Passage:

I tuned him out, switched to a polite nodding mode. I remembered Peshawar pretty well
from the few months Baba and I had spent there in 1981. We were heading west now on Jamrud
road, past the Cantonment and its lavish, high- ‐walled homes. The bustle of the city blurring past
me reminded me of a busier, more crowded version of the Kabul I knew, particularly of the
Kocheh Morgha, or Chicken Bazaar, where Hassan and I used to buy chutney- ‐dipped potatoes
and cherry water. The streets were clogged with bicycle riders, milling pedestrians, and
rickshaws popping blue smoke, all weaving through a maze of narrow lanes and alleys. Bearded
vendors draped in thin blankets sold animal skin lampshades, carpets, embroidered shawls, and
copper goods from rows of small, tightly jammed stalls. The city was bursting with sounds; the
shouts of vendors rang in my ears mingled with the blare of Hindi music, the sputtering of
rickshaws, and the jingling bells of horse-‐drawn carts. Rich scents, both pleasant and not so
pleasant, drifted to me through the passenger window, the spicy aroma of pakora and the nihari
Baba had loved so much blended with the sting of diesel fumes, the stench of rot, garbage, and
feces.

Answer The Questions:

1. Who was tuned out? What was he telling?

Ans. Amir’s driver, Ghulam. He spoke in a continuous stream, saying: It's awful what's
going on in your country. People from Pakistan and Afghanistan are like brothers, I
assure you. Muslims must assist Muslims in this way.

2. Describe in Brief, the beauties of City Peshawar which Amir recalled after landing into
Pakistan?

Ans. The Cantonment and its opulent, high-walled residences the west on Jamrud Road in
Peshawar City Pakistan. The busy metropolis that was blurring by Amir, made him think of
a livelier, more congested version of Kabul that He was familiar with, especially the Kocheh
Morgha, or Chicken Bazaar, where Hassan, his friend and him used to purchase potatoes
dipped in chutney and cherry water. Bicyclists, strolling walkers, and rickshaws all jammed
the streets as they wound their way through the labyrinth of alleyways and tight roads. At
rows of tiny, crammed stalls, bearded sellers selling items like copper wares, embroidered
shawls, rugs, and lampshades made of animal skin were draping themselves in thin blankets.
In addition to the blaring Hindi music, the sputtering of rickshaws, and the jingling bells of
horse-drawn carts, the city was awash in noise. The cries of sellers mixed with these noises
filled my ears. The spicy perfume of pakora and the nihari Baba had liked so much combined
with the sting of diesel fumes, the odour of decay, rubbish, and excrement, and drifted to me
through the passenger window.