A Story from the Window of a Mud House

I am a girl from a small village in Malistan district of Ghazni province, a place where tall mountains stand all around our lives like silent guards, each one filled with untold memories. The mountains wake up earlier than we do in the mornings and fall asleep later at night. It is as if they see everything and hear everything, yet say nothing.

It is a spring morning. After the dawn prayer, I am sitting by the small mud-plastered window of our house, resting my head against the wall and staring outside. The walls of the house still carry the scent of the night, and the gentle silence of the morning has spread over the village like a thin blanket. The air still holds the mild chill of the night, but the sun is slowly pulling itself up from behind the mountains, scattering its light over the rooftops, the trees, and the dusty paths. My eyes wander over the greenery of the village, over the flowers on which the morning dew still rests on their petals, sparkling under the sunlight. The sounds of bees reach me, tirelessly moving among the flowers and singing, as if they never grow tired. Smoke rises from the walls of all the houses and slowly vanishes into the air. Each wisp of smoke carries a story — a story of a simple morning, a warm bread, a peaceful life. Everything smells of life and joy.

The neighbor’s little lamb catches my attention, the same lamb that jumps up and down for no reason, as if the world were made only for its happiness. Its small legs are still not used to the ground, and every leap is full of excitement. It is full of energy, unaware of sorrow, unaware of tomorrow. I watch it, and suddenly my mind carries me to distant places. I think of the days when I, too, was full of excitement like that little lamb. In the mornings, I would wake up, rush to school, clutching my books tightly, eager to arrive quickly to play football with my friends. Our shoes would fill with dust, our knees would be scratched, but none of it mattered. We became dust, we laughed, we ran, yet we never got tired. We studied, we dreamed, and we believed that the world was vast and that we, too, had our share in it.

I remember the days when school would let out, and like the roots of a tree, each of us would go in a different direction. One toward their home, one toward the mountains, one toward the water. It was as if we all agreed to return to the same water the next morning. The place where laughter gathered, feet never tired, and time passed more slowly. The water was cold, but hearts were warm.

The chirping of birds echoes in my ears. That sound is hope for me. A hope that still breathes in the heart of this village. Every morning, the birds start again without complaining about yesterday. The neighbor’s little lamb is my joy. A simple, unpretentious, real joy — a joy that needs no reason. A moment later, my attention is drawn to something else. Uncle Rouf is sitting under the apricot tree. His back against the mud wall, hands on his knees, and eyes full of eagerness and gentle care. His white beard glimmers in the morning light. He tells stories to his grandchildren, stories from long ago, from cold and harsh winters, from busy summers. The children gather around him, mouths open, eyes shining. Sometimes they laugh loudly, sometimes they look at each other in wonder. Uncle Rouf tells the story slowly and carefully, as if every word has weight and must not fall. I think to myself, what a beautiful and energetic morning it is today. A morning that one does not want to end quickly. A morning that, if you look closely, shows that happiness is not always something grand.

Suddenly, the smell of warm bread reaches my nose. A scent that brings a person home, no matter where they are. At the same time, the loud voice of the shepherd echoes through the village, calling out for people to bring their animals to him. The bleating of the lamp, the clattering of the goats’ feet, and the brief hustle of the villagers mix together, bringing the village to life. The men get ready to go to the fields, and the women hurry through their morning chores. At that moment, my imagination carried me away. I have found myself among the beauties of nature, tall mountains, colorful flowers, and rushing waters. I play with children, we run, we laugh, and we spin among the flowers. I dip my hands into the water and then splash it up. The droplets sparkle in the air, and my laughter blends with the sound of the water. I feel as if I have become that energetic and excited girl once again.

I become lost in this daydream that I don't notice how time passes. Suddenly, a hand touches my shoulder and pulls me out of my beautiful thoughts. It is my mother who says in her gentle, kind voice, Come, I brought warm bread, let’s eat it together. I smile with joy. I move away from the window, yet the image of that morning, the little lamb, the lane, and the village stays with me. I know that no matter how much I grow, these simple, life-filled mornings will always be a part of me, like a root that, no matter how hidden in the soil, keeps the tree alive.