He  was  preparing  his  speech  for  the  next  day,  flipping  through  a  havoc  of  handwritten  pages,  making  notes  here  and  there  with  a  pencil. He'd  referred  to  Assef  as  \"Agha,\"  and  I  wondered  briefly  what  it  must  be  like  to  live  with  such  an  ingrained  sense  of  one's  place  in  a  hierarchy. Baba  hired  the  same  nursing  woman  who  had  fed  me  to  nurse  Hassan. Baba  was  wearing  a  green  suit  and  a  caracul  hat. We  saw  _Rio  Bravo_  three  times,  but  we  saw  our  favorite  Western,  _The  Magnificent  Seven_,  thirteen  times. I  read  it  to  him  in  the  living  room  by  the  marble  fireplace. When  people  scoffed  that  Baba  would  never  marry  well-­‐-­‐after  all,  he  was  not  of  royal  blood-­‐-­‐he  wedded  my  mother,  Sofia  Akrami,  a  highly  educated  woman  universally  regarded  as  one  of  Kabul's  most  respected,  beautiful,  and  virtuous  ladies. At  parties,  when  all  six-­‐foot-­‐five  of  him  thundered  into  the  room,  attention  shifted  to  him  like  sunflowers  turning  to  the  sun. Standing  in  the  kitchen  with  the  receiver  to  my  ear,  I  knew  it  wasn't  just  Rahim  Khan  on  the  line. Buzkashi  was,  and  still  is,  Afghanistan's  national  passion. \"Do  what?\"       \"Eat  dirt  if  I  told  you  to,\"  I  said. \"There  is  something  missing  in  that  boy.\". The Kite Runner Book Review Pages: 19 (5698 words) Relationship and Various Issues in The Kite Runner Pages: 15 (4276 words) The Kite Runner Summery Pages: 7 (1861 words) Different Text Structures in "The Kite Runner" Pages: 12 (3437 words) The Kite Runner: Role of fathers Pages: 7 … Wait!\"  I  yelled,  my  breathing  hot  and  ragged. Was  that  what  it  would  take? No  one's  sending  you  away.\"       \"Amir  agha?\"       \"What?\"       \"Do  you  want  to  go  climb  our  tree?\"       My  smile  broadened. It  is  now  your  duty  to  hone  that  talent,  because  a  person  who  wastes  his  God-­‐given  talents  is  a  donkey. And  that's  the  thing  about  people  who  mean  everything  they  say. I'd  hear  him  singing  to  himself  in  the  foyer  as  he  ironed,  singing  old  Hazara  songs  in  his  nasal  voice. Dazed. \"How  do  you  like  that,  Amir?\"       I  wondered  if  anyone  would  hear  us  scream  in  this  remote  patch  of  land. But  he  was  also  the  city's  most  famous  kite  maker,  working  out  of  a  tiny  hovel  on  Jadeh  Maywand,  the  crowded  street  south  of  the  muddy  banks  of  the  Kabul  River. \"I  don't  know. \"_Bas_,  you  donkey. This is one strain of the virus we call Middlebrow Literature. He  smiled. Baba  shrugged  and  stood  up. In 1973 Hosseini's family returned to Kabul, and Hosseini's youngest brother was born in July of that year. He  rubbed  his  sleep-­‐clogged  eyes  and  stretched. His  eyes  searched  my  face  for  a  long  time. So  he  found  ways  to  make  himself  sad  so  that  his  tears  could  make  him  rich. And  that  is  theft. Ali  told  us  she  was  a  blue-­‐eyed  Hazara  woman  from  Bamiyan,  the  city  of  the  giant  Buddha  statues. We  sat  for. Baba  and  Rahim  Khan  built  a  wildly  successful  carpet-­‐exporting  business,  two  pharmacies,  and  a  restaurant. Kamal  and  Wali  cackled  in  unison. It  flashed  again  and  was  followed  by  a  rapid  staccato  of  gunfire. We'd  been  waiting  for  his  call  all  day:  It  was  Hassan's  birthday. Just  Sanaubar  lying  on  a  stained,  naked  mattress  with  Ali  and  a  midwife  helping  her. We'd  go  out  in  the  yard  and  feed  up  to  five  hundred  feet  of  string  through  a  mixture  of  ground  glass  and  glue. Piss  on  the  beards  of  all  those  self-­‐righteous  monkeys.\"       I  began  to  giggle. It  was  swimming  at  the  bottom,  waiting.\". The  Hazara! I  was  eight  by  then. Sometimes  I  wished  he  wouldn't  do  that. Yellow Bird (and The Kite Runner in the Middle East. I  smile. Then  nothing  more. Will  you  tell  us?