I was fond of the outdoors and experienced both pleasant and painful situations. Mostly, however, they were enjoyable experiences.

Prior to school, I played with the neighborhood boys. From time to time there would be some girls who would participate with us. These would usually be our sisters or very close associates of our families. Later, when I went to school, I made new friends. If they lived some distance away, either I would go to them or they would come to my home and we would go play outside. Needless to say, these were all boys.

During summers, we played a game we called tope-danda. I have already described it as it was also played in Chaparhar.

Another common game of the later summer months, was "Walnuts". This, too, I have described already when I was in my uncle's village of Kandibagh. One summer, I had won over two hundred walnuts which I hid in my huge school box under lock and key for months from my little sister and brother. The game asked for some marksmanship and the ability to hit a walnut, or your opponents' marble, from all kinds of distances. There were various methods of aiming and throwing your marble. One, in which I excelled, was Jaandadi. I would hold my marble, generally made of a heavy wood, between the fingertips of my hands, aim and throw it at my object. I could easily hit an object some twenty feet away, the object being either a walnut or another marble. My parents frowned on this game for you were actually gambling with walnuts which you had either paid good money for or they were family property and you had taken them out of the house, often, without permission. My personal logic about the game was that, in the first place, I seldom bought walnuts, and the ones I played with, were either my share of the nuts at home, which I had not eaten during after dinner snacks, or some that I had borrowed from friends, confident that I would win fair and square, return what I had borrowed, and come away with some to boot. So I played on, generally won, but did not tell.

Spring and fall were kite-flying seasons. I was allowed to indulge in this fun game only when I had done all my homework and any chores that the family wanted me to do. It also included the assignments in writing that Father had given me for the day. I made my own kites and, what was more important, my own 'glassed' yarn. For the latter, I used to buy several spools of cobbler's yarn. This was a heavy yarn, quite strong and a common article in any kite-flying. Then I made a paste of powdered glass, gum Arabic, dye and several other ingredients all meant to give a thin, even coating to the yarn and, once applied, it stayed put. The technique was to unwind the yarn and loop it over some wooden pegs, fifty to hundred yards apart, and some three feet above the ground. Then one took a fistful of the paste and passed the yarn through it as one walked back and forth between the pegs. The paste would stick smoothly and evenly to the yarn, which would dry up in a short time leaving a sharp cutting edge all along the treated yarn. This, then, was the yarn which one used to fly one's kite with and go on kite fighting with likeminded people. The yarn was transferred to huge kite-flying spools. Your success in the game of kite fighting depended greatly upon the high quality of your 'glassed' yarn whether you did it yourself or bought it ready-made. The next element was the ability to maneuver your kite by the flick of your index finger and bring your kite, rather, the yarn of your kite in touch with the yarn of the competition's kite in the air. Once contact was established, you were to let as many yards of yarn roll out of your spool as was needed to keep that contact neither too firmly nor too loosely. At some opportune moment, you were to jerk your yarn. This jerk would be conveyed to the contact point where your yarn would cut the opponent's yarn. The wind, the pull of the kite, the abrasive quality of your glassed yarn, and the ability of your fingers maneuvering the yarn were all important factors in your favor. If you succeeded, the opponent's kite would fly loose and you would be proclaimed the winner of the fight.

Time permitting, the loser would go off and procure a fresh supply of glassed yarn, a new kite, and return to the scene. A good deal of betting took place among the observers, and, indeed, sometimes between two kite-flyers as to whose glassed yarn would cause whose kite to fly loose. Most of the kites were diamond shaped, only horizontally wider. These kites were constructed with only two bamboo shoots, one was pasted vertically to the center and the other was stuck to the two right and left corners of the kite after it was curved symmetrically near the upper edge of the kite. A strong thread then passed over the two shoots at the point of contact and tied forming one end of the loop to which the kite yarn would be tied. The other end of the loop would be tied to the lower half of the upright shoot. Just to what point of the loop you knotted your kite yarn made all the difference between a properly maneuverable and a poorly controlled kite in the air.

