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Kabul and the Taliban。 He listened and nodded； his cane on his lap； and tsk ed when I told him of the man I had spotted selling his artificial leg。 I made no mention of the executions at Ghazi Stadium and Assef。 He asked about Rahim Khan； whom he said he had met in Kabul a few times； and shook his head solemnly when I told him of Rahim Khan s illness。 But as we spoke； I caught his eyes drifting again and again to Sohrab sleeping on
the couch。 As if we were skirting around the edge of what he really wanted to know。
The skirting finally came to an end over dinner when the general put down his fork and said； So； Amir jan； you re going to tell us why you have brought back this boy with you？
Iqbal jan！ What sort of question is that？ Khala Jamila said。
〃While you re busy knitting sweaters； my dear； I have to deal with the munity s perception of our family。 People will ask。 They will want to know why there is a Hazara boy living with our daughter。 What do I tell them？
Soraya dropped her spoon。 Turned on her father。 You can tell them……
It s okay； Soraya； I said； taking her hand。 It s okay。 General Sahib is quite right。 People will ask。
Amir…… she began。
It s all right。 I turned to the general。 You see； General Sahib； my father slept with his servant s wife。 She bore him a son named Hassan。 Hassan is dead now。 That boy sleeping on the couch is Hassan s son。 He s my nephew。 That s what you tell people when they ask。
They were all staring at me。
And one more thing； General Sahib； I said。 You will never again refer to him as Hazara boy in my presence。 He has a name and it s Sohrab。
No one said anything for the remainder of the meal。
IT WOULD BE ERRONEOUS to say Sohrab was quiet。 Quiet is peace。 Tranquillity。 Quiet is turning down the VOLUME knob on life。
Silence is pushing the OFF button。 Shutting it down。 All of it。
Sohrab s silence wasn t the self…imposed silence of those with convictions； of protesters who seek to speak their cause by not speaking at all。 It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place； curled up all the edges and tucked them under。
He didn t so much live with us as occupy space。 And precious little of it。 Sometimes； at the market； or in the park； I d notice how other people hardly seemed to even see him； like he wasn t there at all。 I d look up from a book and realize Sohrab had entered the room； had sat across from me； and I hadn t noticed。 He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints。 He moved as if not to stir the air around him。 Mostly； he slept。
Sohrab s silence was hard on Soraya too。 Over that long…distance line to Pakistan； Soraya had told me about the things she was planning for Sohrab。 Swimming classes。 Soccer。 Bowling league。 Now she d walk past Sohrab s room and catch a glimpse of books sitting unopened in the wicker basket； the growth chart unmarked； the jigsaw puzzle unassembled； each item a reminder of a life that could have been。 A reminder of a dream that was wilting even as it was budding。 But she hadn t been alone。 I d had my own dreams for Sohrab。
While Sohrab was silent； t