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d to drive three or four blocks north of the mosque to find a spot。
The men s section of the mosque was a large square room； covered with Afghan rugs and thin mattresses placed in parallel lines。 Men filed into the room； leaving their shoes at the entrance； and sat cross…legged on the mattresses。 A mullah chanted surrahs from the Koran into a microphone。 I sat by the door； the customary position for the family of the deceased。 General Taheri was seated next to me。
Through the open door； I could see lines of cars pulling in； sunlight winking in their windshields。 They dropped off passengers； men dressed in dark suits； women clad in black dresses； their heads covered with traditional white hijabs。
As words from the Koran reverberated through the room； I thought of the old story of Baba wrestling a black bear in Baluchistan。 Baba had wrestled bears his whole life。 Losing his young wife。 Raising a son by himself。 Leaving his beloved homeland； his watan。 Poverty。 Indignity。 In the end； a bear had e that he couldn t best。 But even then； he had lost on his own terms。
After each round of prayers； groups of mourners lined up and greeted me on their way out。 Dutifully； I shook their hands。 Many of them I barely knew I smiled politely； thanked them for their wishes； listened to whatever they had to say about Baba。
？？helped me build the house in Taimani。。。 bless him。。。
？？no one else to turn to and he lent me。。。
。。。found me a job。。。 barely knew me。。。
。。。like a brother to me。。。
Listening to them； I realized how much of who I was； what I was； had been defined by Baba and the marks he had left on people s lives。 My whole life； I had been Baba s son。 Now he was gone。 Baba couldn t show me the way anymore； I d have to find it on my own。
The thought of it terrified me。
Earlier； at the gravesite in the small Muslim section of the cemetery； I had watched them lower Baba into the hole。 The ？？mul Iah and another man got into an argument over which was the correct ayat of the Koran to recite at the gravesite。 It might have turned ugly had General Taheri not intervened。 The mullah chose an ayat and recited it； casting the other fellow nasty glances。 I watched them toss the first shovelful of dirt into the grave。 Then I left。 Walked to the other side of the cemetery。 Sat in the shade of a red maple。
Now the last of the mourners had paid their respects and the mosque was empty； save for the mullah unplugging the microphone and wrapping his Koran in green cloth。 The general and I stepped out into a late…afternoon sun。 We walked down the steps； past men smoking in clusters。 I heard snippets of their conversations； a soccer game in Union City next weekend； a new Afghan restaurant in Santa Clara。 Life moving on already； leaving Baba behind。
How are you； bachem？ General Taheri said。
I gritted my teeth。 Bit back the tears that had threatened all day。 I m going to find Soraya； I said。
Okay。
I walked to the women s side of the mosque。 Soraya was standing on the steps with her mother and a couple of ladies I recognized vaguely from the wedding。 I motioned to Soraya。 She said something to her mother and came to me。
Can we walk？ I said。
Sure。 She took my hand。
We walked in silence down a winding gravel path lined by a row of low hedges。 We sat on a bench and watched an elderly couple kneeling beside a grave a few rows away and placing a bouquet of daisies by the headstone。 Soraya？
Yes？
I m going to miss him。
She put her hand on my lap。 Baba s chila glinted on her ring finger。 Behind her； I could see Baba s mourners driving away on Mission Boulevard。 Soon we d