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given me。 I sent query letters to a dozen agencies and was stunned one August day when I opened our mailbox and found a request from a New York agency for the pleted manuscript。 I mailed it the next day。 Soraya kissed the carefully wrapped manuscript and Khala Jamila insisted we pass it under the Koran。 She told me that she was going to do nazr for me； a vow to have a sheep slaughtered and the meat given to the poor if my book was accepted。
Please； no nazn； Khala jan； I said； kissing her face。 Just do _zakat_； give the money to someone in need； okay？ No sheep killing。
Six weeks later； a man named Martin Greenwalt called from New York and offered to represent me。 I only told Soraya about it。 But just because I have an agent doesn t mean I ll get published。 If Martin sells the novel； then we ll celebrate。
A month later； Martin called and informed me I was going to be a published novelist。 When I told Soraya； she screamed。
We had a celebration dinner with Soraya s parents that night。 Khala Jamila made kofta……meatballs and white rice……and white ferni。 The general； a sheen of moisture in his eyes； said that he was proud of me。 After General Taheri and his wife left； Soraya and I celebrated with an expensive bottle of Merlot I had bought on the way home……the general did not approve of women drinking alcohol； and Soraya didn t drink in his presence。
I am so proud of you； she said； raising her glass to mine。 Kaka would have been proud too。
I know； I said； thinking of Baba； wishing he could have seen me。
Later that night； after Soraya fell asleep……wine always made her sleepy……I stood on the balcony and breathed in the cool summer air。 I thought of Rahim Khan and the little note of support he had written me after he d read my first story。 And I thought of Hassan。 Some day； _Inshallah_； you will be a great writer； he had said once； and people all over the world will read your stories。 There was so much goodness in my life。 So much happiness。 I wondered whether I deserved any of it。
The novel was released in the summer of that following year； 1989； and the publisher sent me on a five…city book tour。 I became a minor celebrity in the Afghan munity。 That was the year that the Shorawi pleted their withdrawal
from Afghanistan。 It should have been a time of glory for Afghans。 Instead； the war raged on； this time between Afghans； the Mujahedin； against the Soviet puppet government of Najibullah； and Afghan refugees kept flocking to Pakistan。 That was the year that the cold war ended； the year the Berlin Wall came down。 It was the year of Tiananmen Square。 In the midst of it all； Afghanistan was forgotten。 And General Taheri； whose hopes had stirred awake after the Soviets pulled out； went back to winding his pocket watch。
That was also the year that Soraya and I began trying to have a child。
THE IDEA OF FATHERHOOD unleashed a swirl of emotions in me。 I found it frightening； invigorating； daunting； and exhilarating all at the same time。 What sort of father would I make； I wondered。 I wanted to be just like Baba and I wanted to be nothing like him。
But a year passed and nothing happened。 With each cycle of blood； Soraya grew more frustrated； more impatient； more irritable。 By then； Khala Jamila s initially subtle hints had bee overt； as in Kho dega！ So！ When am I going to sing alahoo for my little nawasa？ The general； ever the Pashtun； never made any queries……doing so meant alluding to a sexual act between his daughter and a man； even if the man in question had been married to her for over four years。 But his eyes perked up when Khala Jamila teased us about a