Literature:
Memoirs of a Proud Father
“Is he really my son?” I sometimes wonder at the ways of my son, Amir. I had been so different as a child. The best kite flyer, tall and athletic and loved as a football hero! While my son seems to be hiding behind his mother’s books all the time. He doesn’t even enjoy watching football, let alone play it. I observe with a sinking heart that he is easily bullied, and Hassan, who is only living as a servant’s son, defends him and protects him. The most disgusting habit of his is to cry, all because he fell down and scraped his knee. May be if his mother had been alive, I would not have been so embarrassed about this. But even though I want to, I cannot hide my contempt for him, when I think of the day I took him to watch a traditional sport, the annual Buzkashi tournament, and he started to cry, when one of the horsemen was stamped to death.
I speak about this to Rahim, who knows my other secret, that Hassan is my son too. Rahim has a soft corner for Amir and tells me that the boy is just finding his way around. I want to believe Rahim , but at the same time cant help wondering if something is missing in Amir .
It is both a pleasure and a pain to see Amir and Hassan together. Although he is born to a servant, I feel proud to see how smart and intelligent Hassan is. I feel so guilty that I cannot educate him, and that he has to live in a dingy servant’s home. The boy himself, calmly accepts his lot and never asks me for anything, although I encourage him several times to choose a gift. I decide to get his cleft lip sewed, with the help of a plastic surgeon from India..
The boys seem to be happy practising for the kite flying competition. The only thing Amir is good at, is flying kites, and of course, Hassan assists him and he is the best kite runner. I start to feel hopeful about m y son when I see him win the kite flying competition. I arranged for a grand party to celebrate his birthday, and shower him with gifts.
Strangely, soon after, Hassan stops smiling altogether. And to make things worse, Amir accuses Hassan of robbery, and the latter confesses to have stolen Amir’s gift and money. This is totally confusing to me. The boy never lies and I realize he is not going to tell me how the stolen money found its way to his quarters. Hassan and Ali want to leave the household and I cannot hold back my tears. I love the boy too much and beg him not to leave, but they do so.
This personal tragedy pales in front of the national crisis and I have to flee my own country and escape to America. On the way I am enraged to see a guard at the border try to rob a good woman of her chastity. When I try to stop him, he threatens me with a gun, but I am ready to give up my life, rather than watch injustice being meted out to a woman. I will not allow the woman to be raped. Fortunately, a senior officer intervenes and we all proceed across the border.
Amir looks relieved, but guilty at the same time. I wonder why.
We emigrate to America. I find myself a job at a gas station, but here my status is dimnished. I am neither rich, nor respected or powerful. On top of this, I am affected by lung cancer. Luckily, my son seems to have embraced this country and seems to be coping well. He has scored high grades in junior college, and I am proud of it . I cannot help admiring how he pacifies me when people here fail to understand me, like the shopkeeper, who asks me for an ID. A foreigner does not know that Pashtuns think of honour and shame as greater than all other values.
I remind Amir of the importance of honour, because he seems to be drawn to Soraya, a girl from a good Pashtun family. Just as I warn him, Soraya’s father cautions him to maintain a distance with his daughter, and not chat with her without a serious intention to marry her. However, now that I am hospitalized after having a seizure, every one knows that I have cancer. It is great to see how my people offer me help, in a time of crisis. Soraya’s parents in particular show how much they value our relationship. Soon after they leave, Amir asks me to talk to Soraya’s parents and ask for her hand in marriage.
I ask Amir if he is sure, because, although in my heart I know that Suraiya is a worthy young woman, Amir should feel the same. He reaffirms his intention to marry her and the same instant, I call the Taheri’s and get an appointment to meet them. I go to their home, speak of my family, its honour and tradition and ask for Soraya’s hand in marriage for Amir, who is a good boy and has been a good son to me. They consent and the date is fixed for the wedding soon, because by now everyone knows that I have very little time left.
It is fortunate that I still have some money left in my savings that I can spend on the wedding. Thirty five thousand pounds seems to be a small price to pay to see my son looking happy and handsome in a new suit, and sign his marriage vows in the presence of three hundred friends and relatives at the large Afghan banquet hall in Fremont.
I am not totally surprised, when the newly married couple choose to move in with me. Soraiya takes good care of me, making my toast and tea, helping me in and out of my bed, taking me for walks around the block and giving me my pills. She even washes my clothes. It is when she is reading the international section of the newspaper that I put her up to it. I stop her and ask her if she will read Amir’s stories from his leather bound book. She is thrilled with the idea and gets it from their room. As she reads one page after another, we are so engrossed in the stories, that we don’t hear Amir open the door. She quickly slides the book into my blanket, but Amir is not fooled. His face shows a strange mixture of joy and pain, as he p ulls his diary out and I tell him that it was my idea that we read his stories. As he hurries away, I am filled with pride and wonder. Did my son reallywrite so well? Such depth in thought and emotion, and a fine sense of irony too! May be, I should have spoken to him more than I did.
I realize that my son is all right, and has not turned out to be a wimp, as I had feared. Only he has taken after his mother and has developed skills very different from my own. In his own way, he has stood up for what he wants. Although he knows that the life of a writer is filled with challenges, and although he is certain of my disapproval, he has taken up studying language and had done some appreciable writing . Ofcourse, he is talented. Just that, I have not realised it and acknowledge it. He has found the right girl for himself and with this choice, has gifted me with a daughter, who takes care of me so well. It was so right of him to overlook her teenage elopement. I don’t know where Hassan is, or how life has been for him, but I am sure, that Amir is going to be a good man.
It is a month since my son got married. Many of Suraiya’s relatives are here and the food tastes good, although I am unable to swallow much. But I refuse the pain medication that I usually take, because so much peace fills my heart to watch my son happy with his wife and her extended family. I kiss my son and his wife good night. Let me close my eyes and rest.
