ዿ Format Kindle [ ಳ The Kite Runner ] ጼ PDF by Khaled Hosseini ፸

ዿ Format Kindle [ ಳ The Kite Runner ] ጼ PDF by Khaled Hosseini ፸ ዿ Format Kindle [ ಳ The Kite Runner ] ጼ PDF by Khaled Hosseini ፸ KHALED HOSSEINI was born in Kabul, Afghanistan, the son of a diplomat whose family received political asylum in the United States in 1980 He lives in northern California, where he is a physician The Kite Runner is his first novel.KHALED HOSSEINITHE KITE RUNNERRIVERHEAD BOOKSNEW YORKACKNOWLEDGMENTSCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY ONECHAPTER TWENTY TWOCHAPTER TWENTY THREECHAPTER TWENTY FOURCHAPTER TWENTY FIVEACKNOWLEDGMENTSI am indebted to the following colleagues for their advice, assistance, or support Dr Alfred Lerner, Dori Vakis, Robin Heck, Dr Todd Dray, Dr Robert Tull, and Dr Sandy Chun Thanks also to Lynette Parker of East San Jose Community Law Center for her advice about adoption procedures, and to Mr Daoud Wahab for sharing his experiences in Afghanistan with me I am grateful to my dear friend Tamim Ansary for his guidance and support and to the gang at the San Francisco Writers Workshop for their feedback and encouragement I want to thank my father, my oldest friend and the inspiration for all that is noble in Baba my mother who prayed for me and did nazr at every stage of this books writing my aunt for buying me books when I was young Thanks go out to Ali, Sandy, Daoud, Walid, Raya, Shalla, Zahra, Rob, and Kader for reading my stories I want to thank Dr and Mrs Kayoumymy other parentsfor their warmth and unwavering support.I must thank my agent and friend, Elaine Koster, for her wisdom, patience, and gracious ways, as well as Cindy Spiegel, my keen eyed and judicious editor who helped me unlock so many doors in this tale And I would like to thank Susan Petersen Kennedy for taking a chance on this book and the hardworking staff at Riverhead for laboring over it.Last, I dont know how to thank my lovely wife, Royato whose opinion I am addictedfor her kindness and grace, and for reading, re reading, and helping me edit every single draft of this novel For your patience and understanding, I will always love you, Roya jan.THE KITE RUNNERONEDecember 2001I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975 I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek That was a long time ago, but its wrong what they say about the past, Ive learned, about how you can bury it Because the past claws its way out Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty six years.One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan He asked me to come see him Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasnt just Rahim Khan on the line It was my past of unatoned sins After I hung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Golden Gate Park The early afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky They danced high above the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating side by side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now call home And suddenly Hassans voice whispered in my head For you, a thousand times over Hassan the harelipped kite runner.I sat on a park bench near a willow tree I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up, almost as an afterthought There is a way to be good again I looked up at those twin kites I thought about Hassan Thought about Baba Ali Kabul I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came along and changed everything And made me what I am today.TWOWhen we were children, Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my fathers house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their homes with a shard of mirror We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches, our naked feet dangling, our trouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing I can still see Hassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood his flat, broad nose and slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked, depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire I can still see his tiny low set ears and that pointed stub of a chin, a meaty appendage that looked like it was added as a mere afterthought And the cleft lip, just left of midline, where the Chinese doll makers instrument may have slipped, or perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless.Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbors one eyed German shepherd Hassan never wanted to, but if I asked, really asked, he wouldnt deny me Hassan never denied me anything And he was deadly with his slingshot Hassans father, Ali, used to catch us and get mad, or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer And he laughs while he does it, he always added, scowling at his son.Yes, Father, Hassan would mumble, looking down at his feet But he never told on me Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbors dog, was always my idea.The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought iron gates They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my fathers estate The house sat on the left side of the brick path, the backyard at the end of it.Everyone agreed that my father, my Baba, had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, a new and affluent neighborhood in the northern part of Kabul Some thought it was the prettiest house in all of Kabul A broad entryway flanked by rosebushes led to the sprawling house of marble floors and wide windows Intricate mosaic tiles, handpicked by Baba in Isfahan, covered the floors of the four bathrooms Gold stitched tapestries, which Baba had bought in Calcutta, lined the walls a crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling.Upstairs was my bedroom, Babas room, and his study, also known as the smoking room, which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner They stuffed their pipesexcept Baba always called it fattening the pipeand