My own kite-flying technique, though not original by any means, was as follows: I let my kite fly some seventy yards into the sky. During this time I made myself acquainted with its mobility in the wind and my ability to maneuver it in all four directions, to make it go round and round or dive or streak right up to go over or away from an imaginary kite. All this was done with my right index finger and this ability was a must if I were ever to succeed in a kite fight. During a fight I generally attacked from a point above the opponent's kite. Once contact was established, I let the charkha (the special spool) unwind freely between the thumb and index fingers of my assistant. I made my kite go into rotation away from me and controlled the contact of my yarn with the opponent's in such a way that my glass yarn maintained its ability to cut into the other's yarn. And when I thought that a specific spot in that yarn had been weakened by the microscopic particles of glass of my yarn, I would jerk my kite out of its spin and, by holding the yarn momentarily, let the kite pull itself up against the wind. This motion would cause the weakened yarn to be finally cut and the opponent's kite fly loose.

Sometimes the weakening of the opponent's yarn would take too long and I would be at the end of my yarn. At such times, I would hurriedly draw my kite in fast. The withdrawal of my yarn would cause the abrasive glass on the yarn to cut into the other yarn and let the other kite get cut off and fly free. There were occasions when both parties reached the end of their yarns at the same time, then they would agree to disengage their kites and call it a stalemate or a tie.

I rarely bet during kite fights. Some of my friends did and did not win all the time. On occasion, there would be several sets of kite fights going on from the same grounds. The sky would be full of varicolored kites. You could even see some of the glass yarns, distinguished by their different dyes for quite some distance in the sky. The observers sometimes numbered into several scores. Kids and young boys would usually follow kites in flight and could be seen following them well into the fields in the hope of catching a kite that was cut loose. Most often, however, several boys would rush at a falling kite and the resulting melee would tear the paper kite to pieces. But in such instances, if the two sticks of bamboo with which the kite was made could be salvaged intact, they could be purchased handsomely by the owner or anyone else provided they had witnessed the maneuverability of the kite before its loss in the fight. But when someone caught a kite and brought it back to the fighting arena, the owner would occasionally buy it back.

Spring was traditionally welcomed in Kabul by three weekends of festivities prior to its official arrival on Nawroz (March 21st). Nawroz, literally meaning 'New Day', was celebrated as a national holiday. It also had an official part consisting of tree planting, livestock shows and awards to farmers with best produce samples and best live stock given by the Ministry of Agriculture. Ceremonies were held not only in Kabul but also in all major provincial seats of government throughout Afghanistan. In Kabul, contest participants, as well as thousands and thousands of people from all walks of life gathered in some predetermined spot just outside the city of Kabul for the celebrations. Huge tents were erected where the Agriculture Ministry personnel gathered and who officiated in the various ceremonies. The general public, some entire families, would be out well in advance of the opening ceremonies to occupy choice spots. Vendors of various foods and drinks would be on hand, some of them having reserved their spots the night before, to sell their wares. Foods offered were all kinds of beef and sheep meat, some ground, some fried over charcoal such as kofta kabab, chapli kabab, liver kabab, seekh kabab, Shami kabab-- choice pieces of beef and mutton broiled over live fire on skewers intermixed with onion slices and small chunks of animal fat--, mutton and rice dishes, vegetable dishes, mixed salads, boiled, sliced and highly spiced potatoes with a sprinkling of mint and vinegar, shore-nakhod (boiled garbanzo beans dished out to customers by weight and spiced with salt and pepper, vinegar and rose water), freshly broiled trout and other river fish, mantoo (minced meat or vegetables made into small balls, covered by a thin layer of dough and steam-cooked), boiled eggs, varieties of condiments such as jelebi (a kind made with specially diluted dough shaped while being poured into a huge pan of boiling vegetable oil and then dipped immediately in a syrup), parata (sweetened, layered, paperthin flat loaves of wheat dough, fried in pans and browned to crispness), halwa (sweetened rice dough mixed with rose water, pistachios and almonds and cooked using a lot of oil), baqlawa and all kinds of cookies and cakes. These then were the offerings of mobile restaurants and tea shops set up for just one day and they made the day for the women, who did not have to cook or bake anything and just enjoy themselves in the outdoors with their family and friends.

There were all kinds of games for the children, and toys and candies with which they occupied themselves under the watchful eyes of parents. People with families generally chose more secluded spots while the rest of the population roamed all over the place.

There were music bands, storytellers, snake charmers, jugglers, wrestlers and bird fighters with their fighting roosters, quails and partridges. These attracted large crowds, some of whom bet among themselves on the result of the fights. And, of course, there were the inevitable kite fliers and fighters who gathered in the higher regions.

These festivities lasted from early morning till sunset on the three Fridays before and, especially, on Nawroz, the first day of spring.

