But it rained the afternoon Baba took Ali and Hassan to the bus station. Thunderheads rolled in, painted the sky iron gray. Within minutes, sheets of rain were sweeping in, the steady hiss of falling water swelling in my ears.
但爸爸送阿里和哈桑去车站那天下午，天下雨了。雷轰电闪，天空灰沉沉的。顷刻之间，大雨倾盆而至，哗哗的雨声在我耳边回荡。
Baba had offered to drive them to Bamiyan himself, but Ali refused. Through the blurry, rain-soaked window of my bedroom, I watched Ali haul the lone suitcase carrying all of their belongings to Baba’s car idling outside the gates. Hassan lugged his mattress, rolled tightly and tied with a rope, on his back. He’d left all of his toys behind in the empty shack 8211;I discovered them the next day, piled in a corner just like the birthday presents in my room.
爸爸本来要亲自送他们到巴米扬，但阿里拒绝了。透过我的卧房那扇被雨水湿透的模糊窗户，我看见阿里拖着个孤零零的箱子，里面装着他们全副身家，走向爸爸停在大门外的轿车。哈桑的毯子紧紧卷起来，用绳子系住，背在他身后。他把所有的玩具都留在那间四壁萧然的斗室了，隔天我发现它们堆在屋角，如同我房间里面的生日礼物。
Slithering beads of rain sluiced down my window. I saw Baba slam the trunk shut. Already drenched, he walked to the driver’s side. Leaned in and said something to Ali in the backseat, perhaps one last-ditch effort to change his mind. They talked that way awhile, Baba getting soaked, stooping, one arm on the roof of the car. But when he straightened, I saw in his slumping shoulders that the life I had known since I’d been born was over. Baba slid in. The headlights came on and cut twin funnels of light in the rain. If this were one of the Hindi movies Hassan and I used to watch, this was the part where I’d run outside, my bare feet splashing rainwater. I’d chase the car, screaming for it to stop. I’d pull Hassan out of the backseat and tell him I was sorry, so sorry, my tears mixing with rainwater. We’d hug in the downpour. But this was no Hindi movie. I was sorry, but I didn’t cry and I didn’t chase the car. I watched Baba’s car pull away from the curb, taking with it the person whose first spoken word had been my name. I caught one final blurry glimpse of Hassan slumped in the back seat before Baba turned left at the street corner where we’d played marbles so many times.
雨珠刷刷流下我的窗户。我看见爸爸将行李厢的门摔上。他浑身湿透，走向驾驶座那边，斜倚着身子，向后座的阿里说些什么，也许是作最后的努力，以便让他回心转意。他们那样交谈了片刻，爸爸身上湿淋淋的，弯下腰，一只手放在轿车的顶篷上。但当他站起身来，我从他松垮的肩膀看出，我与生俱来的那种熟悉的生活已经一去不返了。爸爸上车，车前灯亮起，在雨水中照出两道灯光。如果这是哈桑跟我过去常看的印度电影，在这个时候，我应该跑出去，赤裸的双脚溅起雨水。我应该追逐着轿车，高声叫喊，让它停下来。我应该把哈桑从后座拉出来，告诉他我很抱歉，非常抱歉，我的眼泪会跟雨水混在一起。我们会在如注大雨中拥抱。可这不是印度电影。我很抱歉，但我不会哭喊，不会追逐那辆轿车。我看着爸爸的轿车驶离路边，带走那个人，那个平生说出的第一个字是我名字的人。我最后一次模糊地瞥见哈桑，他瘫坐在后座，接着爸爸转过街角，那个我们曾无数次玩弹珠的地方。
I stepped back and all I saw was rain through windowpanes that looked like melting silver.
我退后，眼里只见到玻璃窗外的雨水，看上去好像熔化的白银。