Kite Runner Hassan Quotes

I brought Hassan’s son from Afghanistan to America, lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty

He stopped, turned. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ''For you a thousand times over!'' he said. Then he smiled his Hassan smile and disappeared around the corner.

Hassan couldn't read a first-grade textbook but he'd read me plenty. That was a little unsettling but also sort of comfortable to have someone who always knew what you needed.

Hassan returned the smile. Except his didn’t look forced. And that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too

Was there happiness at the end [of the movie], they wanted to know. If someone were to ask me today whether the story of Hassan, Sohrab, and me ends with happiness, I wouldn't know what to say. Does anybody's? After all, life is not a Hindi movie. Zendagi migzara, Afghans like to say: Life goes on, undmindful of beginning, en, kamyab, nah-kam, crisis or catharsis, moving forward like a slow, dusty caravan of kochis.

I wanted to tell them that, in Kabul, we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card. Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker. He'd carve notches on our stick with his knife, one notch for each loaf of naan he'd pull for us from the tandoor's roaring flames. At the end of the month, my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick. That was it. No questions. No ID.

Hassan and I fed from the same breasts. We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard. And, under the same roof, we spoke our first words. Mine was Baba. His was Amir. My name. Looking back on it now, I think the foundation for what happened in the winter of 1975 —and all that followed— was already laid in those first words.

Hassan and I looked at each other. Cracked up. The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the century, and what the Russians would eventually learn by the late 1980's: that Afghans are an independent people. Afghans cherish customs but abhor rules. And so it was with kite fighting. The rules were simple: No rules. Fly your kite. Cut the opponents. Good luck.

But they were wasting their time. Because Hassan stood with his arms wide open, smiling, waiting for the kite. And may God—if He exists, that is—strike me blind if the kite didn’t just drop into his outstretched arms.

I laughed. Clutched him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek. "What was that for?" he said; startled, blushing. I gave him a friendly hug, smiled. "You're a prince, Hassan. You're a prince and I love you.

Hasta el día de hoy, me resulta complicado mirar directamente a gente como Hassan, gente que cree cada palabra que dice-.

And so it was that, about a week later, we crossed a strip of warm, black tarmac and I brought Hassan's son from Afghanistan to America, lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty.

Untukmu keseribu kalinya - Hassan si pengejar layang-layang berbibir sumbing

Itukan hanya mimpi Amir agha. Dalam mimpi kita bisa melakukan apa saja - Hassan

To this day, I find it hard to gaze directly at people like Hassan, people who mean every word they say.

The previous year, Baba had surprised Hassan with a leather cowboy hat just like the one Clint Eastwood wore in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly—which had unseated The Magnificent Seven as our favorite Western.

Here is what I do on the first day of snowfall every year: I step out of the house early in the morning, still in my pajamas, hugging my arms against the chill. I find the driveway, my father’s car, the walls, the trees, the rooftops, and the hills buried under a foot of snow. I smile. The sky is seamless and blue, the snow so white my eyes burn. I shovel a handful of the fresh snow into my mouth, listen to the muffled stillness broken only by the cawing of crows. I walk down the front steps, barefoot, and call for Hassan to come out and see.

I had one last chance to make a decision. One final opportunity to decide who I was going to be. I could step into that alley, stand up for Hassan-the way he'd stood up for me all those times in the past- and accept whatever would happen to me. Or I could run. In the end, I ran.

Winter was every kid’s favorite season in Kabul, at least those whose fathers could afford to buy a good iron stove. The reason was simple: They shut down school for the icy season. Winter to me was the end of long division and naming the capital of Bulgaria, and the start of three months of playing cards by the stove with Hassan, free Russian movies on Tuesday mornings at Cinema Park, sweet turnip qurma over rice for lunch after a morning of building snowmen.

I looked at the photo. "Your father was a man torn between two halves," Rahim Khan had said in his letter. I had been the entitled half, the society-approved, legitimate half, the unwitting embodiment of Baba's guilt. I looked at Hassan, showing those two missing front teeth, sunlight slanting on his face. Baba's other half. The unentitled, unprivileged half. The half who had inherited what had been pure and noble in Baba. The half that, maybe, in the most secret recesses of his heart, Baba had thought of as his true son. I slipped the picture back where I had found it. Then I realized something: That last thought had brought no sting with it. Closing Sohrab's door, I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.