discussed their favorite three topics politics, business, soccer Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway Go on, now, hed say This is grown ups time Why dont you go read one of those books of yours Hed close the door, leave me to wonder why it was always grown ups time with him Id sit by the door, knees drawn to my chest Sometimes I sat there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter.The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custom built cabinets Inside sat framed family pictures an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in 1931, two years before the kings assassination they are standing over a dead deer, dressed in knee high boots, rifles slung over their shoulders There was a picture of my parents wedding night, Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white Here was Baba and his best friend and business partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one smilingI am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim Im in his arms, but its Rahim Khans pinky my fingers are curled around.The curved wall led into the dining room, at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guestsand, given my fathers taste for extravagant parties, it did just that almost every week On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime.A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall tomatoes, mint, peppers, and a row of corn that never really took Hassan and I used to call it the Wall of Ailing Corn.On the south end of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father.It was there, in that little shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, just one year after my mother died giving birth to me.In the eighteen years that I lived in that house, I stepped into Hassan and Alis quarters only a handful of times When the sun dropped low behind the hills and we were done playing for the day, Hassan and I parted ways I went past the rosebushes to Babas mansion, Hassan to the mud shack where he had been born, where hed lived his entire life I remember it was spare, clean, dimly lit by a pair of kerosene lamps There were two mattresses on opposite sides of the room, a worn Herati rug with frayed edges in between, a three legged stool, and a wooden table in the corner where Hassan did his drawings The walls stood bare, save for a single tapestry with sewn in beads forming the words Allah u akbar Baba had bought it for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad.It was in that small shack that Hassans mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in 1964 While my mother hemorrhaged to death during childbirth, Hassan lost his less than a week after he was born Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse than death She ran off with a clan of traveling singers and dancers.Hassan never talked about his mother, as if shed never existed I always wondered if he dreamed about her, about what she looked like, where she was I wondered if he longed to meet her Did he ache for her, the way I ached for the mother I had never met One day, we were walking from my fathers house to Cinema Zainab for a new Iranian movie, taking the shortcut through the military barracks near Istiqlal Middle SchoolBaba had forbidden us to take that shortcut, but he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time We hopped the fence that surrounded the barracks, skipped over a little creek, and broke into the open dirt field where old, abandoned tanks collected dust A group of soldiers huddled in the shade of one of those tanks, smoking cigarettes and playing cards One of them saw us, elbowed the guy next to him, and called Hassan.Hey, you he said I know you.We had never seen him before He was a squatty man with a shaved head and black stubble on his face The way he grinned at us, leered, scared me Just keep walking, I muttered to Hassan.You The Hazara Look at me when Im talking to you the soldier barked He handed his cigarette to the guy next to him, made a circle with the thumb and index finger of one hand Poked the middle finger of his other hand through the circle Poked it in and out In and out I knew your mother, did you know that I knew her real good I took her from behind by that creek over there.The soldiers laughed One of them made a squealing sound I told Hassan to keep walking, keep walking.What a tight little sugary cunt she had the soldier was saying, shaking hands with the others, grinning Later, in the dark, after the movie had started, I heard Hassan next to me, croaking Tears were sliding down his cheeks I reached across my seat, slung my arm around him, pulled him close He rested his head on my shoulder He took you for someone else, I whispered He took you for someone else.Im told no one was really surprised when Sanaubar eloped People had raised their eyebrows when Ali, a man who had memorized the Koran, married Sanaubar, a woman nineteen years younger, a beautiful but notoriously unscrupulous woman who lived up to her dishonorable reputation Like Ali, she was a Shia Muslim and an ethnic Hazara She was also his first cousin and therefore a natural choice for a spouse But beyond those similarities, Ali and Sanaubar had little in common, least of all their respective appearances While Sanaubars brilliant green eyes and impish face had, rumor has it, tempted countless men into sin, Ali had a congenital paralysis of his lower facial muscles, a condition that rendered him unable to smile and left him perpetually grim faced It was an odd thing to see the stone faced Ali happy, or sad, because only his slanted brown eyes glinted with a smile or welled with sorrow People say that eyes are windows to the soul Never was that true than with Ali, who could only reveal himself through his eyes.I have heard that Sanaubars suggestive stride and oscillating hips sent men to reveries of infidelity But polio had left Ali with a twisted, atrophied right