And the Mountains Echoed

first time, Adel could detect no trace of his friend’s customary liveliness or of his trademark smirk or lighthearted mischief. His face was transformed, his expression sober, startlingly adult.
    â€œThis was my family’s tree. This was my family’s land. It’s been ours for generations. Your father built his mansion on our land. While we were in Pakistan during the war.” He pointed to the orchards.“These? They used to be people’s homes. But your father had them bulldozed to the ground. Just like he brought down the house where my father was born, where he was raised.”
    Adel blinked.
    â€œHe claimed our land as his own and he built that”—here, he actually sneered as he threw a thumb toward the compound—“that
thing
in its stead.”
    Feeling a little nauseated, his heart thumping heavily, Adel said, “I thought we were friends. Why are you telling these terrible lies?”
    â€œRemember when I tricked you and took your jersey?” Gholam said, a flush rising to his cheeks. “You almost cried. Don’t deny it, I saw you. That was over a shirt. A
shirt
. Imagine how my family felt, coming all the way from Pakistan, only to get off the bus and find this
thing
on our land. And then your goon in the purple suit ordering us off our own land.”
    â€œMy father is not a thief!” Adel shot back. “Ask anyone in Shadbagh-e-Nau, ask them what he’s done for this town.” He thought of how Baba jan received people at the town mosque, reclined on the floor, teacup before him, prayer beads in hand. A solemn line of people, stretching from his cushion to the front entrance, men with muddy hands, toothless old women, young widows with children, every one of them in need, each waiting for his or her turn to ask for a favor, a job, a small loan to repair a roof or an irrigation ditch or buy milk formula. His father nodding, listening with infinite patience, as though each person in line mattered to him like family.
    â€œYeah? Then how come my father has the ownership documents?” Gholam said. “The ones he gave to the judge at the courthouse.”
    â€œI’m sure if your father talks to Baba—”
    â€œYour Baba won’t talk to him. He won’t acknowledge what he’s done. He drives past like we’re stray dogs.”
    â€œYou’re not dogs,” Adel said. It was a struggle to keep his voice even. “You’re buzzards. Just like Kabir said. I should have known.”
    Gholam stood up, took a step or two, and paused. “Just so you know,” he said, “I hold nothing against you. You’re just an ignorant little boy. But next time Baba goes to Helmand, ask him to take you to that factory of his. See what he’s got growing out there. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not cotton.”
    Later that night, before dinner, Adel lay in a bath full of warm soapy water. He could hear the TV downstairs, Kabir watching an old pirate movie. The anger, which had lingered all afternoon, had washed through Adel, and now he thought that he’d been too rough with Gholam. Baba jan had told him once that no matter how much you did, sometimes the poor spoke ill of the rich. They mainly did it out of disappointment with their own lives. It couldn’t be helped. It was natural, even.
And we mustn’t blame them, Adel
, he said.
    Adel was not too naïve to know that the world was a fundamentally unfair place; he only had to gaze out the window of his bedroom. But he imagined that for people like Gholam, the acknowledgment of this truth brought no satisfaction. Maybe people like Gholam needed someone to stand culpable, a flesh-and-bones target, someone they could conveniently point to as the agent of their hardship, someone to condemn, blame, be angry with. And perhaps Baba jan was right when he said the proper response was to understand, to withhold judgment. To answer with kindness, even. Watching little soapy bubbles come up to the surface andpop, Adel thought of his father building schools and clinics when he knew there were people in town who spread wicked gossip about him.
    As he was drying himself off, his mother poked her head through the bathroom door. “You’re coming down for dinner?”
    â€œI’m not hungry,” he said.
    â€œOh.” She came inside and grabbed a towel off the rack. “Here. Sit. Let me dry your hair.”
    â€œI can do it