Page 107 - Leadership in the Indian Army

yellow, an exhausted Fariba had propped herself up on her elbows. Her

hair was matted with sweat, and droplets of moisture teetered on the
edge of her upper lip. At her bedside, the elderly midwife, Wajma,

watched as Fariba's husband and sons passed around the infant. They

were marveling at the baby's light hair, at her pink cheeks and puckered,

rosebud lips, at the slits of jade green eyes moving behind her puffy lids.
They smiled at each other when they heard her voice for the first time, a

cry that started like the mewl of a cat and exploded into a healthy,

full-throated yowl. Noor said her eyes were like gemstones. Ahmad, who

was the most religious member of the family, sang the azan in his baby
sister's ear and blew in her face three times.

"Laila it is, then?" Hakim asked, bouncing his daughter.

"Laila it is," Fariba said, smiling tiredly. "Night Beauty. It's perfect."

* * *

Rasheed made a ball of rice with his fingers. He put it in his mouth,

chewed once, then twice, before grimacing and spitting it out on the
sofrah.

"What's the matter?" Mariam asked, hating the apologetic tone of her

voice. She could feel her pulse quickening, her skin shrinking.

"What's the matter?" he mewled, mimicking her. "What's the matter is

that you've done it again."

"But I boiled it five minutes more than usual."

"That's a bold lie."