Muraad — The Boy Who Walked from Afghanistan to Europe
A knock on the door
The sun was setting behind the Pamir peaks. A pot of sir chai was struggling to heat up over the dying embers. The easterly wind brought a knock on the door. Amal, head of the house, smiled. Guests were godsends in this remote part of Afghanistan. He rushed to open the creaky door. He saw a pair of stale eyes and a cold gun.
The godsend spoke, “Muraad is turning 12 soon. We will come for him.”
Aazaar, Amal’s wife, laid out the finest carpet with the same eagerness. There were two cups of sir chai and some holes in the carpet. Amal stood in front of her soulless. He asked Aazaar to sit down. They both did. He took a sip of the lukewarm sir chai. The dying embers didn’t do their job nor did god.
He spoke, “He was a Taliban mujahid. They will come for our son Muraad soon.”
The same dementor sucked Aazaar’s soul as well.
The World Cup is in London
The moon refused to rise from the netherworld beyond the Pamir mountains. A familiar knock stirred the silence. Amal opened the door to the warm and innocent eyes of Muraad.
“Abu, I just heard on the radio that Rashid Khan got us into the cricket World Cup.”
“Muraad, sit down. Listen to this carefully. Tomorrow, you will start a long journey to a faraway land where dangers don’t lurk on every corner. There will be someone to guide you. But, if you get lost, remember your destination is Germany, France, or London.”
His eyes twinkled at the last word. “London! The radio just said that that’s where the World Cup is in two years.”
“If everything goes to plan, you will reach before the World Cup,” his father said.
Bloodied Sands of Persia
Those were the first drops of water the sands had received in years. They had only consumed blood until then.
They had walked some 1,500 kilometers for 20 days to reach northeastern Iran. Once they were in Iran, their smuggler-cum-guide told them that they would have to traverse the next 150 kilometers on their own and another smuggler-cum-guide would find them at the other end. Muraad didn’t understand this. He was soon going to. They all were.
It seemed as if the moon and the stars decided to turn away from the horrors of Earth. 20 of them walked across a dark sky and a darker desert. They walked in silence. A sound, two similar sounds, broke the silence. Then, two pairs of lights pierced through the navel of eternal darkness. They were soon going to find out why the smuggler had left them. They all were.
The drivers turned off the cars returning the desert to its perennial silence. The headlights still pierced the navel of the night.
One of them spoke, “Is there anyone out there? We can get you to your destination faster. Come out!”
The Afghans murmured barely disturbing the perennial silence. They debated fiercely whether to trust them. Were they godsends or devils’ minions? God can’t exist without the devil. They decided that five of them would step out. They started walking towards the headlights. Suddenly one of them saw the silhouette of a gun. But, it was too late. Run back and they would expose others. It was time to barter with the devil.
“Afghans?” The only man without a gun asked.
They nodded.
“Do you have any money?”
They shook their heads.
Five shots butchered the heart of the speechless night. The remaining 15 Afghans, including Muraad, started running in different directions. The Iranians scanned the red desert with their flashlights. Whenever light found a human body, a bullet did as well. Fortunately, the moon and the stars had left the planet leaving eternal darkness behind. Shots were fired throughout the entire body of the bleeding night. They had bullets to spare. Some sucked blood, others bit the dust. How can the moon and the stars shine on such a planet? Let them leave and go far far away from the horrors of mankind.
The bullets ran out. The desert and the night regained silence as if nothing had happened. The headlights lost focus of the bloodied sands and turned away. Muraad came out from behind a rock. One of the fellow Misafir (traveler) lay dead a few meters from him. He couldn’t control his tears. He buried his head in the silent sands. Those were the first drops of water the sands had received in years. They had only consumed blood until then. Muraad wondered what path his father had set him on. He never once questioned any of his decisions. They never did in that melancholic part of Afghanistan.
Four other kids came to him. They consoled him as only kids can console other kids. They sat there consumed by the red sand and the black night. What had they done to be a part of this?
The bullets, as if biased, hit the oldest ones. The five survivors were the five youngest in the group. Maybe the bullets wanted the young ones to experience more pain, agony, and bloodshed.
Unlike the moon and the stars, the sun was still going to shine on the horrors of mankind.
Go forward or go home? They had a decision to make.
Chapter 2 (Coming soon!)