leg that was sallow skin over bone with little in between except a paper thin layer of muscle I remember one day, when I was eight, Ali was taking me to the bazaar to buy some naan I was walking behind him, humming, trying to imitate his walk I watched him swing his scraggy leg in a sweeping arc, watched his whole body tilt impossibly to the right every time he planted that foot It seemed a minor miracle he didnt tip over with each step When I tried it, I almost fell into the gutter That got me giggling Ali turned around, caught me aping him He didnt say anything Not then, not ever He just kept walking.Alis face and his walk frightened some of the younger children in the neighborhood But the real trouble was with the older kids They chased him on the street, and mocked him when he hobbled by Some had taken to calling him Babalu, or Boogeyman Hey, Babalu, who did you eat today they barked to a chorus of laughter Who did you eat, you flat nosed Babalu They called him flat nosed because of Ali and Hassans characteristic Hazara Mongoloid features For years, that was all I knew about the Hazaras, that they were Mogul descendants, and that they looked a little like Chinese people School textbooks barely mentioned them and referred to their ancestry only in passing Then one day, I was in Babas study, looking through his stuff, when I found one of my mothers old history books It was written by an Iranian named Khorami I blew the dust off it, sneaked it into bed with me that night, and was stunned to find an entire chapter on Hazara history An entire chapter dedicated to Hassans people In it, I read that my people, the Pashtuns, had persecuted and oppressed the Hazaras It said the Hazaras had tried to rise against the Pashtuns in the nineteenth century, but the Pashtuns had quelled them with unspeakable violence The book said that my people had killed the Hazaras, driven them from their lands, burned their homes, and sold their women The book said part of the reason Pashtuns had oppressed the Hazaras was that Pashtuns were Sunni Muslims, while Hazaras were Shia The book said a lot of things I didnt know, things my teachers hadnt mentioned Things Baba hadnt mentioned either It also said some things I did know, like that people called Hazaras mice eating, flat nosed, load carrying donkeys I had heard some of the kids in the neighborhood yell those names to Hassan.The following week, after class, I showed the book to my teacher and pointed to the chapter on the Hazaras He skimmed through a couple of pages, snickered, handed the book back Thats the one thing Shia people do well, he said, picking up his papers, passing themselves as martyrs He wrinkled his nose when he said the word Shia, like it was some kind of disease.But despite sharing ethnic heritage and family blood, Sanaubar joined the neighborhood kids in taunting Ali I have heard that she made no secret of her disdain for his appearance.This is a husband she would sneer I have seen old donkeys better suited to be a husband.In the end, most people suspected the marriage had been an arrangement of sorts between Ali and his uncle, Sanaubars father They said Ali had married his cousin to help restore some honor to his uncles blemished name, even though Ali, who had been orphaned at the age of five, had no worldly possessions or inheritance to speak of.Ali never retaliated against any of his tormentors, I suppose partly because he could never catch them with that twisted leg dragging behind him But mostly because Ali was immune to the insults of his assailants he had found his joy, his antidote, the moment Sanaubar had given birth to Hassan It had been a simple enough affair No obstetricians, no anesthesiologists, no fancy monitoring devices Just Sanaubar lying on a stained, naked mattress with Ali and a midwife helping her She hadnt needed much help at all, because, even in birth, Hassan was true to his nature He was incapable of hurting anyone A few grunts, a couple of pushes, and out came Hassan Out he came smiling.As confided to a neighbors servant by the garrulous midwife, who had then in turn told anyone who would listen, Sanaubar had taken one glance at the baby in Alis arms, seen the cleft lip, and barked a bitter laughter.There, she had said Now you have your own idiot child to do all your smiling for you She had refused to even hold Hassan, and just five days later, she was gone.Baba hired the same nursing woman who had fed me to nurse Hassan Ali told us she was a blue eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan, the city of the giant Buddha statues What a sweet singing voice she had, he used to say to us.What did she sing, Hassan and I always asked, though we already knewAli had told us countless times We just wanted to hear Ali sing.Hed clear his throat and begin On a high mountain I stood,And cried the name of Ali, Lion of God.O Ali, Lion of God, King of Men,Bring joy to our sorrowful hearts.Then he would remind us that there was a brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time could break.Hassan and I fed from the same breasts We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard And, under the same roof, we spoke our first words.Mine was Baba.His was Amir My name.Looking back on it now, I think the foundation for what happened in the winter of 1975and all that followedwas already laid in those first words.THREELore has it my father once wrestled a black bear in Baluchistan with his bare hands If the story had been about anyone else, it would have been dismissed as laaf, that Afghan tendency to exaggeratesadly, almost a national affliction if someone bragged that his son was a doctor, chances were the kid had once passed a biology test in high school But no one ever doubted the veracity of any story about Baba And if they did, well, Baba did have those three parallel scars coursing a jagged path down his back I have imagined Babas wrestling match countless