Bahwa Hassan akan menjadi seorang buta huruf seperti Ali dan sebagian besar orang Hazara sudah diputuskan pada menit saat dia dilahirkan, mungkin bahkan saat dia masih meringkuk dalam rahim Sanaubar yang tidak menginginkannya. Lagi pula apa gunanya seorang pelayan belajar menulis dan membaca?

Bagaimana dia bisa dengan begitu mudah membaca pikiranku, sementara aku tidak tahu setengah pun dari isi kepalanya? Padahal akulah yang mengenyam bangku sekolah, yang bisa membaca dan menulis. Akulah yang pintar. Hassan tidak mampu membaca buku pelajaran untuk kelas satu, namun dia mampu membaca banyak hal yang tersembunyi dalam diriku. Meresahkan memang, tapi rasanya cukup nyaman memiliki seseorang yang selalu mengetahui kebutuhanmu.

Aku dan Hassan memandang. Menahan tawa. Anak India itu akan segera mengetahui satu hal yang dipelajari oleh orang Inggris di awal abad lalu, yang akhirnya dipelajari oleh orang Rusia di akhir 1980-an: bahwa penduduk Afganistan adalah orang-orang merdeka. Penduduk Afganistan menyukai tradisi namun membenci aturan. Begitu pula dengan adu layang-layang. Aturannya sederhana: Tidak ada aturan. Terbangkan saja layang-layangmu. Putuskan benang lawanmu. Mudah-mudahan kamu beruntung.

Hingga hari ini, aku merasa kesulitan menatap orang-orang seperti Hassan, orang-orang yang benar-benar serius terhadap kata-kata yang mereka ucapkan.

Perkataan Hassan ini membuatku bersedih. Aku bersedih untuk jati diri Hassan, dan untuk tempatnya tinggal. Untuk kepasrahannya menerima kenyataan bahwa dia akan menua di pondok tanah liat di halaman, seperti yang terjadi pada ayahnya.

Begitulah Hassan. Dia begitu murni, sehingga saat berada di dekatnya, aku selalu merasa bagaikan seorang penipu.

Hassan returned the smile. Except his didn’t look forced. “I know,” he said. And that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.

Hassan and I were stunned. Dazed. John Wayne didn’t really speak Farsi

Except he'd been wrong about that. There was a monster in the lake. It had grabbed Hassan by the ankles, dragged him to the murky bottom. I was that monster. That was the night I became an insomniac.

I'll put it on my table where I keep my drawings," Hassan said. His saying that made me kind of sad. Sad for who Hassan was, where he lived. For how he'd accepted the fact that he'd grow old in that mud shack in the yard, the way his father had.

The loss was hard on Hassan—it always hurts more to have and lose than to not have in the first place.

I often convinced myself I had no envy of Hassan.

For you, a thousand times over." "Amir and Hassan. The Sultans of Kabul." "That was the night I became an insomniac." "For me, America was a place to bury my memories. For Baba, a place to mourn his." "Time can be a greedy thing-sometimes it steals all the details for itself." "He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footsteps. He moved as if not to stir the air around him. Mostly, he slept." "It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place, curled up all the edges and tucked them under.

Hassan knew He knew I’d seen everything in that alley, that I’d stood there and done nothing. He knew I had betrayed him and yet he was rescuing me once again, maybe for the last time. I loved him in that moment, loved him more than I’d ever loved anyone, and I wanted to tell them all that I was the snake in the grass, the monster in the lake.

Det var vad jag tvingade mig själv att tro. Faktum var att jag ville vara feg, för alternativet, det verkliga skälet till att jag flydde, var att Assef hade rätt: ingenting var gratis här i världen. Kanske var Hassan det pris jag måste betala, det lamm jag måste slakta, för att vinna Baba.

I den stunden såg jag något jag aldrig skulle glömma, Hassan som serverade Assef och Wali något att dricka från en silverbricka.