Page 125 - Leadership in the Indian Army

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Mammy had pulled the yellowish curtains. In the darkness, the room
had a layered smell about it: sleep, unwashed linen, sweat, dirty socks,

perfume, the previous night's leftover qurma. Laila waited for her eyes

to adjust before she crossed the room. Even so, her feet became
entangled with items of clothing that littered the floor.

Laila pulled the curtains open. At the foot of the bed was an old metallic
folding chair. Laila sat on it and watched the unmoving blanketed mound

that was her mother.

The walls of Mammy's room were covered with pictures of Ahmad and
Noor. Everywhere Laila looked, two strangers smiled back. Here was

Noor mounting a tricycle. Here was Ahmad doing his prayers, posing

beside a sundial Babi and he had built when he was twelve. And there

they were, her brothers, sitting back to back beneath the old pear tree in
the yard.

Beneath Mammy's bed, Laila could see the corner of Ahmad's shoe box
protruding. From time to time, Mammy showed her the old, crumpled

newspaper clippings in it, and pamphlets that Ahmad had managed to

collect from insurgent groups and resistance organizations headquartered

in Pakistan. One photo, Laila remembered, showed a man in a long white
coat handing a lollipop to a legless little boy. The caption below the

photo read: Children are the intended victims of Soviet land mine

campaign. The article went on to say that the Soviets also liked to hide

explosives inside brightly colored toys. If a child picked it up, the toy
exploded, tore off fingers or an entire hand. The father could not join the