I stepped out of the car feeling very nervous. My hands were sweaty. I never attended a concert before. I checked my hair in the car window, making sure that not one strand was out of place. I wore a black suit with a silk, silver and black, striped tie that my cousin Farzaam insisted I wear. As we walked towards the building, I noticed people going inside, dressed in their best-- mostly in darker colors.
We finally made entered the large, dimly lit cafe. On each table small round candles glowed. My cousin, Farzaam, walked to the hostess-- an older, attractive woman with curly hair. She walked us to a small table in the back. And left with a smile and quick wink. I eyed her as she walked away.
My cousins, Farzaam and Mahmood, looked around and took their seats. Farzaam took out his pack of cigarettes and offered us. Mahmood took one. I said, "No, smoke bothers me."
Mahmood gestured with his eyes at the table next to us. I glanced at the table, which was occupied by a group of attractive girls wearing short cut dresses. I gazed at them. Farzaam looked at me and gave me his halfway grin.
On the small stage, a man played a familiar tune on the acoustic guitar, but no one was paying attention. Everyone was keeping an eye on everyone else. Sometimes, eyes encountered. Farzaam got up. He motioned his head towards the bar. He asked Mahmood and I what we wanted to drink. Mahmood quickly asked for a Cape Cod. Farzaam then asked me. I didn't know what to order. I never drank in my life.
I said, "Whatever."
Farzaam smiled at me and said, "I will get you something that you will like."
Mahmood looked at me and said, "Relax. Enjoy yourself."
But how could I? I was uncomfortable. I had come from a small town from the South. I had never been to an Afghan or Iranian concert. I never smoked nor had alcohol. And I hadn't seen so many people from my part of the world in one place. It was a new environment for me.
Farzaam came back with the drinks. I took my drink and smelled it. It had a strong smell.
Farzaam laughed, "Drink it!"
I looked at Mahmood nodding his head. I slowly took a drink. It tasted potent and burned going down. I jerked my head back. Both cousins laughed at the odd expression on my face.
Farzaam said, "That was a Long Island Ice Tea!"
I slowly drank more. My head felt lighter. I felt relaxed. The music felt different. The smoke didn't annoy me anymore. A group of girls came by our table. One of them spoke to Mahmood in a Kabuli accent.
She said, "Salaam," to Farzaam who was enjoying his smoke and drink. She then laid her blue eyes on me, and said softly , "Salaam."
Mahmood introduced me to her. And we walked to their table and were introducted to her lovely friends. Their gorgeous eyes enchanted me. I didn't remember who was who, but I took notice of one girl. She wore a dark blue dress. Here eyes were jet-black. She had a innocent smile. Naively I fell in love with this dark-eyed goddess.
We returned to our table. I couldn't keep my eyes of that bewitching girl. She was heavenly. I hadn't met such elegant girls. I was used to Southern blonde girls with deep Southern accents.
On stage, the music stopped. A new band took the stage. An announcer introduced the singer. She ran onto the stage, and the crowd became ecstatic. She began with a fast-paced song. A few people went up to dance, and then a few more. Soon the dance floor was packed.
The group of Afghan girls came by, one of them grabbed Mahmood's hand and they headed off to the dance floor. Mahmood was always the ladies' man. Farzaam was quiet and enjoyed his drinks. He smiled and told me to go with them. I shook my head and said, "No."
I had never danced before and let alone to this music. I remained in my chair and watched. Farzaam was ready for another drink and asked me if I wanted another.
I said, "No thanks. I haven't finished this one."
He head toward the bar. I sat by myself. I noticed out of the corner of my eye the dark-eyed girl watching me. She sat by herself. I smiled at her. She smiled back. I wanted to get up and talk to her but what if she thought I was strange or boring? I didn't know what to do. I took a few quick sips of the Long Island Ice Tea, slowly got up and walked to her table.
I said, "Salaam, chitori?"
"Salaam," she replied.
I began to talk to her in Dari about the concert. She just kept shaking her head. I asked her what was wrong. But, she kept shaking her head. I finally asked her in English, "Don't you understand what I'm saying?"