\"  Hassan  said. It  was  Rahim  Khan  who  first  referred  to  him  as  what  eventually  became  Baba's  famous  nickname,  _Toophan  agha_,  or  \"Mr.  Hurricane.\"  It  was  an  apt  enough  nickname. What  he  found  in  it  must  have  convinced  him  of  the  seriousness  of  Hassan's  intentions,  because  he  lowered  his  fist. \"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. furthermore I think the huge sales of this book are just the result of a great marketing effort. Hassan  killed  the  six  and  picked  up  the  jacks. He  positioned  himself  at  a  spot  that  he  thought  would  give  him  a  head  start. Why  don't  you  go  read  one  of  those  books  of  yours?\"  He'd  close  the  door,  leave  me  to  wonder  why  it  was  always  grown-­‐ups'  time  with  him. He is a rich man, brimming with macho vibrancy, while his son is a different sort altogether. But  a  chortle  escaped  through  my  nose  and  made  a  snorting  sound. Out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  I  saw  Hassan  bend  down  and  stand  up  quickly. And  made  me  what  I  am  today. I  remember  one  overcast  winter  day,  Hassan  and  I  were  running  a  kite. And  I  saw  with  a  sinking  heart  what  he  had  fished  out  of  his  pocket. Baba  heaved  a  sigh  of  impatience. People  bought  their  scotch  as  \"medicine\"  in  brown  paper  bags  from  selected  \"pharmacies.\"  They  would  leave  with  the  bag  tucked  out  of  sight,  sometimes  drawing  furtive,  disapproving  glances  from  those  who  knew  about  the  store's  reputation  for  such  transactions. Look  at  me  when  I'm  talking  to  you!\"  the  soldier  barked. I hadn't flown a kite in a quarter of a century, but suddenly I was twelve again and all the old instincts came rushing back. I  had  heard  some  of  the  kids  in  the  neighborhood  yell  those  names  to  Hassan. He  turned  back  to  the  microphone  and  said  he  hoped  the  building  was  sturdier  than  his  hat,  and  everyone  laughed  again. This is a page turner with complex characters and situations that will make you think hard about friendship, good and evil, betrayal, and redemption. Finally, I had my kite in hand. He  whirled  around,  motioned  with  his  hand. He  took  a  deep  breath  and  exhaled  through  his  nose,  the  air  hissing  through  his  mustache  for  what  seemed  an  eternity  I  couldn't  decide  whether  I  wanted  to  hug  him  or  leap  from  his  lap  in  mortal  fear. To  him,  the  words  on  the  page  were  a  scramble  of  codes,  indecipherable,  mysterious. Facts about the author Khaled Hossein was born in … No  kid  I  knew  ever  volunteered  to  go  to  these  classes;  parents,  of  course,  did  the  volunteering  for  them. Is this a YA book? I  snapped  at  him,  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business. \"Sit  with  me,  Amir  agha.\"       I  dropped  next  to  him,  lay  on  a  thin  patch  of  snow,  wheezing. \"Please  leave  us  alone,  Agha,\"  Hassan  said  in  a  flat  tone. He  asked  me  to  fetch  Hassan  too,  but  I  lied  and  told  him  Hassan  had  the  runs. But  they  were  wasting  their  time. Did  he  ache  for  her,  the  way  I  ached  for  the  mother  I  had  never  met? Baba and Ali had been friends too in childhood strange since Hassan's father is just a Hazara (Mongol), Hassan's promiscuous mother had left them to join a group of dancers , a detested minority in the country hated and persecuted by the dominant Pashtuns, they call themselves the real Afghans...But the world never stays the same always moving forward for better or worse and it gets much much worse, King Zahir Shah, peaceful, forty year reign is ended overthrown, by his disloyal cousin Daoud Khan, making himself the President of the Republic whatever that is ...The communist kill the usurper the Russians invade and forty bloody years later the wars continue... Amir and Hassan are inseparable constantly playing together , walking to the top of the nearby hill as Baba's son reads to Hassan an illiterate, making up stories also to trick his friend, he does that often to the always amiable boy, flying kites in the blue skies their great passion together. They  dirty  our  blood.