Ever since the Taliban took over Afghanistan, AJ and my calls have been interrupted by frustrating silence. We talk via WhatsApp calls that keep dropping every three minutes.
“They have jammed the internet connectivity here. Taliban tech-savvy ho gaya hai,” he laughs.
We met in Delhi, but AJ now lives in Mazar-e-Sharif with his old parents, wife and infant son. His small factory shut down two months back. He called me the day the Taliban advanced towards Kabul. We were speaking after almost two years.
“I have hidden all the passports now in a small locker. What if tomorrow they barge into the house and take them?” For AJ and many others in Afghanistan, living at home now comes with risk and a blurry future.
“They have already beaten up two-three women here. We have stopped going out, laying low is the only way to stay alive.”
“Leave the country,” I tell him. AJ is among the closest and most remarkable of my Afghan friends.
“But they have closed down everything here — banks shut, airport seized. I am planning to escape via Uzbekistan to the US. I will attempt to cross the border via road, but there is a lot of Talib security.”
“You have Talib friends?” I ask.
“Yes, we talk over tea.”
“Then ask them to let you cross the border.”
“Arrey…they are friends only till I don’t do anything. If I am caught trying to escape, they will shoot, no questions asked. Unka dimag kharab hai, they only listen to their bosses and fire. But my son and wife can’t be here.”
I can’t imagine being in AJ’s shoes.
“It’s all bloodshed here. They are beating innocents, tying them up and dragging them. We have to ignore and pass by. If you react, you are next.”
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Smell of pulao and pictures of rafting
I check on AJ and his family every other day now. More than the Taliban, we reminisce about our Delhi days filled with Afghan pulao, auto accidents and forgotten passports.
AJ needed to be constantly reminded about carrying his passport when he was in Delhi in 2015.
Our trip to Rishikesh had to be delayed because he left the passport in his apartment and had to go all the way back to his house from the Majnu Ka Tilla bus stand. Four of us had planned this trip for a long time, and AJ forgetting his passport again irked us all. When he returned finally, sweaty and panting, the sight of a large casserole in his hand, made us melt right away.
The casserole had Afghan pulao — with lamb, carrots and raisins. AJ cooked it the best, better than what most restaurants in Lajpat Nagar offer. This was my go-to meal, whether it was a sad day or a happy day.
I rushed every time he called me and said in his broken Hindi and English, “Tum aao, I cooked your pulao.” The perfect juicy lamb pieces, mixed with rice, carrots and sautéed onions, garnished with some more raisins for flavour — one could get the fragrance from AJ’s balcony.
Every time he returned from Afghanistan, AJ carried one bag of raisins, almonds, and saffron for us.
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“Do you have any photos from Rishikesh, from the time we played basketball and Holi, and went rafting?” He nervously asks me this week. “I lost them, and I need to see them. They (Taliban) have taken over my home in Mazar-e-Sharif. I need moments to cling onto.”
Our conversations keep going back to his time in India.
“Remember how you managed to fracture the same leg twice in four months?”
We both laugh as he reminds me.
AJ and I met with an accident in Lajpat Nagar near the Moolchand flyover on a winter day in 2015. A cab hit our auto at the traffic light. AJ lifted the auto all by himself in spite of his shoulder dislocation and rushed me to the hospital, standing by me as I was taken to the OT.
“Don’t worry, they will give you a fancy plaster,” he had said. I kept cribbing that afternoon about the struggles of wearing a plaster from my upper thigh to ankle.
“Sometimes my shoulder hurts, it reminds me of how free life was there.” I feel AJ choking on the phone now.
Back in Delhi, AJ would tell us about how young boys are given “taalim” to join the Taliban.
“They constantly brainwash. After a point, it becomes an addiction — they take Allah’s name and fire.” When we would ask about bomb blasts, AJ would casually say, “keeps happening.”
“When you can’t reach me on the phone, know that phone lines have been damaged.”
AJ would show us Facebook accounts of teenage boys with rocket-propelled grenades and machine guns.
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‘Everyone is just focussing on Kabul’
Cut to 2021, AJ laughs when I ask, “Taliban 2.0 is real, what about women’s rights?”
“Women’s rights? They have learned the US language of politics. They are just waiting for the Americans to leave completely. Everyone who says the Taliban should get a chance will get to see what that chance means. You have to live here to understand what they do. Everyone is just focussing on Kabul.”
Most of the Taliban guarding Mazar-e-Sharif are local Afghan boys and some former police personnel.
“But now, Amrullah Saleh and Ahmad Massoud have started attacking and capturing places. Massoud is our Afghan hero.”
“The Talibs who came from the hills are extremely dangerous, this is the first time they have seen the city. They stink because they don’t shower.”
At the end of each call, AJ reminds me to check on him the following day.
Views are personal.
(Edited by Neera Majumdar)