times, even dreamed about it And in those dreams, I can never tell Baba from the bear.It was Rahim Khan who first referred to him as what eventually became Babas famous nickname, Toophan agha, or Mr Hurricane It was an apt enough nickname My father was a force of nature, a towering Pashtun specimen with a thick beard, a wayward crop of curly brown hair as unruly as the man himself, hands that looked capable of uprooting a willow tree, and a black glare that would drop the devil to his knees begging for mercy, as Rahim Khan used to say At parties, when all six foot five of him thundered into the room, attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun.Baba was impossible to ignore, even in his sleep I used to bury cotton wisps in my ears, pull the blanket over my head, and still the sounds of Babas snoringso much like a growling truck enginepenetrated the walls And my room was across the hall from Babas bedroom How my mother ever managed to sleep in the same room as him is a mystery to me Its on the long list of things I would have asked my mother if I had ever met her.In the late 1960s, when I was five or six, Baba decided to build an orphanage I heard the story through Rahim Khan He told me Baba had drawn the blueprints himself despite the fact that hed had no architectural experience at all Skeptics had urged him to stop his foolishness and hire an architect Of course, Baba refused, and everyone shook their heads in dismay at his obstinate ways Then Baba succeeded and everyone shook their heads in awe at his triumphant ways Baba paid for the construction of the two story orphanage, just off the main strip of Jadeh Maywand south of the Kabul River, with his own money Rahim Khan told me Baba had personally funded the entire project, paying for the engineers, electricians, plumbers, and laborers, not to mention the city officials whose mustaches needed oiling.It took three years to build the orphanage I was eight by then I remember the day before the orphanage opened, Baba took me to Ghargha Lake, a few miles north of Kabul He asked me to fetch Hassan too, but I lied and told him Hassan had the runs I wanted Baba all to myself And besides, one time at Ghargha Lake, Hassan and I were skimming stones and Hassan made his stone skip eight times The most I managed was five Baba was there, watching, and he patted Hassan on the back Even put his arm around his shoulder.We sat at a picnic table on the banks of the lake, just Baba and me, eating boiled eggs with kofta sandwichesmeatballs and pickles wrapped in naan The water was a deep blue and sunlight glittered on its looking glassclear surface On Fridays, the lake was bustling with families out for a day in the sun But it was midweek and there was only Baba and me, us and a couple of longhaired, bearded touristshippies, Id heard them called They were sitting on the dock, feet dangling in the water, fishing poles in hand I asked Baba why they grew their hair long, but Baba grunted, didnt answer He was preparing his speech for the next day, flipping through a havoc of handwritten pages, making notes here and there with a pencil I bit into my egg and asked Baba if it was true what a boy in school had told me, that if you ate a piece of eggshell, youd have to pee it out Baba grunted again.I took a bite of my sandwich One of the yellow haired tourists laughed and slapped the other one on the back In the distance, across the lake, a truck lumbered around a corner on the hill Sunlight twinkled in its side view mirror.I think I have saratan, I said Cancer Baba lifted his head from the pages flapping in the breeze Told me I could get the soda myself, all I had to do was look in the trunk of the car.Outside the orphanage, the next day, they ran out of chairs A lot of people had to stand to watch the opening ceremony It was a windy day, and I sat behind Baba on the little podium just outside the main entrance of the new building Baba was wearing a green suit and a caracul hat Midway through the speech, the wind knocked his hat off and everyone laughed He motioned to me to hold his hat for him and I was glad to, because then everyone would see that he was my father, my Baba He turned back to the microphone and said he hoped the building was sturdier than his hat, and everyone laughed again When Baba ended his speech, people stood up and cheered They clapped for a long time Afterward, people shook his hand Some of them tousled my hair and shook my hand too I was so proud of Baba, of us.But despite Babas successes, people were always doubting him They told Baba that running a business wasnt in his blood and he should study law like his father So Baba proved them all wrong by not only running his own business but becoming one of the richest merchants in Kabul Baba and Rahim Khan built a wildly successful carpet exporting business, two pharmacies, and a restaurant.When people scoffed that Baba would never marry wellafter all, he was not of royal bloodhe wedded my mother, Sofia Akrami, a highly educated woman universally regarded as one of Kabuls most respected, beautiful, and virtuous ladies And not only did she teach classic Farsi literature at the university, she was a descendant of the royal family, a fact that my father playfully rubbed in the skeptics faces by referring to her as my princess.With me as the glaring exception, my father molded the world around him to his liking The problem, of course, was that Baba saw the world in black and white And he got to decide what was black and what was white You cant love a person who lives that way without fearing him too Maybe even hating him a little.When I was in fifth grade, we had a mullah who taught us about Islam His name was Mullah Fatiullah Khan, a short, stubby man with a face full of acne scars and a gruff voice He lectured us about the virtues of zakat and the duty of hadj he taught us the intricacies of performing the five daily namaz prayers, and