My friend could not stop singing this book’s praises. I had earlier picked up Hosseini’s sequel to this - A Thousand Splendid Suns and put it away for some forgotten reason. So, I was not listening to her. But again she told me to try this and it is a much better book than its sequel. Ash: For you, a thousand times over 
I expected this book to be all about terrorists, Osama Bin Laden, and USA. Pleasantly surprising, it was not. It was about a child, dad, friend, fear, courage, and basic humanity. I almost could feel the connection with Amir until he went back into Kabul. And after reading this book, olden Kabul appears very similar to my native town in South India. Even the words are from hindi.
My own mother along with her parents and siblings moved into India from Burma during the civil war in Burma. My mom has told me of the house she lived until she was 10 and how her dad used to throw all these parties. My grandfather was the world to my mother until he passed away with a cardiac arrest. My mother’s descriptions of Burma fits perfectly of Amir’s dad’s Kabul.
Also, the way Amir treats his dad, is exactly how I treat my mom, she is larger than life figure for me. She helps anyone who goes to her for help, she is very fair, and very courageous. But, there are still things I find as flaws in her, just as any daughter is entitled too. I love my mom, I hate my mom, just like Amir did with his dad. Everything I am today, my life in USA, my husband, everything is a gift to me from my mom. I love her, I miss her. She is alive though but I keep postponing my visit to India due to some random reasons. No one can leave my mom’s house without the stomachs filled with a lot of tasty food. My cousin used to say, devi athai veetttukku ponaa, mothallaiye pothumnu sonnathaan rendaavathu thadavaikku apram ezhundhrikka viduvaanga - If you tell enough food, aunt will still serve it 2 more times before you can leave the table.
Because we always had visitors from morning till night, we always used to have tea/coffee and food at all times in our house. Nowadays, I don’t get that kind of treatment even in Chennai. But my mom is still the same. Since she is getting older, she will quietly order at the nearby Karaikudi / Ponnusamy She will not let anyone leave the house without kai nanaikkama - wetting their hands to clean after eating food.
My mom also spent more time solving the miseries of her friends’ lives than she ever spent time with me privately. Even on days of my celebration it felt like her whole world was invited and she spent her time taking care of them. This might be one of the reasons I try to spend a lot of 1 on 1 time with my child than throwing parties for her birthdays. But, I have also inherited the fact I cannot not invite anyone to my parties, and in USA it is not feasible to invite all our friends home on the same day 
And my mom will always want to do more to others than she gets, and her left did not know what her right hand did.
And just like Amir, I always feel guilty that I have not come even close to mom in her magnanimity and generosity and patience. A friend teases me that the G in my name stands for guilty.
Amir himself becomes a bigger man than his dad by accepting Hazara into his family. Although I possibly cannot imagine that in my case, I am peaceful and thankful I have the mom I do.
I wish books like this replaced history and civics textbooks in school.
Some lines that took my breath away:
"They do nothing but thumb their prayer beads and recite a book written in a tongue they don’t even understand." He took a sip. "God help us all if Afghanistan ever falls into their hands."
And that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everone else does too.
After everything he’d built, planned, fought for, fretted over, dreamed of, this was the summation of his life: one disppointing son and two suitcases.
I reached across the table and put my hand on his. My student hand, clean and soft, on his laborer’s hand, grubby and calloused. I thought of all the trucks, train sets and bikes he’d bought me in Kabul. Now America. One last gift for Amir.
When we left, everyone was sad to see him go. Kabul, Peshawar, Hayward. Same old Baba, I thought, smiling.
I took the keys, stunned. I looked from him to the car. "You’ll need it to go to college," he said. I took his hand in mine. Squeezed it. My eyes were tearing over and I was glad for the shadows that hid our faces. "Thank you, Baba."
There was so much goodness in my life. So much happiness. I wondered whether I deserved any of it.
The idea of fatherhood unleashed a swirl of emotions in me. I found it frightening, inviogorating, daunting, and exhilarating all at the same time. What sort of father would I make, I wondered. I wanted to be just like Baba and I wanted to be nothing like him.
A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer.
And that I believe is what true redemption is, Amir jan, when guilt leads to good.
One day after work, I felt very lonely, family and friends seperated by time and distance. I questioned my decision to follow my career all along knowing I love it truly. Then I remembered some of my close friends who had bigger problems than loneliness, especially those who were terminally ill and their living days were numbered. That same day, I received an email from someone I respect and adore a lot, and it was obvious I had lost this person from my life. I suddenly felt lost in the ocean of life looking for a beacon of light. I randomly saw this book’s synopsis on bn.com:
