The Taliban Cricket Club by Timeri N. Murari

we existed.
    â€œNow . . . the stairs,” I said.
    Still holding her hand, I led her into the corridor to the stairs leading up to the roof. At the first stair, she took a cautious step, forgetting to lift the bottom edge of the burka, and nearly fell over. She pulled the burka off in exasperation and dropped it on the floor.
    â€œFrom now on, my husband will have to drive me to the store, guide me by the hand up any steps, and sit me down on a chair when I want to sit.” She crossed to her bedroom and firmly closed the door behind her.
    I too removed that enveloping cape that flowed from the cap on our heads down to our ankles and retreated to my bedroom. I switched on the radio to the only station broadcasting, Radio Sharia, and listened to the commands read by the announcer.
    They banned music, movies, television, computers, picnics, and wedding parties. No New Year’s celebrations, or any kind of mixed-sex gathering; no children’s toys, including dolls and kites, card and board games, or chess. No more cameras, or photographs, or paintings of people and animals. No more pet parakeets, cigarettes and alcohol, magazines and newspapers and most books.
    People were not allowed to be with or talk to foreigners.
    People could not applaud, not that there was anything to clap for.
    My first article for the HT after I left the KD was on our claustrophobic, imprisoned lives.

The Great Game
    O N LEAVING THE MINISTRY, WE JOSTLED WITH others to get on the bus, as there were no taxis. The boys sat in the front; I took a seat in the back, behind the drab curtain that separated the sexes. My neighbors sniffed loudly and edged away from my smell. I hoped I would dry out before I reached home.
    We got off the bus at our stop and I walked between Jahan and my two cousins. With each step, I felt more and more certain that I would not be able to write another word while I lived here. There was no longer a way for me to publish undetected anywhere.
    â€œI’d love to teach you cricket,” I announced, breaking the gloomy silence, “and I will teach you. You all have to play.”
    They stopped walking, surprised by my sudden announcement breaking into their thoughts about the game.
    â€œI’ll play on the team,” Jahan said, with the same excitement as his cousins. “When we win I’ll go away with them.”
    â€œWe haven’t started yet, Jahan, and you’re already flying away,” I admonished gently. He was always the dreamer.
    â€œWe know you can’t play in the matches,” Parwaaze said apologetically. “But if you just show us while you’re still here.”
    â€œDo you know anything about it?”
    They shook their heads, but Jahan said, “I saw it played when we were in Delhi, but it was so slow I fell asleep.”
    â€œIt is anything but slow!” I said. They all looked so hopeful, like I hadn’t seen them in years.
    They were right. If the team won, Jahan could be in Pakistan in three weeks. I had been worrying about him—the papers and money Shaheen would send would only provide for my travel, for me to join him as his future wife. Jahan would be left alone here, but now was the chance to get him out too. He could leave even before I did.
    We spoke hungrily about life anywhere but here.
    â€œWe can return to university.” Parwaaze spoke for Qubad too.
    â€œAnd I can go to a proper school and then university,” Jahan said.
    â€œBefore we do all that I must get Jahan out with you.”
    â€œLet’s s-start now,” Qubad said as our house came into view.
    Jahan knocked on our gate; Abdul peered through the slat and let us in.
    â€œHas Dr. Hanifa come?” I asked innocently as we walked past him.
    â€œYes, of course. Every day, same time. You know that.”
    â€œGo into the garden,” I told my cousins. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
    As soon as I entered the house, I hoisted the burka and