Few days’ back; I went to place of one Afghan refugee man. He had a small room, and a good terrace; the terrace was filled with winter sun. He opened the iron door of the room, on which the earlier tenants had written graffiti in black marker.
Just opposite the room was a poster of Afghan tourism and a air port was been shown on the brown mountain. Just looking at the poster one tries to search the Burqa clad women and dilapidated housed in the poster.
His room was filled with his longing for the home country, the photos of the wall of two young men, probably his brothers.
He talked eloquently; He was not tall but well built, and expressive green eyes.
He talked of his fiancée that was in Australia; he too would join them soon. He was waiting for the Visa.
He spoke in broken Hindi, but it was sweet with accent of his native language.
Meeting him was a treat; he was a gypsy carrying himself with the city he was living.
He praised the raisins and showed hatred towards the people who drank wine. The fear of Taliban is so much in the minds of Afghan men that still they cant accept the western or liberal life o f style though they may live thousands of miles away from the turban and beard men.