made us memorize verses from the Koranand though he never translated the words for us, he did stress, sometimes with the help of a stripped willow branch, that we had to pronounce the Arabic words correctly so God would hear us better He told us one day that Islam considered drinking a terrible sin those who drank would answer for their sin on the day of Qiyamat, Judgment Day In those days, drinking was fairly common in Kabul No one gave you a public lashing for it, but those Afghans who did drink did so in private, out of respect People bought their scotch as medicine in brown paper bags from selected pharmacies They would leave with the bag tucked out of sight, sometimes drawing furtive, disapproving glances from those who knew about the stores reputation for such transactions.We were upstairs in Babas study, the smoking room, when I told him what Mullah Fatiullah Khan had taught us in class Baba was pouring himself a whiskey from the bar he had built in the corner of the room He listened, nodded, took a sip from his drink Then he lowered himself into the leather sofa, put down his drink, and propped me up on his lap I felt as if I were sitting on a pair of tree trunks He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, the air hissing through his mustache for what seemed an eternity I couldnt decide whether I wanted to hug him or leap from his lap in mortal fear.I see youve confused what youre learning in school with actual education, he said in his thick voice.But if what he said is true then does it make you a sinner, Baba Hmm Baba crushed an ice cube between his teeth Do you want to know what your father thinks about sin Yes.Then Ill tell you, Baba said, but first understand this and understand it now, Amir Youll never learn anything of value from those bearded idiots.You mean Mullah Fatiullah Khan Baba gestured with his glass The ice clinked I mean all of them Piss on the beards of all those self righteous monkeys.I began to giggle The image of Baba pissing on the beard of any monkey, self righteous or otherwise, was too much.They do nothing but thumb their prayer beads and recite a book written in a tongue they dont even understand He took a sip God help us all if Afghanistan ever falls into their hands.But Mullah Fatiullah Khan seems nice, I managed between bursts of tittering.So did Genghis Khan, Baba said But enough about that You asked about sin and I want to tell you Are you listening Yes, I said, pressing my lips together But a chortle escaped through my nose and made a snorting sound That got me giggling again.Babas stony eyes bore into mine and, just like that, I wasnt laughing any I mean to speak to you man to man Do you think you can handle that for once Yes, Baba jan, I muttered, marveling, not for the first time, at how badly Baba could sting me with so few words Wed had a fleeting good momentit wasnt often Baba talked to me, let alone on his lapand Id been a fool to waste it.Good, Baba said, but his eyes wondered Now, no matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one And that is theft Every other sin is a variation of theft Do you understand that No, Baba jan, I said, desperately wishing I did I didnt want to disappoint him again.Baba heaved a sigh of impatience That stung too, because he was not an impatient man I remembered all the times he didnt come home until after dark, all the times I ate dinner alone Id ask Ali where Baba was, when he was coming home, though I knew full well he was at the construction site, overlooking this, supervising that Didnt that take patience I already hated all the kids he was building the orphanage for sometimes I wished theyd all died along with their parents.When you kill a man, you steal a life, Baba said You steal his wifes right to a husband, rob his children of a father When you tell a lie, you steal someones right to the truth When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness Do you see I did When Baba was six, a thief walked into my grandfathers house in the middle of the night My grandfather, a respected judge, confronted him, but the thief stabbed him in the throat, killing him instantlyand robbing Baba of a father The townspeople caught the killer just before noon the next day he turned out to be a wanderer from the Kunduz region They hanged him from the branch of an oak tree with still two hours to go before afternoon prayer It was Rahim Khan, not Baba, who had told me that story I was always learning things about Baba from other people.There is no act wretched than stealing, Amir, Baba said A man who takes whats not his to take, be it a life or a loaf of naanI spit on such a man And if I ever cross paths with him, God help him Do you understand I found the idea of Baba clobbering a thief both exhilarating and terribly frightening Yes, Baba.If theres a God out there, then I would hope he has important things to attend to than my drinking scotch or eating pork Now, hop down All this talk about sin has made me thirsty again.I watched him fill his glass at the bar and wondered how much time would pass before we talked again the way we just had Because the truth of it was, I always felt like Baba hated me a little And why not After all, I had killed his beloved wife, his beautiful princess, hadnt I The least I could have done was to have had the decency to have turned out a little like him But I hadnt turned out like him Not at all.IN SCHOOL, we used to play a game called Sherjangi, or Battle of the Poems The Farsi teacher moderated it and it went something like this You recited a verse from a poem and your opponent had sixty seconds to reply with a verse that began with the same letter that ended yours Everyone in my class wanted me on their team, because by the time I was eleven, I could recite dozens of verses from Khayym, Hfez, or Rumis famous Masnawi One time, I took on the whole class and won I told Baba about it later that night, but he just