The refrigerator

in the faculty lounge was 'gharob' again this morning. Which means 'broken.' After 'taskakor' for thank you, 'gharob' is the second most useful word here in broken Afghanistan.

The custodian, who speaks about as much English as I speak Dari, nodded and seemed to commiserate with me about my coffee with the curdled milk. Nodded and nodded and then with a rueful smile said in English - 'It is Afghanistan' by way of explanation.

But it's spring and the cherry trees are blooming.

New rose buses are being planted.

And I'm going to India tomorrow for a week.