KIRT
Kirt entered the supervisor's office and looked around. It was a room that didn't deserve to be called an office ... it was more like a storage room. Old and broken stage and drama equipment was piled up (actually, tossed would be the more appropriate word).
He couldn't believe this was the place he had been waiting to see for the past three days.
But if this place could fill his eighty-hour-starved tummy, he didn't mind it at all.
"Sir, this is the boy I told you about," James said, introducing him to the man sitting behind the table ... likely the supervisor.
James was Aunty Fern's brother.
Aunty Fern was the only positive presence in Kirt's life. She ran a small canteen-like restaurant in the slum where Kirt lived. She had raised him like her own.
Kirt had been staying at her canteen at night. That was all she could offer, and that was all he could accept, given her poor financial condition. For Kirt, just having a roof to sleep under was a blessing.
"James, will he even be able to handle it?" The supervisor scanned Kirt from head to toe, clearly judging him too young for the job.
"Sir, don't take him for a minor. He's strong. He'll do whatever you ask him to," James replied confidently, well-instructed by Aunty Fern.
"Will you be able to manage? It's a night shift," the supervisor asked again, still skeptical.
"Yes, sir. Please give me one chance," Kirt replied pleadingly.
This would work well ... he could attend school during the day too.
"I'll prove that I'm capable of doing this job," Kirt added, thinking to himself:
This is the only chance. I have to grab it by hook or by crook.
He looked at the supervisor with hopeful eyes, wondering if he'd need to beg more.
"Okay. Your shift will be eight hours ... from 7 PM to 3 AM. 350 baht per night. But if you break anything, your job will be terminated, and you'll have to pay for the damages," the supervisor said sternly.
Kirt almost jumped with joy. He had never earned that much ... not even when he was forced to sell his body to those monsters.
"Okay, sir... but can I ask for one more favour? Please, can I stay here from 3 AM to 8 AM? My school is nearby, and I could catch a bit more sleep," Kirt asked softly.
He was only thirteen, yet life had taught him harsh lessons that had aged his soul far beyond his years.
"Sir, please allow him," James added. "I'll vouch for him. He's an orphan. He has no one in this world besides my sister."
For a moment, Kirt felt immense gratitude toward Fern and James. He had seen so many double-faced, cruel people that their small kindnesses felt like acts of angels.
"Okay. But make sure he has no criminal record. I don't want any trouble in this agency," the supervisor warned.
Thank God the police officer hadn't filed a report against me.
"Not at all, sir. He's staying at my sister's place, and we've never had any issues with him," James assured him.
"Fine, you can stay here ... but only till 8 AM. Our shift starts at 9. You must leave before that. Is that okay?"
"That's more than okay... it's fabulous. Thank you, sir!" Kirt exclaimed, his face glowing with joy. He felt like jumping up and shouting in excitement ... this was the last thing he had expected.
"I'll be here at exactly seven," he exclaimed with enthusiasm, then rushed back to Aunty Fern's canteen to collect his belongings.
More than just bedding, he packed his schoolbooks and an old trunk that held his clothes and few memories.
He was stepping forward in life.
What he didn't know was that this step would lead him to heights he had never imagined...
-----------------------------------
WASHMA
The jeep stopped, and everyone had questions in their eyes ... which Mir Lala soon answered.
"You people have gone through a long journey and a difficult situation. You must be hungry. I'm going to bring something for you," Mir Lala said, showing his concern in his usual stern voice.
Washma glanced at Rukhsaar, who was sleeping ... oblivious to the world. She was always like that. Vehicles were like her personal swings. Watching her sister with loving eyes, Washma turned her gaze outside the window. The dusty dunes started from Torkham and stretched through Jalalabad.
Of course, even the dunes were luckier than them ... having no boundaries or restrictions.
Her gaze shifted to a small mud restaurant ... simple, yet beautiful.
The front yard had charpoys (traditional woven beds) arranged in a row, with tables set in the middle. There was also floor seating on carpets, adorned with beautiful Afghan handcrafted cushions.
The smell of brewing tea and sizzling chapli kebabs was enough to remind them that they had stomachs that hadn't eaten in the past 12 hours.
For a moment, she just wanted to remove her burqa, squat on one of those charpoys, and devour the chapli kebabs ... but alas...
This dream was only a dream.
Amidst this train of thought, Mir Lala and Nazar Baba returned with food ... chapli kebab, roghani naan, and chai.
In the backseat, it was quite difficult for us to eat while trying to manage our burqas and make space for the teacups. But we had no choice. Either we satisfied our hunger or our modesty.
After a few minutes, Mir Lala returned ... annoyed to see us still eating.
"You people still haven't finished?"
We didn't want his annoyance to turn into anger, so we quickly poured the hot tea down our throats, rolled up the remaining kebabs and naan in newspaper, and returned the utensils.
At least the burqa gave us one advantage ... we could do anything inside it unnoticed. So we decided to eat the rest of the food in peace, inside our tent-like burqas. We even stored some, just in case we reached Kabul late and Mir Lala wasn't in the mood to stop the jeep again.
Slowly, the dusty dunes gave way to a lush, green chain of mountains ... the majestic Hindu Kush ranges. The dry air turned into cool breezes, signaling that their city, their homeland ... Kabul ... was near.
They passed through quiet, serene greenlands.
For them, it felt like returning home after a long, exhausting battle.
The Kabul River snaked its way through the city, adding a touch of serenity to the otherwise bustling capital.
Known as the city of warm, resilient, and poetic people, Kabul is where its residents often turn to poetry, storytelling, and music ... especially during gatherings or over chai at local stalls. Despite enduring years of internal and external conflict, the spirit of hospitality remains strong.
The jeep now entered the crowded markets of Kabul. Only men were visible ... there wasn't even a shadow of a woman, not even in the shops that sold only female products.
This market, Koch-e-Murg (Chicken Market), is known for its traditional Afghan handicrafts, carpets, antiques, jewelry, lapis lazuli, and souvenirs.
As they reached their destination, both of them closed their eyes.
No matter how hard their lives had been, they loved their home...
They loved Kabul.