Epilogue of The Kite Runner

Epilogue
They say time heals all wounds. Although I was severely wounded from my fight with Assef, I felt healed on the inside. The doctors at the hospital in Pakistan are what aided my healing on the outside, and of course, time. But Sohrab wasn’t wounded. Both of his parents were killed in cold blood by the ruthless Taliban. He had to live in a poorly run orphanage with no one but himself to love. And yet, it couldn’t have possibly gotten any worse. But it did. He was abused day to day ever since he was taken by the sociopathic Taliban, Assef, and likely traumatized for the rest of his life. That is no wound. However, since accepting Soraya and I as his family, I believe we have helped Sohrab recover from his dreadful past. I remember the very first time I took Sohrab kite running. There was a gathering of Afghans at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont in celebration of Sawl-e-Nau, the Afghan New Year. It was a rainy morning, but by the afternoon kites were out and about. At the time, Sohrab was still silent. But I could tell that he was interested in the kites. I had bought a kite for us, and we used it to cut down a green kite using the old lift-and-dive manoeuvre Hassan and I used. I looked down at Sohrab, and at that moment, I saw him smile. It wasn’t a complete smile, but it meant something. That was his first spark of recovery.
Looking back now, I realize I haven’t let go of my past of unatoned sins. I’ve been holding them in ever since I received that phone call in December 2001. It’s been 10 years since that conversation, and I finally realize how kind he was to me, how well he knew who I really was. Talking with Rahim Khan on the phone, he did tell me, “There is a way to be good again”. Good. Again. I never felt that there was ever a time in my entire life where I was considered “good”. I killed my mother as she gave birth to me. My childhood was…at the very least, abhorrent. Becoming an adult and living in America didn’t help me let go of my past. It wasn’t until that day Sohrab opened up to me that I could finally let go of my sins. And right now, I shall be free, free like your son is today, Hassan. “Standing here telling you all of this, I wonder what you must be thinking,” I said. It’s weird, talking to a pomegranate tree. But it’s the tree I planted and nurtured in memoriam of Hassan. It doesn’t matter how silly I look or feel talking to it. Hassan would do the same for me. The tree that we had in our childhood was special. This tree can be made special too. I inscribed what I had carved in our tree, back in Kabul. Amir and Hassan: The Sultans of Kabul. An ominous wind blew and a pomegranate fell from the tree. It landed between my feet with a mild thud. I picked it up, and memories came flooding back. I recalled the day I hurled many pomegranates at Hassan. I called him a coward over and over again; when in reality, I was the coward. Hassan was pure, I was the polar opposite. Of course he never hit me back. Not once. However, he did pick up a single pomegranate; and what he did with it I should have seen coming. He crushed it against his own forehead. That day, instead of Hassan being the one to crush a pomegranate on his forehead, I should have done it. I looked at the words inscribed in the tree. If anyone deserves to be the Sultan of Kabul, it is Hassan. A pure, noble spirit, fit to lead. I would serve under Hassan, just as he used to be my servant. He would do anything for me; even eat dirt if I asked him to. But now, I would do anything for Hassan. So I poised my hand that held the pomegranate, and crushed it against my own forehead. The rush of the impact and juice took me aback. I wiped the juice from my eyes and looked at the crushed pomegranate in my hand, its juice running down my arm and dripping from my elbow. Was this enough? Was getting pummelled by Assef enough? Was everything I did for Sohrab enough, Hassan? If you were here, what would your response be, I wonder? I pray to Allah that you accept my reparations. Because there is nothing more that I can do for you. “Hassan, I know this doesn’t make things all right. Nothing I ever did made things all right. But it is the best I could do. Inshallah, by the time we meet in the afterlife, I hope you will have forgiven me by then. Tashakor, Hassan. Thank you for everything…and goodbye for now.” I turned and started walking back to the house. I gazed at the clear blue summer sky. At last, I feel free. Free of all my sins. This feeling… it’s not one I have felt before. I’ve never known the feeling of being free; until now. Being free means my insomnia will be cured. No more nightmares. Perhaps I may be able to have my first sweet dream in decades. I don’t remember what that’s like anymore. Going to bed today with Soraya sleeping next to me, I’m sure she’ll be surprised at how soundly I’ll sleep. And with sound sleep comes sweet dreams. Perhaps Hassan will visit me in the dream world, and we will fly a kite together, just as we did when we were twelve. But this time the roles would be reversed. I would be the one to run the cut down kites, and say to Hassan: For you, a thousand times over.