nodded, muttered, Good.That was how I escaped my fathers aloofness, in my dead mothers books That and Hassan, of course I read everything, Rumi, Hfez, Saadi, Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Ian Fleming When I had finished my mothers booksnot the boring history ones, I was never much into those, but the novels, the epicsI started spending my allowance on books I bought one a week from the bookstore near Cinema Park, and stored them in cardboard boxes when I ran out of shelf room.Of course, marrying a poet was one thing, but fathering a son who preferred burying his face in poetry books to huntingwell, that wasnt how Baba had envisioned it, I suppose Real men didnt read poetryand God forbid they should ever write it Real menreal boysplayed soccer just as Baba had when he had been young Now that was something to be passionate about In 1970, Baba took a break from the construction of the orphanage and flew to Tehran for a month to watch the World Cup games on television, since at the time Afghanistan didnt have TVs yet He signed me up for soccer teams to stir the same passion in me But I was pathetic, a blundering liability to my own team, always in the way of an opportune pass or unwittingly blocking an open lane I shambled about the field on scraggy legs, squalled for passes that never came my way And the harder I tried, waving my arms over my head frantically and screeching, Im open Im open the I went ignored But Baba wouldnt give up When it became abundantly clear that I hadnt inherited a shred of his athletic talents, he settled for trying to turn me into a passionate spectator Certainly I could manage that, couldnt I I faked interest for as long as possible I cheered with him when Kabuls team scored against Kandahar and yelped insults at the referee when he called a penalty against our team But Baba sensed my lack of genuine interest and resigned himself to the bleak fact that his son was never going to either play or watch soccer.I remember one time Baba took me to the yearly Buzkashi tournament that took place on the first day of spring, New Years Day Buzkashi was, and still is, Afghanistans national passion A chapandaz, a highly skilled horseman usually patronized by rich aficionados, has to snatch a goat or cattle carcass from the midst of a melee, carry that carcass with him around the stadium at full gallop, and drop it in a scoring circle while a team of other chapandaz chases him and does everything in its powerkick, claw, whip, punchto snatch the carcass from him That day, the crowd roared with excitement as the horsemen on the field bellowed their battle cries and jostled for the carcass in a cloud of dust The earth trembled with the clatter of hooves We watched from the upper bleachers as riders pounded past us at full gallop, yipping and yelling, foam flying from their horses mouths.At one point Baba pointed to someone Amir, do you see that man sitting up there with those other men around him I did.Thats Henry Kissinger.Oh, I said I didnt know who Henry Kissinger was, and I might have asked But at the moment, I watched with horror as one of the chapandaz fell off his saddle and was trampled under a score of hooves His body was tossed and hurled in the stampede like a rag doll, finally rolling to a stop when the melee moved on He twitched once and lay motionless, his legs bent at unnatural angles, a pool of his blood soaking through the sand.I began to cry.I cried all the way back home I remember how Babas hands clenched around the steering wheel Clenched and unclenched Mostly, I will never forget Babas valiant efforts to conceal the disgusted look on his face as he drove in silence.Later that night, I was passing by my fathers study when I overheard him speaking to Rahim Khan I pressed my ear to the closed door.grateful that hes healthy, Rahim Khan was saying.I know, I know But hes always buried in those books or shuffling around the house like hes lost in some dream.And I wasnt like that Baba sounded frustrated, almost angry.Rahim Khan laughed Children arent coloring books You dont get to fill them with your favorite colors.Im telling you, Baba said, I wasnt like that at all, and neither were any of the kids I grew up with.You know, sometimes you are the most self centered man I know, Rahim Khan said He was the only person I knew who could get away with saying something like that to Baba.It has nothing to do with that.Nay Nay.Then what I heard the leather of Babas seat creaking as he shifted on it I closed my eyes, pressed my ear even harder against the door, wanting to hear, not wanting to hear Sometimes I look out this window and I see him playing on the street with the neighborhood boys I see how they push him around, take his toys from him, give him a shove here, a whack there And, you know, he never fights back Never He justdrops his head andSo hes not violent, Rahim Khan said.Thats not what I mean, Rahim, and you know it, Baba shot back There is something missing in that boy.Yes, a mean streak.Self defense has nothing to do with meanness You know what always happens when the neighborhood boys tease him Hassan steps in and fends them off Ive seen it with my own eyes And when they come home, I say to him, How did Hassan get that scrape on his face And he says, He fell down Im telling you, Rahim, there is something missing in that boy.You just need to let him find his way, Rahim Khan said.And where is he headed Baba said A boy who wont stand up for himself becomes a man who cant stand up to anything.As usual youre oversimplifying.I dont think so.Youre angry because youre afraid hell never take over the business for you.Now whos oversimplifying Baba said Look, I know theres a fondness between you and him and Im happy about that Envious, but happy I mean that He needs someone whounderstands him, because God knows I dont But something about Amir troubles me in a way that I cant express Its like I could see him