By the time early spring vegetation appeared in the fields, groups of women and girls would go to the farms in the outskirts of the city.

Occasionally, they would be accompanied by one or two young boys serving as guards.

They would take quantities of salt and pepper and other relish with them, and, once there, they would sit in a corner of a field, hand pick such green vegetables as clover and mint and carrots, simply clean them with their hands or handkerchiefs, spread the relish over them and eat them raw. Sometimes the farmers would raise a fuss and then the women would pay them small amounts of money for what they ate during the time they were there.

Groups of boys and girls of all ages would take to the hills near their homes in search of wild tulips, bluebells and the like which they gathered and brought home as the harbingers of spring. I used to do this often and enjoyed it. Sometimes we would go far up the Asmayee mountain, beyond our home, searching for wild flowers and a plant called 'gurba khorak' which meant that it was sought after by cats. Grandmother and Mother thought the leaves were good for stomachache. Occasionally, we would get thoroughly drenched with a sudden downpour, a characteristic of our springs. Then I would face the angry comments of my elders who warned me that such exposures could result in catching cold or even pneumonia.

Summer outings were a common weekend pastime, generally for Kabuli men only.

Scores of people headed for public gardens and picnic spots in the mountains and along the rivers in the countryside. The town of Paghman, about fifteen miles northwest and situated at the foothills of the Hindukush mountains, offered the best possibilities. Other towns such as Charikar, Estalif, Sarai Khwaja and Gulbahar, situated on the main road north of Kabul, offered more of these resorts for camping and picnics. Of course the farther one went from the city, the lesser were his chances of coming back home the same day. People generally did not own cars. Taxis, buses and lorreys were scarce. Horsedrawn gadis (carriages), the only other vehicles of travel, took such a long time time that weekends alone were not enough for these outings. Vineyards and mulberry gardens of the towns north of Kabul were really favorite spots for longer holidays. Charikar was also famous for its Judas Blossom Festival.

People did not prepare any food at home for one-day outings. They bought whatever they needed at the shops near the picnic areas and cooked it at the camping/picnic spot. They also bought some cooked food which gave them more time to enjoy hikes and walks and card games and to play musical instruments. A favorite ready-made food was kalapacha ( sheep's head, legs and vicera,) considered a delicacy and prepared by special restaurants which also baked or sold lawasha, thin flat bread, with it. Another food was do-pyaza (double onion.) This consisted of choice pieces of mutton steam cooked with lentils, and a lot of sliced raw onions treated with lemon and/or vinegar, and also sold with lawasha bread. Fish and jelebi were also always available in spring and early summer. Another possibility was that people had their fish, generally trout, caught for them by professionals who used special nets for the purpose. Several kinds of kababs were also available and offered by mobile food salesmen in the more public picnic grounds.

Our family could not afford to go to distant picnic grounds. I went to a few one-day picnics with my father.

I remember a unique, unexpected, and rather exciting one on the Asmayee mountain right there in Kabul: It was a summer Friday. The day before, my cousin had invited me to join him and some of his special friends on an exciting picnic near some spring on the Asmayee. He and I spent most weekends together, either at his home or at mine. He was about two years older than me, and my parents did not mind our spending time together. On this occasion, he warned me not to tell the family about our destination, as I might not be permitted to go, if they knew. Early that Friday, I announced that I was off to my cousin's home and that I would be back early in the evening. No questions were asked and I did not elucidate.

We were to meet midway, near Puli Baghi Umoomi. Perhaps, he, too, had kept the nature of our outing a secret from his family. We met at the rendezvous spot and headed forthwith in the direction of Puli Khishti (brick bridge) and onwards to Puli Yak Paisagi (one penny bridge). There, we entered an inn which I immediately recognized as the one place where Father and I had delivered rifles and ammunition in the dead of the night not many years before. My cousin said his friends were living there and that here we would wait for the rest of the group to arrive.

We entered a room to find four or five people already there. Cousin shook an elderly person's hand first and, addressing him as "ustad,"(teacher) introduced me as his cousin.

His use of the term ustad utterly confounded me. This man was no teacher I knew. I had never seen him. Moreover, he was dressed like the general public and not at all like a teacher. I tried to conceal my surprise, planning to ask my cousin at the first opportunity for an explanation. The ustad was equally surprised to see me. In a little while, he asked if someone would give his young guest a demonstration.

