When old strings dances

He knows his heart and soul

    He

dances butterway Maida, like a butterfly around the candle. His feet strike the

ground gently in harmony with the beat of the drum. There are wave-like motions

in his hands. His eyes move to and fro, mimicking Bollywood women dancers, hypnotizing

the audience. When he bends his body backward and forward a thunder of applause

resounds. The big room is packed. Very little space is left for dancing - for

him to run to the end of the earth, to fly above the cloud, to navigate in vast

oceans. A roar of praise fills the night. The crowd's frenzy almost smothers

the music. It is he who has generated this madness. He can only hear. His

vision is blurred through smoking Afghan black and drinking vodka. He doesn't

need to see too clearly, just to hear the music and the words "Your boy is

the best, Farhan." He knows that he has learned the art of dancing and he

is the best in the province of Farkhar. The room is darkened by the cloud of

hashish smoke

    Ever

since he learned which of his hands was the right one and which was the left,

he was out on the street begging for food. Sometimes he noticed children

playing football, top stick, running after one another, playing hide-and-seek.

The only things that he wanted to hide from were poverty and hunger and here in

Farhan”s fortress he was hiding, hiding from himself.

    Farhan

is more than a father to him. His own father left him in poverty and the

torture of hunger. Farhan loves him.

    "I

want you to be mine forever."

    "I

am yours."

    "Tell

me that you are my wife."

    "Wife?"

    And

Farhan marries him one day. A mullah comes for the marriage ceremony. The

mullah is wearing a big blue turban. His upper teeth always bite his lower lip

and his eyes are crossed. Two witnesses also come with the mullah. In the

wedding photograph, A Farhan kram, the tall commander who has fought the

Russians in the name of jihad, has a shiny charcoal beard trimmed by the

barber. His cheeks are smooth, tanned and a little greasy but he has washed

just before the marriage. His white traditional clothes are ironed to

perfection. He is wearing a holster around his waist and only part of it can be

seen on his right, under the waistcoat. On his left the boy is standing with

long hair, red lipstick, his face is made white with powder and his cheeks have

too much red make-up on them. He is wearing female clothes. His eyes are

smiling. "I thought in Islam men cannot marry men."

    "They

can," Farhan emphasizes. "Money marries them and you are not man. You

are my boy, my wife."

    He

was eight years old when he met Farhan. He remembers the day. Was it Sunday or

Monday or Friday? The boy didn't know the official names of the days. Let's say

it was hunger day and he was searching for food like a dog in the streets. All

day he begged for money or a small piece of bread, with no luck. Suddenly from

nowhere Farhan appeared, a Pesi in hand. Farhan offered him the Coca-Cola but

the boy did not say that he was hungry, nor thirsty. He grabbed the Coca-Cola,

drank the whole content at once and started burping. "Do you want to have

a kebab?" Farhan asked. He looked at Farhan’s hand to see if he was

holding a kebab wrapped up in a piece of bread. Farhan took him to a restaurant

and ordered a kebab for him. The waiter was reluctant to serve them, seeing the

boy's hands blackened with dirt and his torn clothes. At that moment Farhan did

something that scared the boy. He glared angrily at the waiter. The waiter

trembled, especially when Farhan pulled his gun from his waist and put it on

the table in front of him. The boy ate three portions and wanted to stay there

longer to eat more when he was hungry again but Farhan took him to his car and

drove for many hours to another province where he was a commander.

    Farhan

lived in a big fortress with his children and wives, guarded by his private

soldiers. The boy was given a big room at the entrance of the fortress. Here he

learned the art of dancing from the best dance teachers, accompanied by

excellent musicians. Dancing was not the only thing that he learned. Farhan taught

him physical. It was extremely painful at the beginning but then he got used to

it. He had been trained to accept pain long before being trained to become a

dancer and a sex object. Returning to his past and family never crossed his

mind, returning to poverty and the torture of hunger. What was the name of the

place where he lived before coming to this fortress anyway? Here the boy is the

best dancer and Farhan loves him.

    He

is precious. Before each performance which is always at night until dawn, he is

prepared by his teacher. His make-up is a very delicate matter. Mascara makes

his eyelashes darker and long. His thin eyebrows are full arches. His lipstick

thickens his lips. The teacher dresses him in female clothes but the last honors,

the paydays is left for Farhan. Farhan fits the papayas around the boy's ankle.

They will keep the rhythm of the dance.

He doesn't know

    He

doesn't know but the moon above the cloud, the cloud above the mountain, the

mountain on the shoulder of the earth, the earth on the back of a dragon know

that some years later when the boy is just sixteen years old everything will

change. But at the moment he is the moon on the calm water of the lake, the sun

behind sutton cloud, the gentle breeze in the summer, the canary, the music. He

walks on the heart of the men and his footprint remains. They have seen many

boys before him but not like him from heaven, a Gilman. He is king and queen at

the same time, king of dance, queen of Farhan.

    Years

come and years go. He wants to hold the time by reversing its effect on his

body with the use of cosmetics, but new boys become topics of conversation for Farhan

and his friends. Farhan is ready for hunting and longs for the charm and

innocence of younger boys.

    He

has crossed the period of being loved. As he walks into the realm of sweet

sixteen, he realizes that love has evaporated from the ocean of Farhan’s feeling

as suddenly as if love was a balloon in the hand of a naughty boy. That balloon

has burst. That love has disappeared. His heart is broken but his spirit is

alive, dance is alive. He is dance.

    One

day he notices that he has not seen Farhan for many days. As usual he practices

dance until lunch time and when he sees that lunch has been delayed

considerably, he goes to the window and shouts at the guard to bring his lunch.

The guard takes no notice. The boy doesn't get upset. Goes back to his practice

and when there is no news about food he shouts at the guard again. This time

the guard comes, stands in front of him. He opens his mouth to say something.

No word has come out of his mouth but suddenly, the guard slaps him hard. His

eyes pop out, blood rushes to his face, heat melts his body and yet he cannot

move, not even one mill meter. Is it a bad dream? Is he the same guard who

followed him like a faithful dog? There is no time to think. The guard grabs

him by the wrist, pulls him out of the room and throws him into the

street.   Back in the street as he started his life.

    Was it the illness, or the loneliness, or the knife of the devil which brought an

end? One quiet night when the sky is clear, the boy cannot see bright stars

shining. His body lies on the edge of the street.

    But right now only the moon, the cloud, the mountain and the earth know about his

future. Right now he is the king of dance, queen of Farhan. He is thirty years

old.