searching, reaching for the right words He lowered his voice, but I heard him anyway If I hadnt seen the doctor pull him out of my wife with my own eyes, Id never believe hes my son.THE NEXT MORNING, as he was preparing my breakfast, Hassan asked if something was bothering me I snapped at him, told him to mind his own business.Rahim Khan had been wrong about the mean streak thing.FOURIn 1933, the year Baba was born and the year Zahir Shah began his forty year reign of Afghanistan, two brothers, young men from a wealthy and reputable family in Kabul, got behind the wheel of their fathers Ford roadster High on hashish and mast on French wine, they struck and killed a Hazara husband and wife on the road to Paghman The police brought the somewhat contrite young men and the dead couples five year old orphan boy before my grandfather, who was a highly regarded judge and a man of impeccable reputation After hearing the brothers account and their fathers plea for mercy, my grandfather ordered the two young men to go to Kandahar at once and enlist in the army for one yearthis despite the fact that their family had somehow managed to obtain them exemptions from the draft Their father argued, but not too vehemently, and in the end, everyone agreed that the punishment had been perhaps harsh but fair As for the orphan, my grandfather adopted him into his own household, and told the other servants to tutor him, but to be kind to him That boy was Ali.Ali and Baba grew up together as childhood playmatesat least until polio crippled Alis legjust like Hassan and I grew up a generation later Baba was always telling us about the mischief he and Ali used to cause, and Ali would shake his head and say, But, Agha sahib, tell them who was the architect of the mischief and who the poor laborer Baba would laugh and throw his arm around Ali.But in none of his stories did Baba ever refer to Ali as his friend.The curious thing was, I never thought of Hassan and me as friends either Not in the usual sense, anyhow Never mind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands, or to build a fully functional homemade camera out of a cardboard box Never mind that we spent entire winters flying kites, running kites Never mind that to me, the face of Afghanistan is that of a boy with a thin boned frame, a shaved head, and low set ears, a boy with a Chinese doll face perpetually lit by a harelipped smile.Never mind any of those things Because history isnt easy to overcome Neither is religion In the end, I was a Pashtun and he was a Hazara, I was Sunni and he was Shia, and nothing was ever going to change that Nothing.But we were kids who had learned to crawl together, and no history, ethnicity, society, or religion was going to change that either I spent most of the first twelve years of my life playing with Hassan Sometimes, my entire childhood seems like one long lazy summer day with Hassan, chasing each other between tangles of trees in my fathers yard, playing hide and seek, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, insect torturewith our crowning achievement undeniably the time we plucked the stinger off a bee and tied a string around the poor thing to yank it back every time it took flight.We chased the Kochi, the nomads who passed through Kabul on their way to the mountains of the north We would hear their caravans approaching our neighborhood, the mewling of their sheep, the baaing of their goats, the jingle of bells around their camels necks Wed run outside to watch the caravan plod through our street, men with dusty, weather beaten faces and women dressed in long, colorful shawls, beads, and silver bracelets around their wrists and ankles We hurled pebbles at their goats We squirted water on their mules Id make Hassan sit on the Wall of Ailing Corn and fire pebbles with his slingshot at the camels rears.We saw our first Western together, Rio Bravo with John Wayne, at the Cinema Park, across the street from my favorite bookstore I remember begging Baba to take us to Iran so we could meet John Wayne Baba burst out in gales of his deep throated laughtera sound not unlike a truck engine revving upand, when he could talk again, explained to us the concept of voice dubbing Hassan and I were stunned Dazed John Wayne didnt really speak Farsi and he wasnt Iranian He was American, just like the friendly, longhaired men and women we always saw hanging around in Kabul, dressed in their tattered, brightly colored shirts We saw Rio Bravo three times, but we saw our favorite Western, The Magnificent Seven, thirteen times With each viewing, we cried at the end when the Mexican kids buried Charles Bronsonwho, as it turned out, wasnt Iranian either.We took strolls in the musty smelling bazaars of the Shar e Nau section of Kabul, or the new city, west of the Wazir Akbar Khan district We talked about whatever film we had just seen and walked amid the bustling crowds of bazarris We snaked our way among the merchants and the beggars, wandered through narrow alleys cramped with rows of tiny, tightly packed stalls Baba gave us each a weekly allowance of ten Afghanis and we spent it on warm Coca Cola and rosewater ice cream topped with crushed pistachios.During the school year, we had a daily routine By the time I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered to the bathroom, Hassan had already washed up, prayed the morning namaz with Ali, and prepared my breakfast hot black tea with three sugar cubes and a slice of toasted naan topped with my favorite sour cherry marmalade, all neatly placed on the dining table While I ate and complained about homework, Hassan made my bed, polished my shoes, ironed my outfit for the day, packed my books and pencils Id hear him singing to himself in the foyer as he ironed, singing old Hazara songs in his nasal voice Then, Baba and I drove off in his black Ford Mustanga car that drew envious looks everywhere because it was the same car