Some straw baskets with lids were produced as if out of nowhere and carefully opened.

You can imagine my horror when I saw a serpent being lifted by one man out of one of those baskets. But before I could even voice a shriek in utter fear, my cousin was ordered to grab it by the neck. He grabbed it some ten inches below the head and was promptly bit by it. Two bubbles of blood appeared on two spots of his index finger. It was then that I shrieked and jumped up to run out of the room. But he stopped me and said it did not hurt at all and I was not to worry, for he was protected by the Ustad. The ustad, however, criticized him for not grabbing the animal nearer to its head. He assured me, at the same time, that the poison could not go into my cousin's blood and that he was, therefore, in no danger. So this man was Cousin's snake charming teacher and these other people were also his pupils. I was not going to be any snake charmer's pupil. In fact I was going home right now. Shaking with fear, I got up and expressed my intention. Immediately everyone became concerned and tried to calm me down. The ustad said I had nothing to be afraid of. Indeed, if I wanted to, I could do exactly what my cousin had just done. But I was not expected to, and it would be all right if I chose not to touch a snake. We would have lots of fun and no snake would be allowed to come near me that day. The Ustad would take full responsibility in the matter. He then offered me seven whole black pepper seeds to chew and eat or swallow. I gingerly took them and after some hesitation, swallowed them.

Thereupon, he pronounced me immune to any snake bites and other venomous creatures, at least for the next three months.

I quieted down but was not quite sure if what he had said was true and I was not about to prove him right or wrong either. Presently the subject was dropped. I stayed.

In about an hour's time, all members of the group had assembled. Some had brought quantities of lawasha bread, other food, and fruits and containers of tea and water. The ustad led us out of the inn and we headed toward Nawabad, past my home, and onwards to the Koli Aab Chakan at the end of the road. From there we went up into the mountain to a grove of Judas trees and a spring, midway to the summit of Asmayee. We stopped, drank some cool refreshing water and then settled there for a hearty lunch. The snakes were produced again, petted for a while and returned to their baskets. The ustad hoped that at least a dozen new snakes could be caught by the time we were ready to return to town.

Our lunch turned out to be kalapacha. Everyone got several lawashas, placed a generous portions of meat on it, seasoned it and sat down to eat. Someone assured us that there also was some do-pyaza available and no one need fear going hungry that day. For drinks, we had the spring water or tea. Afterwards we had fruits. Everyone was jovial and talked about many things but the ustad would always turn the conversation to the subject of snakes and the group's duties that afternoon. My cousin and I were the youngest of the lot and two who spoke the least.

Afterwards the group was divided into several subgroups each heading in a different direction in search of new snakes. The ustad kept us in his group. The search was on and the group was to get together later at the inn with the day's catch. It was a hot and futile day for me. I feared the snakes in the first place, was not prepared for mountain climbing on such a day and wished to go home but knew that I could not. My cousin played his flute and the ustad encouraged him saying that the snakes were attracted to the sound of music. In more than two hours of searching the ustad and his subgroups found only two snakes, one of which he caught himself with his bare hand. On our way back, I left the group in Nawabad and went home. It had been a difficult day but, nonetheless, an exciting experience.

I never ventured to catch a snake, but some days later I found myself snapping a wasp's hive off the ceiling beam of our water closet on the roof with my bare hand. Some wasps did sting me on my right index finger. It immediately became as hard as a stick, but did not hurt. There was no swelling either. This encouraged me. In the ensuing weeks I crushed several hives in various places, to the surprise and wonder of some of my street friends. Gradually the novelty wore off and I stopped the 'show.' Years later, one day while driving a friend to the airport, a yellow jacket got blown inside the car and stung me on my ear lobe. I felt the burning sensation as the poison affected me immediately. In no time, my ear lobe swelled and the pain lasted a long time. I knew then that whatever power those seven black pepper seeds had given me, had worn out and gone for good.

Skidding on ice was a favorite winter game of the city boys. Most city streets had a narrow ditch at least on one side, the water of which was used to wet the street dust during the summer. In winter, the ditches froze and created perfect surfaces for our iceskidding. Sometimes certain road surfaces would also become icy and serve our purpose beautifully. Since the roads were mainly unpaved, there were spots where small rocks and frozen dirt blocked skidding over the ice. We would first remove the protruding obstacles, then smoothen the spots before exhibiting our talent to skid the longest distances using the most intricate patterns. We used to have the neighborhood cobbler put special tacks on the soles of our winter boots or shoes to facilitate smoother skidding.

