Opinion From Delhi to Kabul, and beyond – the stories lost and told

On the sidelines, a well-meaning Asian editor suggested I talk to my parents before signing on, understanding the nuances of family decision-making in India.

I come from a liberal, educated Marwari family, one that’s historically shown zero tolerance for gender or caste bias. My father supported my decision, but gently reminded me: “The Taliban, even out of power, still dictate what women wear in public. Are you prepared for that? If so, buy a burqa before you leave for Kabul, and always cover your head with a scarf. Pretend you’re a Marwari village woman, like your great-grandmothers.”

While others expressed apprehension, I was busy hosting farewell parties in my rented Sainik Farm flat, holding garage sales, and convincing friends to have more rum-and-coke nights with me.

I was ready to leave the “India story” behind and so eager for the new assignment that I landed in Kabul 20 days before my official posting began. In those first 20 days, reality hit hard: 11 journalists were killed in a secondary blast one morning. Within minutes, several new acquaintances were gone.

Had I not arrived before that attack, I might never have stayed in Kabul. But it felt as if Afghanistan had chosen me. I quickly had to adapt — reporting, writing, and managing a team of Afghan reporters, all men.

At first, no one took me seriously. I was a small brown woman and the first Indian to commit to at least 19 months in an international newsroom. It wasn’t their fault; the Afghans were used to working with Western expats. An Indian felt less foreign, less authoritative.

They admired India for its movies, entertainment, and medical care — matters of the heart. But an Indian woman trying to collaborate or suggest story ideas was a no-go.

I started speaking with Taliban officials over the phone. Their spokesperson was always prompt and respectful. We never met, but whenever I called to confirm a death toll or get their perspective, he would say, “Rupam behen (sister), you’re Indian. You know how Westerners portray us. Please look at Afghanistan with Indian eyes.”

Gradually, I built a network — contacts in the diplomatic circuit, the UN, and Afghans from all walks of life. As a foreign correspondent, I followed strict security protocols. Top security advisors were always in the loop; every update and travel plan had to be shared. My world shrank to the green zone, the giant diplomatic compound where even visiting the Indian embassy meant passing four checkpoints and two body scans.

I could leave for meetings and interviews, but strolling through the vast Chicken Street’s bazaars for carpets or antiques on weekends was forbidden and an occasional dinner at a nearby pizzeria was a luxury. That said, parties in the embassies were almost twice a week, a meeting ground to discuss everything that was going on outside the green zone and preserve some sense of normalcy to wear a short dress underneath the burqa and dance all night till the morning prayer call made us all leave in our SUV’s or armoured cars.

Whenever I left the compound, I wore a black burqa or abaya, my headscarf pinned tightly. Colleagues advised me to walk with less confidence, limit my stride, avoid eye contact with men, and — most importantly — never wear lipstick.

At the height of the war, as we journalists worked to write the first draft of history, I became deeply invested in Afghan women’s fears of the Taliban’s return. Every woman I met wanted to leave, no matter how secure her home or fertile her land. Horses, carpets, saffron — none of it could insulate against the threat to their freedom.

By 2019, violence peaked. Dinner conversations revolved around the same questions: What will the US do? If they leave, who will govern? The death toll soared; Afghans killed Afghans. The NATO-backed army’s morale crumbled as the Taliban captured new territories daily.

Women like me became custodians of grief. Colleagues confided in me, interviewees lost hope, and Taliban fighters were determined to expel the “invaders”. Sometimes Afghan officials questioned my identity, calling me a spy. Others felt entitled to flirt, while some refused to shake my hand because I was a woman.

Back home, my nieces asked complex questions: Why must women cover themselves? Why are you there if it’s so dangerous? Are you forced to eat non-vegetarian food? If you run out of sugar, can you go to the market, or would you be kidnapped or killed?

To cope, I avoided talking about my work and found a therapist to help me survive amid trauma and tragedy.

As days and nights blurred in my Kabul home office, the call to prayer became a reminder that we were still alive. Over time, I earned respect for my dedication. My colleagues appreciated how I made their work shine, brought medicines from India, and — on occasion — a bottle of Black Label from a Western embassy’s stash.

Gradually, love and respect grew. As an Indian woman, I understood the complexities of Afghan joint families. I empathised with men struggling amid uncertainty. I got to visit some of Afghanistan’s 34 provinces, and whenever I met a girl, I asked, “What do you want to be?” The answers varied, but not once did anyone say, “I want to sit at home and do nothing.”

Their grace, smiles, and hopes have since been shattered. Those who fled now live disconnected lives as refugees. Those left behind wait for freedom to return.

I started owning the Afghan story, and the Afghans I met began to own a piece of mine. I can still hear them call me “Rupam jaan” and talk excitedly about Shahrukh Khan or Salman Khan movies. We sang songs, recited Rumi’s poetry, and women marvelled that an Indian divorcee could host dance parties. “If she can do it, so can we,” they’d say. There was a sense of kinship — a shared past of kings and empires.

When NATO withdrew, my role changed. I helped colleagues escape the country, and during that chaotic exodus, I lost a dear friend. Part of me is still angry he didn’t listen to my warnings. But when have men listened to women? Another part of me is numb. A friend once told me, “Being numb is also a feeling.” I avoid reading about wars now and have resolved never to cover one again — it’s a game by men, for men. Women, children, and animals are just collateral damage.

I still talk to my Afghan friends — wherever they are scattered. The last time I visited Kabul was the first anniversary of the Taliban’s return. The streets were filled with Taliban men and none of the ministers wanted to meet me as they knew my gender.

I wondered if I could visit the office house, which is now occupied by a senior Taliban official and his family. I just want to retrieve a hand-embroidered bedsheet my mother made, that got left behind among many other things. And I just helplessly wait for the day when Afghan girls will walk to school again, heads held high, their strides confident and free.

The writer has reported from Afghanistan, Iran, the MENA countries, Nepal and Bangladesh