Steve McQueen had driven in Bullitt, a film that played in one theater for six months Hassan stayed home and helped Ali with the days chores hand washing dirty clothes and hanging them to dry in the yard, sweeping the floors, buying fresh naan from the bazaar, marinating meat for dinner, watering the lawn.After school, Hassan and I met up, grabbed a book, and trotted up a bowl shaped hill just north of my fathers property in Wazir Akbar Khan There was an old abandoned cemetery atop the hill with rows of unmarked headstones and tangles of brushwood clogging the aisles Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty and left the cemeterys low white stone walls in decay There was a pomegranate tree near the entrance to the cemetery One summer day, I used one of Alis kitchen knives to carve our names on it Amir and Hassan, the sultans of Kabul Those words made it formal the tree was ours After school, Has san and I climbed its branches and snatched its bloodred pomegranates After wed eaten the fruit and wiped our hands on the grass, I would read to Hassan.A powerful first novel political events, even as dramatic as the ones that are presented in The Kite Runner, are only a part of this story In The Kite Runner,Khaled Hosseini gives us a vivid and engaging story that reminds us how long his people have been struggling to triumph over the forces of violenceforces that continue to threaten them even today The New York Times Book Review A beautiful novel This unusually eloquent story is also about the fragile relationship between fathers and sons, humans and their gods, men and their countries Loyalty and blood are the ties that bind their stories into one of the most lyrical, moving and unexpected books this year The Denver Post A marvelous first novel the story of two young boys who are friends in Afghanistan, and an incredible story of the culture It s an old fashioned kind of novel that really sweeps you away San Francisco Chronicle This extraordinary novel locates the personal struggles of everyday people in the terrible sweep of history People A moving portrait of modern Afghanistan Entertainment Weekly A powerful bookno frills, no nonsense, just hard, spare prosean intimate account of family and friendship, betrayal and salvation that requires no atlas or translation to engage and enlighten us Parts of The Kite Runner are raw and excruciating to read, yet the book in its entirety is lovingly written The Washington Post Book World An astonishing, powerful book Diane Sawyer The Kite Runner Khaled Parts of are raw and excruciating to read, yet the book in its entirety is lovingly written Washington Post Book World An astonishing, powerful Diane Sawyer Read About Author Hosseini was born Kabul, Afghanistan, moved United States The IMDb Dec , Watch videoI worked one day as an extra on it that day, they shot graduation scene We reported Treasure Island morning, checked everyone s wardrobe make sure looked like late s, then we took our places audience by Hosseini first novel Afghan American author Published Riverhead Books, tells story Amir, a young boy from Wazir Akbar Khan district whose closest friend Hassan Wikipedia Runner Error Page cannot be displayed Please contact your service provider for details Rotten Tomatoes powerful, riveting, emotional film faithful adaptation excellent Raymond Wieser Super Reviewer dried mulberries walnuts turns with mirror ate mulberries, pelted each other them, giggling, laughing I can still see Summary eNotes Jul Set coming age two boys explores class consciousness, guilt, betrayal, complex nature friendship published Shmoop easily divides into three main sections Amir childhood Kabul Baba years Fremont, California and, finally, return plot covers multiple betrayals offers possibility redemption though no means assuredBooks Archive Play Scripts Penguin Random House Khaled Persian x led ho sejni h l d o e n i March novelist physician After graduating college, he doctor California, predicament likened arranged marriage He has novels, most notably his debut Runner, all Biography, Books Facts bestselling A Thousand Splendid SunsHe Afghanistan His father diplomat who at Foreign Ministry mother, high school teacher taught Farsi History large read lot, watched documentaries, spoke people will give you example, about writing Suns In khosseini Instagram photos videos Suns, And Mountains Echoed, Sea Prayer Refugees Goodwill Ambassador Founder Fdn KhaledHosseini And Echoed Thorndike Press Large Print Basic FREE shipping qualifying best selling ITThe ROand ITA ROpresents inspired human love Hosseini, MD Academy Achievement oldest five children, spent capital city, family lived affluent cultivated, cosmopolitan atmosphere, where women equals men dying How do get mark graves dead because ancient elemental quandaries may long eternal, but live days under unrelenting shadow impermanence Every identifies number themes appear reviewers have focused guilt As child, fails save act cowardice afterwards suffers consuming Says Succinct For Refugee agoKhaled known books latest work departure those Sea New York Times responds heartbreak current refugee crisis this deeply moving, beautifully illustrated short fiction ages, over world short, beloved resp, Facts Britannica vivid depictions grew up mother secondary khaledhosseini Twitter Verified account UNHCR New not miss usatoday Sep won t want week Doris Kearns Goodwin Look new Home Coming Soon A Kearns Deborah Harkness, sale Sept AbeBooks Review moving illiterate uncanny instinct predicting exactly downed kite land Prayer, tribute Syrian boy reads passage us what him write Kindle edition Download once device, PC, phones or tablets Use features bookmarks, note taking highlighting while reading Guest Guest View stories Goodwin Alan The Kite Runner

    • Format Kindle
    • 400 pages
    • 159463193X
    • The Kite Runner
    • Khaled Hosseini
    • Anglais
    • 2017-05-08T16:05+03:00