The Kite Runner

- Khaled Hosseini -

 

On one of my recent walks, I picked up the latest in my collection of curios. One of my favourite type of curios, actually. A book. One that got me new friends and a different perspective to land bitterly coveted and even more bitterly fought for. A manuscript that changed my world view gradually, firmly, very unconsciously. A beautiful piece of weaving that wove me in its pattern before I realized that I had been pinned down and interlaced within its folds. One that introduced me to Rahim Khan, Ali, Assef, Soraya, Farzana, Khala Jamila, General Taheri, Baba, Sohrab, Amir and of course, Hassan. But most importantly, it introduced me to the Afghanistan that had ceased to exist long before I was even born. An Afghanistan that is a dour memory today. An Afghanistan where poplars lined the roads, the smell of Kobabs wafted out every evening, where (as in British India), the rich were exempt from all crimes including the exclusive crimes throwing parties, smoking cigars, having liquor, where soccer was played wearing shorts and t-shirts and where little boys lived in hope of one day winning the kite fighting tournaments that were a symbol of ‘manliness’. A place where peace ruled over a dormant inert volcano of class and sectarian distinctions, a golden land soon to be raped over and over again by two of the world’s superpowers and later by its own people. The land of the hare-lipped Hazara, the best kite runner in Kabul - Hassan. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. The thing that struck me about the book right from the beginning was the simplicity of the language used and the profound meaning that it conveys. Not a word extra, not a single unwanted reference to what was, is and what could have been. Hosseini has not even gone out of his way to translate Farsi (the language used by the majority of the Afghani population) perfectly into English. On the contaray, has allowed the reader the freedom as well as bestowed upon him the responsibility to grasp the meaning of the word, to understand the essence of what he is trying to put across, on his (the reader’s) own. The way Hosseini creeps in and plants the seeds of guilt, shame and the disquiet that Amir has to deal with for a better part of his life, the turmoil that he has to undergo and the redemption that he has to seek is elucidated in beautiful, almost lyrical tones, all with a musty smell of the a story long forgotten, a trunk locked away in the attic, never to be opened again – at least not consciously. His manner of fleshing out his characters, and the way he delves into their psyches with a deft cut here and slick suture there, is unnerving and his command on their emotions, amusing at times. The story is seen through the eyes of Amir from the time he is twelve and still a Pashtu Afghan with a Hazara servant, to the time when he is a well settled middle aged American writer. It would be unfair on my part to divulge any details about the story and so with a very restrained hand I have tried to skirt on the edges, as best as I can. Towards the end, the story might start seeming a little contrived, but still, it is more than worth the effort of biting into the juicy red apples of Afghanistan for the span of the three hundred odd pages that Hosseini has nurtured with utmost love, care, attention and detail. Ranging from a pre Russo-American war Afghanistan to the warm locales of California, to present day Peshawar and a Taliban infested Kabul, The Kite Runner is a beautifully painted vision by the hand of a very gifted novice on a canvas as vast and hilly as the Valley of Panjsher. But smile on my face at the end of the yelda that reading the novel was was such, that for Amir, Soraya, Hassan, Farzana, Sohrab, Baba, Rahim Khan and most importantly Mr. Hosseini, I’d give it a big thumbs-up a thousand times over.