\"  He  made  a  sweeping,  grandiose  gesture  with  his  hands. Baba  and  his  friends  reclined  on  black  leather  chairs  there  after  Ali  had  served  dinner. High above, my kite was tilting side to side like a pendulum, making that old paper-bird-flapping-its-wings sound I always associated with winter mornings in Kabul. Ali  moved  closer  and  set  his  hand  on  Hassan's  shoulder. \"I  have  seen  old  donkeys  better  suited  to  be  a  husband.\"       In  the  end,  most  people  suspected  the  marriage  had  been  an  arrangement  of  sorts  between  Ali  and  his  uncle,  Sanaubar's  father. I  put  my  ear  to  his  mouth. He'd  tell  me  anyway;  Assef  always  answered  his  own  questions. I  have  imagined  Baba's  wrestling  match  countless  times,  even  dreamed  about  it. -goodreads. The  early-­‐afternoon  sun  sparkled  on  the  water  where  dozens  of  miniature  boats  sailed,  propelled  by  a  crisp  breeze. Their  father  argued,  but  not  too  vehemently,  and  in  the  end,  everyone  agreed  that  the  punishment  had  been  perhaps  harsh  but  fair. \"Amir! I  have  heard  that  Sanaubar's  suggestive  stride  and  oscillating  hips  sent  men  to  reveries  of  infidelity. I  wished  I  hadn't  said  anything. In  it,  I  read  that  my  people,  the  Pashtuns,  had  persecuted  and  oppressed  the  Hazaras. Envious,  but  happy. He  asked  me  to  come  see  him. His  saying  that  made  me  kind  of  sad. I  remember  the  precise  moment,  crouching  behind  a  crumbling  mud  wall,  peeking  into  the  alley  near  the  frozen  creek. \"Some  day,  _Inshallah_,  you  will  be  a  great  writer,\"  Hassan  said. One  of  them  saw  us,  elbowed  the  guy  next  to  him,  and  called  Hassan. IN  SCHOOL,  we  used  to  play  a  game  called  _Sherjangi_,  or  \"Battle  of  the  Poems.\"  The  Farsi  teacher  moderated  it  and  it  went  something  like  this:  You  recited  a  verse  from  a  poem  and  your  opponent  had  sixty  seconds  to  reply  with  a  verse  that  began  with  the  same  letter  that  ended  yours. \"Nay,  Amir  agha.\"       \"But  it's  such  a  common  word!\"       \"Still,  I  don't  know  it.\"  If  he  felt  the  sting  of  my  tease,  his  smiling  face  didn't  show  it. In  fact,  you  bother  me  more  than  this  Hazara  here. Sunlight  twinkled  in  its  side-­‐view  mirror. He  rose  to  his  feet  and  walked  a  few  paces  to  his  left. Never. Assef  smiled. They  look  small  like  ants,  but  we  can  hear  them  clapping. I found this book a failure of courage and imagination -- all the more upsetting for the author's astute sense of detail and wonderful psychological depth. As  it  turned  out,  they  hadn't  shot  much  of  anything  that  night  of  July  17,  1973. Hassan  never  wanted  to,  but  if  I  asked,  _really_  asked,  he  wouldn't  deny  me. Upstairs,  I  could  hear  the  water  running  in  Baba's  bathroom. \"Oh,\"  he  said  again. Do  you  understand?\"       I  found  the  idea  of  Baba  clobbering  a  thief  both  exhilarating  and  terribly  frightening. Sad  for  who  Hassan  was,  where  he  lived. \"So  everyone  is  scared  to  get  in  the  water,  and  suddenly  you  kick  off  your  shoes,  Amir  agha,  and  take  off  your  shirt. His  door  slammed  shut  and  his  running  footsteps  pounded  the  stairs. Both movie and novel were great additions to my classroom collection, as movie. Year, his legs bent at unnatural angles, a thief kite runner book pages exhilarating terribly. Ethnic heritage and family blood, Sanaubar joined the neighborhood can hear them clapping for non-morons pouring himself a from. 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