I was introduced to Kabul, and Afghanistan, through one of Rabindranath Tagore’s most poignant short stories, Kabuliwala — about the unusual friendship between Mini, a small girl, and Abdur Rehman Khan, a dry-fruits seller-cum-moneylender, staged against the backdrop of Calcutta in the early 20th century. Like Mini, I stood on the balcony of my Calcutta house and watched these men in salwar kameez — tall, athletic and fair-skinned — go about their day’s work.
I would ask my mother and elder sister who they were and where they came from. In reply I was told that they should neither be discussed nor looked at. The Kabuliwala was rumoured to be the ruthless moneylender, capable of violence and murder. They were also portrayed as the chheledhora , the kidnapper of little boys. Such stories were meant to intimidate, but my curiosity refused to die.
One day, a cousin seemed depressed that a certain Abdul was leaving the city to return to his homeland. A Kabuliwala with a stylish Enfield, Abdul was headed home after his family was ambushed during a fight between two clans. He never returned. There were rumours that he had joined the Talibs, while some said he had fled to Russia.
The 9/11 attacks brought Kabul back to my life again. I watched in horror as America unleashed its ‘war on terror’. I searched for Abdul’s face in the images that flooded the newspapers and TV channels. Finally, I decided to visit the city whose proud and sturdy men always fascinated me. The Kabul I saw was trying to keep its spirits alive in the face of death and destruction. And that’s so much like its people I had seen in my own city — always hoping for a better tomorrow.
Shome Basu is a Delhi-based photojournalist