Babur Saffron is an Afghan of no club, graceful in the way falling water is graceful, complicated underneath. On most mornings Babur Saffron can be found near the flooded market halls, doing very little and calling it research. There is a soft running joke at the soup stalls about Babur Saffron and the way doors behave around them. Babur Saffron works toward the kind of evening where machines hum, friends are near, and nobody has to be brave.