Kite flying in Fremont park

In March 2002, on a cool rainy day at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont, Amir flies a kite for the first time in twenty-five years and, in doing so, coaxes the first smile from his nephew Sohrab since the boy's suicide attempt. The moment is small—a lopsided smile that vanishes almost at once—but it breaks a silence that has lasted nearly a year and offers the first fragile evidence that Sohrab's trauma may, over time, begin to heal. It is also the scene in which Amir, now a grown man, finally performs the act of loyalty he failed to perform for Hassan: he runs a kite for someone else, and he does it with Hassan's own words on his lips.

Setting and Context

The event takes place on a Sunday in March 2002, four days after the Afghan New Year (Sawl-e-Nau). The Bay Area's Afghan community has gathered at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont, a park Amir remembers from his early years in America. The weather has been sunny for days, but that morning rain is pelting the windows; by the time the family arrives around noon, the grass is soggy and people are huddled under a large rectangular plastic sheet mounted on six poles. Someone is frying bolani, steam rises from teacups and a pot of cauliflower aush, and an old Ahmad Zahir song blares from a cassette player. Amir, his wife Soraya, his mother-in-law Jamila Taheri, and Sohrab—now wearing a yellow raincoat—cross the wet field together. The gathering is also a small celebration for Amir and Soraya: their pediatric clinic in Rawalpindi has just opened the week before. Amir has begun praying morning namaz regularly, no longer needing the pamphlet he once obtained from the mosque.

The Kite and the Invitation

Amir spots a half-dozen kites flying high—speckles of bright yellow, red, and green against the gray sky—and then notices a man selling kites from a stand nearby. He excuses himself, walks over, and buys a yellow seh-parcha, handing the seller a twenty-dollar bill. He tests the glass-coated tar string the way he and Hassan used to, by holding it between his thumb and forefinger and pulling; it draws blood, and the kite seller smiles. Amir carries the kite to where Sohrab is standing alone, leaning against a garbage pail with his arms crossed, staring up at the sky. He tells Sohrab that in Malaysia people use kites to catch fish, and that in ancient China generals flew kites over battlefields to send messages. He shows Sohrab his bloody thumb and says, "Nothing wrong with the tar either." Sohrab says nothing. Amir remembers how Hassan used to check the wind by kicking up dust with his sandal; he wets his finger, holds it up, and announces the wind is from the west. He asks Sohrab if he wants to help fly the kite. Sohrab's gaze bounces from the kite to Amir and back to the sky, but he does not answer. Amir shrugs and says he will have to fly it solo.

The Flight and the Old Trick

Amir balances the spool in his left hand, feeds about three feet of tar, and takes off running, his sneakers splashing rainwater from puddles, the hand clutching the kite end held high above his head. The kite lifts behind his shoulder, wheeling, and he lets the spool roll. The glass string cuts another gash in his right palm. He stops, turns, and looks up: his kite is tilting side to side like a pendulum, making the old paper-bird-flapping-its-wings sound he associates with winter mornings in Kabul. Suddenly he feels a presence next to him and looks down. Sohrab has followed him, hands still dug deep in the pockets of his raincoat. Amir asks if he wants to try. Sohrab says nothing, but his hand lifts from his pocket, hesitates, and takes the string. Amir's heart quickens as he spins the spool to gather the loose string. They stand quietly side by side, necks bent up. Around them, kids chase each other and slide on the grass; someone plays an old Hindi movie soundtrack; a line of elderly men prays afternoon namaz on a plastic sheet. Amir wishes time would stand still. Then a green kite closes in, flown by a crew-cut kid in a T-shirt that reads THE ROCK RULES. Sohrab hands the string back to Amir, then takes the spool from him. Amir says, "Let's give him a sabagh, teach him a lesson, nay?" He glances at Sohrab and sees that the glassy, vacant look in his eyes is gone; his face is a little flushed, his eyes suddenly alert, awake, alive. Amir realizes he had forgotten that, despite everything, Sohrab is still just a child.

The Cut and the Smile

The green kite hovers directly above them. Amir tells Sohrab he is going to show him one of his father's favorite tricks, the old lift-and-dive. He loosens his grip and tugs on the string, dipping and dodging the green kite. A series of quick sidearm jerks sends their kite shooting up counterclockwise in a half circle. Suddenly Amir is on top. The green kite scrambles, panic-stricken, but it is too late. Amir pulls hard and their kite plummets. He can almost feel the string sawing the opponent's line, almost hear the snap. The green kite spins and wheels out of control. Behind them, people cheer; whistles and applause break out. Amir is panting. The last time he felt a rush like this was the day in the winter of 1975, just after he cut the last kite, when he spotted Baba on their rooftop, clapping and beaming. He looks down at Sohrab. One corner of the boy's mouth has curled up just so—a smile. Lopsided. Hardly there. But there. Behind them, kids are scampering, and a melee of screaming kite runners chases the loose kite drifting high above the trees. Amir blinks and the smile is gone, but it had been there. He had seen it.

The Promise Fulfilled

Amir asks Sohrab if he wants him to run that kite for him. Sohrab's Adam's apple rises and falls as he swallows; the wind lifts his hair. Amir thinks he sees him nod. Then Amir hears himself say, "For you, a thousand times over." He turns and runs. He is a grown man running with a swarm of screaming children, but he does not care. He runs with the wind blowing in his face and a smile as wide as the Valley of Panjsher on his lips. The narrator reflects that it was only a smile, nothing more—it did not make everything all right, did not make anything all right. Only a smile. A tiny thing. A leaf in the woods, shaking in the wake of a startled bird's flight. But he will take it with open arms, because when spring comes, it melts the snow one flake at a time, and maybe he has just witnessed the first flake melting.