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t someone will provoke them。 Sooner or later； someone always obliges。 Then the dogs feast and the day s boredom is broken at last and everyone says Allah…u…akbar！ And on those days when no one offends； well； there is always random violence； isn t there？
Keep your eyes on your feet when the Talibs are near； Farid said。
Your friend dispenses good advice； the old beggar chimed in。 He barked a wet cough and spat in a soiled handkerchief。 Forgive me； but could you spare a few Afghanis？ he breathed。
Bas。 Let s go； Farid said； pulling me by the arm。
I handed the old man a hundred thousand Afghanis； or the equivalent of about three dollars。 When he leaned forward to take the money； his stench……like sour milk and feet that hadn t been washed in weeks……flooded my nostrils and made my gorge rise。 He hurriedly slipped the money in his waist； his lone eye darting side to side。 A world of thanks for your benevolence； Agha sahib。
Do you know where the orphanage is in Karteh…Seh？ I said。
It s not hard to find； it s just west of Darulaman Boulevard； he said。 The children were moved from here to Karteh…Seh after the rockets hit the old orphanage。 Which is like saving someone from the lion s cage and throwing them in the tiger s。
Thank you； Agha； I said。 I turned to go。
That was your first time； nay？
I m sorry？
The first time you saw a Talib。
I said nothing。 The old beggar nodded and smiled。 Revealed a handful of remaining teeth； all crooked and yellow。 I remember the first time I saw them rolling into Kabul。 What a joyous day that was！ he said。 An end to the killing！ Wah wah！ But like the poet says： How seamless seemed love and then came trouble！
A smile sprouted on my face。 I know that ghazal。 That s H~afez。
Yes it is。 Indeed； the old man replied。 I should know。 I used to teach it at the university。
You did？
The old man coughed。 From 1958 to 1996。 I taught H~afez； Khayy醡； Rumi； Beydel； Jami； Saadi。 Once； I was even a guest lecturer in Tehran； 1971 that was。 I gave a lecture on the mystic Beydel。 I remember how they all stood and clapped。 Ha！ He shook his head。 But you saw those young men in the truck。 What value do you think they see in Sufism？
My mother taught at the university； I said。
And what was her name？
Sofia Akrami。
His eye managed to twinkle through the veil of cataracts。 The desert weed lives on； but the flower of spring blooms and wilts。 Such grace； such dignity； such a tragedy。
You knew my mother？ I asked； kneeling before the old man。
Yes indeed； the old beggar said。 We used to sit and talk after class。 The last time was on a rainy day just before final exams when we shared a marvelous slice of almond cake together。 Almond cake with hot tea and honey。 She was rather obviously pregnant by then； and all the more beautiful for it。 I will never forget what she said to me that day。
What？ Please tell me。 Baba had always described my mother to me in broad strokes； like； She was a great woman。 But what I had always thirsted for were the details： the way her hair glinted in the sunlight； her fav