Page 144 - Leadership in the Indian Army

beside Mammy, next to the living-room entrance where it was customary

for the family of the deceased to sit. Mourners removed their shoes at
the door, nodded at acquaintances as they crossed the room, and sat on

folding chairs arranged along the walls. Laila saw Wajma, the elderly

midwife who had delivered her. She saw Tariq's mother too, wearing a

black scarf over the wig. She gave Laila a nod and a slow, sad,
close-lipped smile.

From a cassette player, a man's nasal voice chanted verses from the

Koran. In between, the women sighed and shifted and sniffled. There
were muted coughs, murmurs, and, periodically, someone let out a

theatrical, sorrow-drenched sob.
Rasheed's wife, Mariam, came in. She was wearing a black hijab.

Strands of her hair strayed from it onto her brow. She took a seat along

the wall across from Laila.

Next to Laila, Mammy kept rocking back and forth. Laila drew Mammy's

hand into her lap and cradled it with both of hers, but Mammy did not

seem to notice.

"Do you want some water, Mammy?" Laila said in her ear. "Are you

thirsty?"

But Mammy said nothing. She did nothing but sway back and forth and
stare at the rug with a remote, spiritless look.

Now and then, sitting next to Mammy, seeing the drooping, woebegone

looks around the room, the magnitude of the disaster that had struck her

family would register with Laila. The possibilities denied. The hopes
dashed.