The Broken Window (drawing by F. Azad) By Farhad Azad April-Sept. 1999 Lemar-Aftaab The window was dusty from the outside. The rain hadn't washed it for months. Dirt caked the broken glass. The wind blew harshly through the cracks of the glass, making a ghostly sound. The noise awoke the boy and he opened his drowsy eyes. He got up from his cold bed on the bare, hard ground. He then gingerly walked over to the window and touched it. He looked outside at the apple tree swaying in solitude. Each branch of the tree moved and each leaf stretched further than the other. The cream colored dirt rose from the ground and flew high into the air. The open sky was covered with gray and stormy clouds. The rain was on its way, but there was no thunder or lighting. The boy glanced at the rolling hills of Faryab. He knew the dry hills needed the rain so that they could be as green as they were in the spring. The apple tree needed rain too so it would bear more fruit next year. It hadn't rained all summer, and now autumn had arrived. The boy wanted spring. He couldn't remember spring. The boy spent the drawn-out days by the broken window. When he ventured outside, he would walk by himself to the bare hills near his ruined, empty village where his dilapidated mud-walled house was the only building standing. He listened to the yellow birds that nested on the branches of the apple tree. He sometimes took his book of poems and read. Going outside was rare. He preferred to stay inside and watch the hills and the apple tree from his broken window. Through the crack of the broken glass he could see the apple tree as if it was under water. He could see the hills in different designs and shapes. He liked that. He would stare through the cracks of the window for hours. He was never bored. Solitude followed the boy everywhere. Only the broken window, the dry hills, and the single apple tree kept him company. One drop of rain hit the window. It streaked down and left a trail of mud. The boy's eyes followed the tiny drop. It reached the bottom of the window and disappeared. Another drop fell and then another and another until the window became wet. Soon, the rain quickly washed away the dirt. This made the boy happy. He tried to smile but couldn't. As it rained harder, the boy heard the creaking sound of the wooden door opening. The boy's father, a tall man with a grayish beard, wearing a chapan, hurriedly came inside. He was dripping wet. He smelled of rain. He sat on the wooden stool and laid the wet rugs that he carried on his shoulders on the floor. He took off his muddy boots and let out a lengthy sigh. He didn't notice the boy standing by the window. The son knew that his father had not sold their rugs at the bazaar today. For weeks they had sold their household items for food. The old man kept his gray eyes to the ground. Water trickled from his hair onto his face. He craved something warm. With a painful moan he stood up and went to the stove to start a fire with the little branches that were left. Once ablaze, he warmed his hands and then placed an iron teapot onto the rusty stove. He pulled the wooden stool by the fire and sat there, closing his fatigued eyes. The boy watched his father from the window. He turned around and watched the rain and his father's reflection from the broken glass of the window. The small fire began to warm the little room. The wood cracked inside the stove as the teapot came to a boil. The man got up, put some tea into the hot pot and waited for it to settle in the water. He took out a bruised apple from his pocket and placed it next to the stove. He sat by the wall and filled his teacup. He took a sip, closed his eyes and laid his head against the hard mud wall and fell into a deep sleep. The boy was hungry. He went by the stove, found the apple and picked it up. In his corner by the window, he ate it slowly. It was the only thing that he had eaten in days. His skinny hands held the apple as he bit into it. After finishing his apple he opened his book of poems and read for a while. The thunder and rain shook the house. The rain came down harder. It didn't matter to the boy for he had fallen asleep. The wind hollowed through the cracks of the broken window waking the boy. His father was still a sleep. The fire in the stove had died out. He got up and looked out the broken window. It was night. The storm had past. The sky was clear and dark, without stars. -- To be continued - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Copyright © 1999 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.