NOW that I reflect, I know that I have always been a bad kid for my mom. Now, neither my mom is here nor my past; both have gotten woven in the long rope of life and will definitely not come back. Likewise, I will go one day and won't come back.
From the very far past, when I was very little, the most intimate image in my mind was that of my mother. What I received from this image was love and an endless patience that used to give me the courage to do whatever I wanted to without any concern about its consequence.
My world was a small world, and I was its emperor; and my mom was like a gracious eagle protecting me from all its ills. Mom tolerated all my
stubbornness. She could only vent her complaint and anger in one way, by saying, "You're a bad, bad kid!"
Back then, when I was still a child, I would look around and steal sweets and candy from home. When my mom would find out, she would get mad and scold me, always by saying, "You're a bad kid!"
When I grew a little older, I became more mischievous and less scared. I expanded my little world. I was a self-absorbed emperor and thought the world revolved around me. I would break my neighbor's windows and viciously beat up my playmates until they bled. Everyone would go to my mom and complain, and some would even start big quarrels with her.
My mom would apologize to them daily or sometimes would start arguing with them. When she saw me, her face would have a lovely anger. And she would say, "You're a bad kid!"
One day, a man who was selling toys came to our street. Among his toys, I saw a watch that was all golden, even the hands. It had a red wristband. I really liked the watch and asked the man for its price. In a chant, he said "It is a Japanese watch, it comes from a pretty land, look carefully, look, only two afghanis."
My heart was filled with the desire of having that watch. I thought about where I would get that kind of money. In my poor empire, there was nowhere I could get that much money.
"Want to trade it with some eggs?" I asked the man.
"If it's fresh yes, get me five of them!", he replied. "All right then, get them!" he responded.
I went home. At home we had a hen that was getting ready to give us some chicks. My mom had put six eggs under the hen so that they would hatch; mom used to give the hen special foods to speed up the process.
When I went to the basement, the hen made lots of noise. I took her by her wings and threw her in a box. Then, I took five of the eggs; they were so warm. I cleaned them with my shirt and traded them for the watch. I got the watch and trotted
towards the house, chanting, "It is made in Japan; it is so beautiful."
At home, I saw mom feeding the hen. The hen was making lots of noise. There was only one egg left. My mom was sobbing. She had a strange look in her eyes. In a sad voice she said, "In just a few more days, they would have hatched."
As I was looking at the hands on my watch, I said, "What do I care about the chicks?"
Looking at me she said, "You're a bad boy!", and added, "You're so cruel."
Later when I grew up, I was dissatisfied with everything. Everyone had made me angry. I was fighting everyone and everyone was fighting me. Using my belt, I used to beat up my sister who had a bony body. She would use her hands for protection and
would cry and ask my mom for help. Mom would yell at me. I would yell back, "Go away!"
And my mom would say nervously, "Oh God! He is going to kill that girl!"
And I would yell, "Yes, I would kill, I would kill."
Everything would be a mess around our house. Our neighbors would try to see what is happening, and I would curse them. In the height of her rage, my mom would say, "You're a bad boy!"
One day I had a big fight on the street. Over what, I don't recall. But it was about someone invading my empire, and I was very angry. I came home with torn clothes, bleeding. Mom looked at me pitifully as if she was expecting me to come home looking like this. I went to my room to get my knife, but it wasn't there. I searched the entire room but couldn't find it.
"Where is my knife?", I yelled violently.
I came to the yard of our house and saw my mom standing by the well. She seemed distraught and was shivering. "If you come close, I will slash
myself."
She was holding my knife.
My heart was beating really fast. I felt as if sweat and blood were running all over my skin. My clothes were stuck to my body. The blood coming from my left temple was making it difficult for me to open my eyes. I told my mom, "Give me my knife!"
She responded, "I will slash myself."
She had a violently decisive look in her eyes. But all I could think of was my own empire and its victory. Slowly, I walked towards my mom. Mom raised the knife and screamed, "I swear to God, I will slash myself."
It was a scary scream. My sister threw herself at my feet and cried, "Don't go near."
I touched my bloody temple and showed the blood to my sister. "How can you take revenge of this blood?" I asked.
And no one answered. I yelled, "Only with blood! Only with blood!"
There was commotion in my head. I couldn't see very well. I kicked my sister hard to get her away from me. I went toward my mom. Our neighbors pulled me away from her.
I kept on yelling, "Give me my knife."
And I felt that my empire was getting smaller, and my enemies where winning.
I didn't leave home for the next few days. I looked for any excuse to get mad. I would beat up my sister with my belt. I often broke the plates of dinner that my mom brought me. Mom only would say, "You're a bad boy!" and sigh.
Later, I became more hot-tempered and did much worse things. I went to jail and got out. I became worse.
It had been years since my mom had lost her youth. Her hair was white, her face wrinkled. My sister had married and had gone to a new home with her husband. I was more hot-tempered and violent than ever. I would call my mom, who was so alone at the time, bad
names. I would curse her, and she would sob and say, "God, that is all I deserved in this world, a bad kid."
The day that my mom was dying, that got me somewhere. I was drunk and was laughing. They told me, "Your mom is dying."
I responded, "So, what can be done? We all die one day."
They told me, "She has asked for you."
I responded, "What can I do? Tell me, what can I do?"
Finally, they took me to her. When she saw me, a faint smile appeared on her face. Slowly I walked toward her. Her lips moved and when I got my ears near her mouth, she whispered, "Everyone hates you, no one wanted to let you know."
Lots of things came to mind, and I couldn't hear anything else. My mouth was dry. It appeared to me that my empire was getting smaller. I felt that rage and anger again.
I got up, pulled out my knife, and yelled, "Who wouldn't come and tell me about my mom?"
There was complete silence in the room, and I yelled again, "Tell me, who?"
I leapt and got the first man who was near me by the color and yelled, "Why didn't you come?"
The man didn't say anything. I raised my knife to slash his throat. Suddenly, mom screamed with all her might and called me by the name that she hadn't called me since my childhood, "Shayruk!"
I turned my head. Her face was pale. She didn't say anything else. She couldn't. But I knew what she wanted to say. She wanted to say, "You're a bad kid!"
I felt that I had lost the very foundation of my empire. I threw myself over my mom's dead body. At that time, all I was thinking about was my
endless loneliness. Yes, loneliness.
Azam Rah'nawar Zariab was born in 1323/1945 in Kabul. He graduated from Kabul University with a degree in journalism and conducted graduate studies in Britain.
His many short stories have appeared in Kabul magazines and journals since his school years. A prolific writer, Zariab has worked on many translations from English into Dari. He is also active in literary criticism. He served as the President of Afghan Writer's Association. He now resides in France.
Related Links:
