven’t learned to replace it, the loss will be complete.
If you give it to me, I said, it will never be lost.
I very much wanted the ring.
Ali shook his head and
I need someone to watch my shop tonight, said Hamza. If you boys do that, others will likely have business for you in the morning.
You would trust us with your shop? asked Ali.
I ask no man to trust me and I trust no one. Trust is a burden one puts on another. Then he spoke the proverb: But he is my friend that grinds at my mill .
Hamza left us two blankets and an oil lamp. We wrapped ourselves in them and placed the lamp between us. Our blankets smelled of straw and dirt, the lamp of diesel. It was warm inside the stall, and we slept.
In the morning there was work. The other merchants agreed—it was difficult to find someone who’d make an honest delivery for a 500-Afghani note. All through that winter and the following seasons, Ali and I hauled goods to and from the bazaar. Flour to the bakers, bolts of fabric to the tailors, we stacked our wheelbarrow’s load so its height often exceeded our own. We’d soon earned enough money to buy a handcart or even a mule, but Ali refused to spend it. Instead he saved every coin, and at the end of each day the last merchant to close up would let us sleep on the dirt floor of his shop.
The next fall was our fourth away from home. This is when the Americans came. The militants in Orgun hid in the border mountains. At night they’d return. Some were Haqqanis, I think, but most now called themselves Taliban. A few were honorable men who practiced Pashtunwali, but many did as they pleased, taking what they wanted from homes and shops. We heard stories of far greater crimes outside Orgun. Militants accused men of being informants and beheaded them in front of their families. Americans accused men of being militants and disappeared them in the night on helicopters. The militants fought to protect us from the Americans and the Americans fought to protect us from the militants, and being so protected, life was very dangerous. Those who came to the market from smaller, far-off villages spoke of gun battles and bombings. We learned the names of commanders such as Sabir, Hafez, and later, Gazan. They fought on all sides and lived with us like shadows, like those of the boys we’d once slept beside in the mountains. The merchants in the bazaar picked no side. The politics of their war never changed—survival. Ali and I continued to make deliveries. We also gavethe merchants a watchful set of eyes at night. For this we were valued and that seemed very good.
One night more than a year after Ali punched Rafi Jan, now one of our best customers, my brother said he had a gift for me. I asked him what it was, but he would tell me nothing. Instead, he turned down the flame of the oil lamp that sat between us on the floor. The room grew dark and he held his index finger to the sky as he spoke.
Look there, Aziz, what do you see?
Father’s ring, I said. The ring shone in the dim lamplight, and I thought perhaps he would give it to me.
Khar , donkey! Ali snapped, and clapped me on the back of the head. I point at the moon and you stare at my finger. Do you see the moon, there?
I looked past his finger and through a small shuttered window.
Yes, I said. I see it.
And what do you know of it?
It is a half-moon tonight.
Do you know why? Ali asked.
No.
No, he repeated. Do you feel any shame that you don’t know?
You don’t know either, I reminded him.
You’re right, he said. I don’t. But I feel shame because of it.
Between us it became quiet.
And this, Father’s ring, he said. How would you replace it if it were lost?
I would never lose it.
Someday it will be lost, he said. And if we haven’t learned to replace it, the loss will be complete.
If you give it to me, I said, it will never be lost.
I very much wanted the ring.
Ali shook his head and
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