"No, I don't," she replied in English.
"You don't understand Dari?" I asked her.
She replied in English, "No, I don't speak Dari. I speak Pashto."
I smiled and replied in my weak Pashto, "Senga yeh?" (How are you?)
She laughed and said, "Zeh sheh yam." (I am fine)
I asked her in English if she was from Kandahar. She said yes. We began to talk a little bit more. Her name was Mahroo.
My cousin Farzaam returned with two more drinks for himself and saw me talking with Mahroo. He gave me smiled at me. I asked her if she wanted a drink. She said no. She asked me if I wanted to dance. I was scared. I didn't know what to do. She got up and stretched her hand. I hesitantly took her hand. She led me to the dance floor, we began to dance. I was a little stiff at first, but I began to loosen up-- the drink helped.
She was a good dancer. I tried to follow her. She kept smiling at me. I was slowly getting better at dancing, or at least I thought. We danced for some time. A slow song followed, we looked at each other and decided to take a break, heading back to the table.
She was thirsty. I asked her if she wanted a drink. She asked for water. I got her a glass form the bar. We talked some more. She asked about what life in the South. I told her that it was quiet. Our conversation went far and near. I was falling in love with her wide knowledge of literature. Her favorite author was Pushkin.
Later, we danced some more. Before I knew it, the concert was over. I looked around to find Mahmood and Farzaam. Mahmood was with a few of the girls laughing and flirting. Farzaam was at the table close to being drunk and smoking his last cigarette.
Mahroo looked into my eyes, almost telling me something, but I couldn't understand what it was. I felt that I knew this girl all of my life. Perhaps, I did know her. We walked to where Mahmood and the rest of the girls were. They wanted to take a walk by the Potomac River.
We left the cafe. Mahmood drove. I sat in the front. Farzaam was drunk and sat in the back . The girls were in their car following us. We stopped for some more cigarettes.
Finally, we made it to the river. It was a lovely night with a light breeze. I didn't feel tired. We left Farzaam by the car. He opened his new pack of cigarettes and began to smoke.
I found Mahroo. She was striking as ever with her long hair blowing softly in the wind. I told her, "Your hair is very tor" ('black' in Pashto).
"Zema weshtan dir tor deh," she replied in Pashto ("My hair is very black").
We laughed, talked and looked over the river. The moon reflected on the water.
I said to her, "My mother told me that when she was a little girl in Kabul, her parents used to take her by the Kabul River in the spring to watch the full moon's reflection on the water."
She said, "Maybe, we will get to see it in Kabul one night."
At that moment, Mahroo and I locked eyes. The moonlight accented her mystical, dark eyes and ruby, red lips. I had fallen in love with someone I had met only hours ago. There was a part of me telling me to kiss her. But, before I knew it, she had planted her soft, tender lips on mine. We kissed very gently. I had never felt such grace and softness. We kissed for a few minutes. It felt wonderful. I didn't want it to end. I wanted more.
I felt people watching. We stopped kissing. The rest of the girls and Mahmood smiled at us. I felt embarrassed, but I didn't want to let her go. It was four in the morning. Everyone had to leave.
I wanted to see Mahroo again, but my flight was at noon the next day. I ran to the car and found a piece of paper. I wrote my phone number and home address. I asked her for her address and phone number, but she said her parents wouldn't be delighted with a boy calling or writing her. She promised that she would write me.
I hugged her and said, "Ba-aman-e Khoda" (Farewell).
That was almost three years ago. I never heard from her. I have been in the Washington DC area a many times visiting family, and asked about Mahroo from Mahmood. He said she had moved to California with her family but didn't know where in California nor how to get in touch with her.
I have always thought about her, where she is and what had happened between us. Why hadn't she written or called? She put me under her captivating spell with her bewitching eyes.
Perhaps it was not intended to be? Or perhaps it was just a kiss by the river?
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This story was previously published on the AFGHAN COMMUNICATOR July-Aug. 1998 issue. Permission for re-printing was granted by AFGHAN COMMUNICATOR.
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![[image]](images/mahroo.jpg)