Sliding downhill over snow, using borrowed straw baskets and bread plates which had a layer of sheepskin sewed to their underside for durability, was another favorite pastime.

The items we 'borrowed' were needed for daily use in the family. The baskets held firewood in the kitchen. The plates were used to take rounded loaf-size dough lumps to the bakery and to bring back baked bread. The leather covering of these straw plates made them ideal for sliding. The use of these things meant sneaking them in and out of the house without being caught in the process. Spanking was a sure punishment, but then such spankings were easily bearable for the pleasure derived of sliding downhill sitting on them. Asmayee was fully covered with snow throughout winter and early spring and our home was ideally located for this sport as ours was practically the highest house on Asmayee's northern slopes in that part of Nawabad. Therefore, it was much easier for us to play there during the winter and early spring.

Sometimes we formed neighborhood groups and marched to other sections of the city to compete with other groups for our ability to skid the longest distance and/or use intricate maneuvers on ice or just play snowball. Indeed, even in school we used to participate in snowball matches during our PE hour.

Sometimes we used to make snow lions, decorate them and then go around door to door in our neighborhood asking for firewood and food items such as potatoes, walnuts, dry mulberries, raisins and the like in return for special winter songs to them at their doors or near our lion. Then we would make a bonfire under his protective eyes We built a fire and when some of the wood burnt to glowing embers, we would bury potatoes in the hot ashes to cook. Meanwhile we ate the other goodies that the neighbors gave us and told stories or sang songs until late in the evening when we would be expected to return or be called home. This was the only pastime we were permitted to enjoy as we would be within easy reach at all times. We usually did this when it was not actually snowing.

When it snowed, we most often had something else to do around the house. We helped our fathers shovel snow from our mud-top roofs into the narrow alleys leading to the main street, or in our own courtyards when there was no access to the alley from our homes. Sometimes because of the huge quantity of snow in the alley, reaching almost the level of our rooftops, some residents either cut steps over the heaped snow or dug tunnels underneath it in order to reach their homes or the street.

Afghanistan enjoys extremes of temperature. There are regions where summer temperature in the shade reaches 110 degrees Fahrenheit or higher. There are other regions where there is snow on the ground for almost nine months of the year. The country, therefore, is divided into summer and winter vacation zones for students. In Kabul the scholastic year ended in early winter and there ensued over two months of vacation for all students. That was fun.

My participation in street games never got a stamp of approval from my family. However, they knew where to find me. There were many occasions when I would be summoned home through my sister only to be told to go buy something from the bazaar or to take the daily dough to the bakery.

It was quite interesting to watch the baker at his work the first few times. He would ask if we wanted to pay cash. If we did not-- such instances being numerous--, he would take a pinch off every ball of dough as payment. Then he flattened each ball into an oblong shape, pressed the surface with the tips of his fingers, placed it face down on a special pad, bent over the edge of his vertical oven and transferred it to the wall of the oven. It usually stayed put until baked. He then used two long metal rods with spatula and forklike endings with which to first lightly separate the bread from the oven wall and then to lift it up and out of the oven. The baker knew whose bread was coming out of the oven and he generally placed all of that person's bread, one on top of the other on his straw plate and sent him on his way.

By the end of the day, the baker's 'pinchings' would have amassed enough dough to bake several dozens of naans to be sold to the public at a profit. Afghan bread tastes its best as it comes off the oven. It is so irresistably delectable! The joy of eating at least half a bread en route home from the bakery was compensation enough for being pulled away from friends and games in order to go to the bakery. Besides, I was not the only boy who had to do this chore.

What I did not like at all was to be sent to the local butchers to buy mutton. Those butchers! They were a horrible lot. Nine out of ten times they would give me very poor quality meat, which Mother and Grandmother refused to accept. I was then sent back to the butcher and charged to exchange it for a better piece. This, the butcher did not do without grumbling and angry remarks. There were even times when he would angrily take the meat back but throw my money on the sidewalk. In such cases, I had the unhappy task of gathering up my money and go to another butcher, only to undergo the same procedure a second time. I think this was because we could not afford to buy large chunks of meat at a time and the butcher would not cut good pieces of meat off large chunks for small boys with little money.

