A Loving Breeze

A Loving Breeze

By {Said Idrees Sadat}

It was nearly two in the morning when the distant lights of the Darunta tunnel appeared.

To the left, the restless waters rushed toward the city of Nangarhar, shimmering beneath the silver glow of the moon. The moonlight danced across the surface of the river, casting a dreamlike scene.

The red and amber lights of parked vehicles reflected faintly on the water’s glow. Most of the passengers in the van were fast asleep.

Suddenly, the road cleared. Our red coaster lunged forward, gliding ahead like a confident maiden among a slow-moving crowd.

A hushed silence hung in the air, broken only by the snoring of a bearded man beside me. Sleep tugged at my eyelids, but I was too absorbed by the scenery.

Then, I felt a nudge beneath my arm.

For a moment, I thought someone was trying to pickpocket me. I quickly reached for my pocket—

But no, it was just my phone ringing.

I picked up and answered in a sleepy voice:

“Hello?”

Silay:

“Hello?! Why don’t you answer your phone? This is the tenth time I’ve called you! It’s either switched off or you ignore it!”

Me:

“Hey, you know how it is—on the Kabul route, network signals are terrible. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Silay:

“Okay, fine. Never mind that. Where are you now? Are you safe?”

Me:

“Almost there. I just passed the Darunta tunnel. Should be with you in about half an hour, God willing.”

Silay:

“Tell the driver to hurry up! I can't even enjoy dinner without you. I got sour fish from the market through Hamid. We’ve already eaten and gone to bed. Now come quickly!”

Me:

“What do you want me to do—grow wings? It’s a car, not a jet!

But hey, you waited six months; surely you can wait another half hour. I’m almost home.”

Silay:

“Alright then. Come safely.”

The call ended. The coaster gently turned off the main road and rolled into Nangarhar city.

As we passed the provincial governor’s office, the aroma of Salar’s famous kebabs filled the air. I couldn't resist grabbing some.

Then, I hailed a special rickshaw to take me the rest of the way home.

Inside the small yellow rickshaw, the red indicator lights blinked softly.

The chill of the night air made my jaw shiver. I had assumed Nangarhar wouldn’t be cold at all, so I hadn’t packed anything to keep warm.

But clearly, cold had a different plan.

Soon, the rickshaw pulled up in front of a modest house—my home, the one my father had built with immense struggle.

May God bless his soul.

He used to say, “My greatest dream is to build this house,”

and he fulfilled it.

I paid the rickshaw driver, hauled out my heavy bag, and stood quietly, staring at the building I hadn’t seen in six long months.

A wave of emotion hit me. Tears welled up, but what could I do? Life demands sacrifices.

I knocked softly on the green door.

Silay opened it.

Tears glistened in her eyes as she threw her arms around me and whispered, choking back sobs,

“Don’t ever leave me alone again, you heartless man.”

She wept for a while.

I gently said,

“Come inside. We’re standing outside the door—it’s not proper.”

I closed the door behind us and wrapped my arm around her waist.

She rested her head on my chest.

I chuckled softly.

“Silay, I’m here for a week—this whole week is yours. I’m not going anywhere.”

We entered the room.

She was still crying.

Through her tears, she said,

“Yousuf, please don’t go back to Saudi again.

There are plenty of ways to earn a living here in Nangarhar. God will provide.

I don’t care about money or expensive things.

I don’t want the latest phone.

I don’t want you to spend like a rich man.

I’m tired of worldly pleasures.

I just want you.

Without you, this house feels like a prison.

If you leave again, I might not survive the sorrow.”

I replied,

“My love, I endure all this hardship for you and our son, Hamid.

I don’t want our boy to grow up poor like me, forced to sell plastic on the streets.

I don’t want him to polish the shoes of rich men when he should be in school.

I want him to walk into the world with pride, not with eyes cast down.

This is what a father must do.”

She said,

“I understand… but…”

Then, brushing aside her sadness, she added,

“But tonight is not for worries.

Tonight, the moon and stars are smiling on our reunion.

After six months, you’re back in my arms—

even the moon is weeping with joy.

Maybe it’s praying to God to never let these two lovers be separated again.”

Silay:

“Yousuf, Kamil came by yesterday. He said that Malik Sahib broke the boundary of our land. They say the road will be expanded and part of our land will be taken.”

Me:

“Well, let him take it.

The scholars say that giving land for a mosque brings reward, but giving land for a public road brings even more. Let it go.”

Silay:

“But Kamil said he won’t give up his land.

He said, ‘If you people want to donate, go ahead, but I will build a clinic for the village on my plot.’”

Me:

“Alright, it’s not a big issue. We’ll sort it out.”

"What did you bring to eat? I’m starving," I said.

Silay smiled, “My love, how could you ever go hungry in your own home? Wait, I’ll bring dinner right away.”

She hurried off, and we ate together in peace.

Afterward, we fell asleep, wrapped in comfort.

The days passed quickly.

And vacation days?

They seem to vanish with the blink of an eye.

The week was over before I knew it, and it was time to pack my bags again and return to work.

As I gathered my things, Silay said softly:

“Yousuf... I swear by God, if there's any way at all—please, leave this job. I'm happy living in poverty, as long as I have you.”

I nodded and said,

“Alright... I’ll see what I can do. If there's a way, I’ll take it.”

Then I left again.

And Silay was alone once more.

One day, while I was working, my phone rang.

It was Kamil.

I tapped the green button to answer.

It was my son, crying.

“Dad, Mom is really sick… Please come quickly.

Uncle Kamil and I are at the hospital.”

The tool slipped from my hand.

“What?

Silay’s sick?

And you're only telling me now?!”

I hung up and rushed to my supervisor.

I begged him desperately to let me go.

But he said coldly,

“You Afghans always make excuses.

I need workers, not your sob stories.

Get back to work!”

I left the room without his permission and tried to escape.

But he called the police, and they detained me.

In short:

They wouldn’t let me go.

I called Kamil again to check on Silay.

“She’s getting worse by the minute,” he said.

**“Doctors say she needs blood.

Eight of my friends have donated already.

But it just won’t stay in her system.

They’re saying we need her husband here—

maybe then, she’ll fight to live.

Why aren’t you here, man?

Are your luxury dreams in Arabia more important than your dying wife?

Shame on you.”**

“Kamil,” I said quietly,

“You’re with her, aren’t you?

And she’s your sister.

If she needs anything—money, treatment—I’ll send it. Just don’t let her be alone.”

Finally, after much pleading, my sponsor agreed to let me leave two days later.

I wired Kamil a good amount of money immediately.

Then waited—those two days felt like forever.

Eventually, I returned to Afghanistan.

As I reached home, I saw mourning.

Relatives had gathered.

Faces were covered in grief.

My heart sank.

Tears welled in my eyes.

There were many women inside the house, so I turned to go wait outside, in the guest area.

As I turned,

my eyes fell on a woman carrying a coffin on her head.

My breath caught.

She looked exactly like Silay.

I froze.

Am I dreaming?

Is this a nightmare?

Then I heard someone crying.

I looked again—

and there she was, Silay—sitting in front of the coffin.

I was stunned.

What is going on?

Her eyes met mine.

She ran toward me, threw her arms around me, and sobbed:

“Yousuf… Kamil shot him.

May Allah take revenge on those who did this to us.”

– The End –

Written by: Sayed Idris