Roti: a Taliban tale

     Two men sit on the ground at the edge of a dirt road.

     The first holds a piece of wire in his light, caramel-colored hand and draws over the ruts and rocks, making paths for absent insects in the sand. He occupies himself with this activity for some time, seemingly at ease with the world and his place in it.

     The same cannot be said for the second man. He sits, motionless, with his arms wrapped around gathered-up knees and his dark blue eyes boring holes into the mountainside. His jaw is set in the way of a man who has suddenly found himself gripping the short end of life's stick but is too exhausted to do anything about it.

     "Want some?" says Wire Holder, offering some roti to the newcomer with his left hand - a pecking order exists out here and Blue Eyes is at the bottom. Blue Eyes notes the diss but hasn't found anything to eat since well before Fajr that morning, so he takes the bread and eats gratefully.

     "Thanks."

     The men sit for a longer while; drawing, eating, being. As close as they are to the road, they look like they're waiting for a vehicle to pick them up but are in no hurry - time spills slowly over the mountains. Despite that, one becomes restless (perhaps with boredom) and the silence is broken.

     "You know any Taliban?"

     "Uhm... no?" Blue Eyes answers, nearly choking on a barely-chewed bite now scraping its way down his throat. This reaction seems to please Wire Holder, who begins giggling and Blue Eyes sees that his companion has the brightest, whitest smile of anyone he's ever known. There is a joking kind of mirth in his laugh that both confuses and amuses, so anyone nearby would eventually want to join in, even if they didn't get what was so funny.

     Still wheezing, Wire Holder finally regains his composure enough to thump a baffled Blue Eyes on the back and offer more roti - with his right hand this time.

     "Well, you do now."