One time one of my teachers slapped me in the face right on our street. It was not too hard a slap but it sure was embarrassing. I was repeating a rather vulgar expression again and again to a friend while playing tope-danda. I believe the teacher heard me, for I did not notice him until I felt the sting of his slap. Well, he, accompanied by two other teachers, told me to run home and tell Father they were coming for a visit. I forgot all about the game and led them in the direction of my home. I was very much afraid that my teacher would tell Father about the incident and dreaded the punishment that would be meted out from him later. Luckily this did not come to pass and, thereafter, I abstained from using profanity out loud. My father had come to be known to my teacher, through his published poems. My teacher, who had been appointed as the Pukhto teacher, would come to see Father, especially in connection with the subject of the Pukhto language.

Their discussions were mostly about Pukhto grammar and literature.

One time a couple of men from Kandi Bagh paid us a visit and stayed quite late. Father invited them to stay for the night. The next morning, as they were leaving, one of them invited me to visit their shop near the Lahore Gate, in the southeastern part of the city, to watch them make chaplis (sandals). This was their business. I thought it might be fun. I had already seen them in Kandi Bagh when they visited my maternal uncle.

A few days later, early one afternoon, I put on my silk shawl and cap and turban and told Mother I was headed for the Lahore Gate (a gate that opened toward the east all the way to Khyber Pass and northwest India, controlled by the Afghan Kings for periods of time) to see the sandal makers' shop. She strongly objected and warned me of Father's anger. I was ready and my mind was made up and I would be learning something new in the process. I promptly left home thinking nothing about the consequences. Lahore Gate, I had heard, was beyond Shore Bazaar and even though I had never been there, I knew the general area and thought I would have no difficulty getting there. What I did not know was the distance between our home and the Lahore Gate of Kabul. I must have walked four miles or more that afternoon to reach the market place where our 'friends' had their shop. I was greeted and treated very warmly. I was offered fresh fruits, tea and candies.

They gave me ample information about the various items of footwear they were making for the public. I also learned that they accepted personal orders and made sandals to measure for customers. Theirs was an all leather business. I learned about the technique of making chaplis and could have stayed on longer to learn some more, but I noticed that the afternoon had already advanced to early evening and our home was far away. It was then that the fear of Father's anger and the consequences of ignoring Mother's objection finally shook me. I said a hurried goodbye and started homeward. My timing was, unfortunately, very poor. By the time I reached Deh Ghouchak in Deh Afghanan, it was already dusk and I knew that the family would be very concerned about me. It was right then that I saw Father walking toward town on the opposite side of the narrow street. I immediately knew that Mother had told him every thing and now he was out on the road looking for me. Something told me to just slip by past him, for I was sure he had not seen me. But then I thought he would surely go all the way to the Lahore Gate and find me gone and would return with doubled anxiety about my being lost. The consequences would be hazardous. Why then, cause him additional worry? Come what may, I announced my presence on the spot by crossing to his side of the road and saying, "Agha Jan, Salam!" His head was bare. He had only his vest over his shirt and shalwar and a pair of chaplis on. This meant he thought he would come across me very close to home.

Upon hearing my voice, he stopped short as if surprised and, maybe, relieved. He went for my wrist and, without saying a word, turned around homewards.

A few yards further, he turned into the grounds of the mausoleum of Khwaja Is'haq and cut a few straight shoots from a willow tree. Of course I knew they were meant for me.

Horrors! So this was not going to be merely a few harsh words or even a few slaps toward extraction of a promise from me never to repeat the incident. We walked on silently, he quite angry and I quite fearful, my wrist still tightly in his grip. Upon entering our yard, I found everybody either sitting or standing just by the door anxiously waiting, almost in total darkness.

This was the first time I had been out so late and everyone was justifiably concerned.

Once inside the door, Father pushed me away from him, threw the willow shoots away except one with which he started hitting me. It hurt. I tried not to scream as my welldeserved punishment continued, but didn't succeed. I begged to be forgiven promising not to repeat such action again. But Father did not stop. Neither did Mother or Grandmother come to my rescue. But when Father went for the second willow shoot, my little sister, who was weeping all the time, ran to my rescue and stood in the way of Father's striking hand. Father stopped short, his hand held high for the strike, and said,"All right, dear girl. This is only for your sake." He stopped.

My punishment ended. I sat down at the foot of the stairway bitterly bewailing my plight.

