The Kite Runner Read Online Free PDF Page A

into a passionate spectator. Certainly I could manage that, couldn’t I?
     I faked interest for as long as possible. I cheered with him when Kabul’s team scored against Kandahar and yelped insults
     at the referee when he called a penalty against our team. But Baba sensed my lack of genuine interest and resigned himself
     to the bleak fact that his son was never going to either play or watch soccer.
    I remember one time Baba took me to the yearly Buzkashi tournament that took place on the first day of spring, New Year’s Day. Buzkashi was, and still is, Afghanistan’s national
     passion. A chapandaz, a highly skilled horseman usually patronized by rich aficionados, has to snatch a goat or cattle carcass from the midst of
     a melee, carry that carcass with him around the stadium at full gallop, and drop it in a scoring circle while a team of other chapandaz chases him and does everything in its power—kick, claw, whip, punch—to snatch the carcass from him. That day, the crowd roared
     with excitement as the horsemen on the field bellowed their battle cries and jostled for the carcass in a cloud of dust. The
     earth trembled with the clatter of hooves. We watched from the upper bleachers as riders pounded past us at full gallop, yipping
     and yelling, foam flying from their horses’ mouths.
    At one point Baba pointed to someone. “Amir, do you see that man sitting up there with those other men around him?”
    I did.
    “That’s Henry Kissinger.”
    “Oh,” I said. I didn’t know who Henry Kissinger was, and I might have asked. But at the moment, I watched with horror as one
     of the chapandaz fell off his saddle and was trampled under a score of hooves. His body was tossed and hurled in the stampede like a rag doll,
     finally rolling to a stop when the melee moved on. He twitched once and lay motionless, his legs bent at unnatural angles,
     a pool of his blood soaking through the sand.
    I began to cry.
    I cried all the way back home. I remember how Baba’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. Clenched and unclenched. Mostly,
     I will never forget Baba’s valiant efforts to conceal the disgusted look on his face as he drove in silence.
    Later that night, I was passing by my father’s study when I overheard him speaking to Rahim Khan. I pressed my ear to the
     closed door.
    “—grateful that he’s healthy,” Rahim Khan was saying.
    “I know, I know. But he’s always buried in those books or shuffling around the house like he’s lost in some dream.”
    “And?”
    “I wasn’t like that.” Baba sounded frustrated, almost angry.
    Rahim Khan laughed. “Children aren’t coloring books. You don’t get to fill them with your favorite colors.”
    “I’m telling you,” Baba said, “I wasn’t like that at all, and neither were any of the kids I grew up with.”
    “You know, sometimes you are the most self-centered man I know,” Rahim Khan said. He was the only person I knew who could
     get away with saying something like that to Baba.
    “It has nothing to do with that.”
    “Nay?”
    “Nay.”
    “Then what?”
    I heard the leather of Baba’s seat creaking as he shifted on it. I closed my eyes, pressed my ear even harder against the
     door, wanting to hear, not wanting to hear. “Sometimes I look out this window and I see him playing on the street with the
     neighborhood boys. I see how they push him around, take his toys from him, give him a shove here, a whack there. And, you
     know, he never fights back. Never. He just . . . drops his head and . . .”
    “So he’s not violent,” Rahim Khan said.
    “That’s not what I mean, Rahim, and you know it,” Baba shot back. “There is something missing in that boy.”
    “Yes, a mean streak.”
    “Self-defense has nothing to do with meanness. You know what always happens when the neighborhood boys tease him? Hassan steps
     in and fends them off. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And when they come home, I say to him, ‘How did Hassan get that