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I know； he never asked where she had been or why she had left and she never told。 I guess some stories do not need telling。
It was Sanaubar who delivered Hassan s son that winter of 1990。 It had not started snowing yet； but the winter winds were blowing through the yards； bending the flowerbeds and rustling the leaves。 I remember Sanaubar came out of the hut holding her grandson； had him wrapped in a wool blanket。 She stood
beaming under a dull gray sky tears streaming down her cheeks； the needle…cold wind blowing her hair； and clutching that baby in her arms like she never wanted to let go。 Not this time。 She handed him to Hassan and he handed him to me and I sang the prayer of Ayat…ul…kursi in that little boy s ear。
They named him Sohrab； after Hassan s favorite hero from the _Shahnamah_； as you know； Amir jan。 He was a beautiful little boy； sweet as sugar； and had the same temperament as his father。 You should have seen Sanaubar with that baby； Amir jan。 He became the center of her existence。 She sewed clothes for him； built him toys from scraps of wood； rags； and dried grass。 When he caught a fever； she stayed up all night； and fasted for three days。 She burned isfand for him on a skillet to cast out nazar； the evil eye。 By the time Sohrab was two； he was calling her Sasa。 The two of them were inseparable。
She lived to see him turn four； and then； one morning； she just did not wake up。 She looked calm； at peace； like she did not mind dying now。 We buried her in the cemetery on the hill； the one by the pomegranate tree； and I said a prayer for her too。 The loss was hard on Hassan……it always hurts more to have and lose than to not have in the first place。 But it was even harder on little Sohrab。 He kept walking around the house； looking for Sasa； but you know how children are； they forget so quickly。
By then……that would have been 1995……the Shorawi were defeated and long gone and Kabul belonged to Massoud； Rabbani； and the Mujahedin。 The infighting between the factions was fierce and no one knew if they would live to see the end of the day。 Our ears became accustomed to the whistle of falling shells； to the rumble of gunfire； our eyes familiar with the sight of men digging bodies out of piles of rubble。 Kabul in those days； Amir jan； was as close as you could get to that proverbial hell on earth。 Allah was kind to us； though。 The Wazir Akbar Khan area was not attacked as much； so we did not have it as bad as some of the other neighborhoods。
On those days when the rocket fire eased up a bit and the gunfighting was light； Hassan would take Sohrab to the zoo to see Marjan the lion； or to the cinema。 Hassan taught him how to shoot the slingshot； and； later； by the time he was eight； Sohrab had bee deadly with that thing： He could stand on the terrace and hit a pinecone propped on a pail halfway across the yard。 Hassan taught him to read and write……his son was not going to grow up illiterate like he had。 I grew very attached to that little boy……I had seen him take his first step； heard him utter his first word。 I bought children s books for Sohrab from the booksto