On September 11, 2002, while the leaders of the world assembled in New York to observe the first anniversary of the destruction of the World Trade Center, I arrived in Afghanistan, from where the strikes had been masterminded by Osama bin Laden’s al Qaeda network. The rickety Ariana Afghan Airlines Boeing touched down shakily on the Kabul runway and bounced along a continuous graveyard of commercial and military airplanes and helicopters, bombed and blasted during the last quarter-century of uninterrupted fighting. Inside the unpretentious terminal, posters educated passengers on articles that could not be carried on planes: landmines, rocket launchers, assault rifles, hand grenades, poisonous gas, and other such necessities of Afghan life.
“Indian?” asked a rough-looking soldier doubling as a customs officer. “Please go. No checking for you. India — dost, friend. If Pakistan, then….” He slit his throat with his hand. Then he showered on Pakistan some coarse and abusive language with the fluency and articulation that only policemen are capable of. He left no doubt in my mind that I was welcome in his country.
The derelict buildings outside the airport were pockmarked with bullets and their compounds overflowed with heaps of shelled airplanes. Posters ornamenting the shabby walls gave advice on precautions to take if you came across a landmine. I drove on the Great Masood Road devouring the scenes of a ruined city once fabled for its splendour and magnificence.