The Kite Runner

Ahmad Zahir

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.

I brought Hassan’s son from Afghanistan to America, lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty.

that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.

that, I believe, is what true redemption is, Amir jan, when guilt leads to good.

“Children aren’t coloring books. You don’t get to fill them with your favorite colors.”

despite his illiteracy, or maybe because of it, Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words, seduced by a secret world forbidden to him.

classical ghazal by Ustad Sarahang.

“Remember, Amir agha. There’s no monster, just a beautiful day.” How could I be such an open book to him when, half the time, I had no idea what was milling around in his head? I was the one who went to school, the one who could read, write. I was the smart one. Hassan couldn’t read a first-grade textbook but he’d read me plenty. That was a little