If only I had heeded my mother's warning! I knew they all loved me and only wanted what was good for me. I also came to realize, rather belatedly, that as the evening wore on and I was still not home, everyone had feared for my safety. Father, I thought, finally decided to go out and follow the route that he believed I might have taken, in order to keep me company. That he decided to beat me with willow shoots, was probably his reaction to the anger which rose in him when the family related my insubordination At first, I was a little cross with both Mother and Grandmother for making Father so angry at me. But I soon realized that they were not to blame. It was really I who had caused everyone a great deal of anxiety. I blamed myself for what I had brought upon myself and upon them. It also became clear to me that my sister stood right in the path of Father's caning in her desire to save me from further punishment. That made here dearer to me than before.

I considered myself usually well-behaved. I kept my study area neat and clean. At school, I was a good student. The regular monthly exam reports I brought home for my parents to see and sign were proof of my good behavior. In fact, Father's comments and signatures on these reports filled me with a certain amount of pride in my scholastic accomplishments. Not only did I do my daily homework unfailingly, but also I did assignments given to me by Father in reading and creative writing on a regular basis.

True, I spent time daily in the street playing with other children, but I seldom got involved in fights or mischief and was usually home before Father returned from work. I also generally did Mother and Grandmother's bidding though sometimes reluctantly. The trips to the butcher, of course, were always made begrudgingly. There were occasions when Grandmother found it necessary to go to the butchers herself. Maybe that was reason enough for her to be angry with me. In retrospect, I think, buying anything from the bazaar was really a man's job in those days. In my family's eyes, I had reached an age when I could go for the daily groceries, meat, bakery items and the like.

Women seldom did any shopping, even for themselves. Those who could afford it, employed servants. Others sent their men or sons to do shopping. One can imagine my relief when there came a time when my family found itself in a position to employ help! The family offered residential quarters at no charge to a family from a distant village up north. We also agreed to pay the wife a small stipend and the evening meal for the entire family in return for such household help as kneading dough, cleaning rooms with hand brooms, aiding with the weekly wash and, of course, the daily shopping.

(Bulk purchases of food commodities such as flour, sugar, cooking fat, rice and other items such as charcoal, wood for heating and cooking, clothing and the like were Father's responsibility. He would either bring these purchases home himself or employ coolies to do so. As for the prices of these commodities, I still remember that almost every thing was quite cheap. Rice was around four to five Afghanis per sare ( 16 pounds) And flour sold at between three and four Afghanis per sare. Animal fat was carried door to door by salesmen from Hazarajat for about sixteen Afghanis per sare. Granular sugar could be purchased for six Afghanis per sare. By the time I graduated from high school, The exchange value of Afghanis to dollars was thirteen to one.) I said I felt Grandmother was angry with me and that was why neither she nor my mother came to my rescue when Father was caning me. But I really believe now that it was out of their concern for my safety that they allowed me to experience pain in order not to repeat a similar adventure in the future.

I can think of numerous instances when Grandmother angrily reproached Father for treating me harshly, even when he was checking my homework or when I had forgotten something that I had already learned at school or from him. I remember one such occasion very vividly: It was a Friday, our weekend, and Father was home. The family was sitting under the shade of the awning of the summer kitchen up on the roof of our house in Nawabad.

Father was writing something for my exercise in calligraphy while I read aloud what he wrote. When he wrote the eighth word, I stopped abruptly. The three-letter word was unfamiliar to me. I told him so when he asked why I stopped suddenly. Continuing writing the second line, he angrily stated that I should know every word of the two-line verse and easily understand it. Aware of the result in case I did not remember the word, I began secretly reciting a passage from the Holy Qur'an that I had memorized and prayed to God for help. When he finished, he looked at me questioningly. I slowly backed away fearing a slap. He simply grabbed my wrist and in so doing, touched a boil in my wrist. It hurt and I expressed pain. Grandmother, who was sitting right there, looked up and saw blood at the spot. The next thing I saw was our aluminium drinking bowl flying right at Father. He ducked. The bowl flew past him. But her angry remark hit home as she said, "It is a shame to bully your own child for not remembering a word." Father was really hurt. He said he did not mean to hit me and was about to show me that I really knew all the words of the verse. Just at that moment, teary-eyed, I reread the first line and went right through to the last word pronouncing every word correctly and easily, understanding the meaning of the verse. It was I who really felt ashamed for bringing about the incident. I threw myself into Father's arms. He kissed me and showed concern at the accursed "saal daana", which by token of its name, would take a year to heal and would remain sensitive to touch all that time.