Page 147 - Leadership in the Indian Army

would obliterate her in death. Mammy was now the curator of their lives'
museum and she, Laila, a mere visitor. A receptacle for their myths. The

parchment on which Mammy meant to ink their legends.

"The messenger who came with the news, he said that when they

brought the boys back to camp, Ahmad Shah Massoud personally
oversaw the burial. He said a prayer for them at the gravesite. That's the

kind of brave young men your brothers were, Laila, that Commander

Massoud himself, the Lion of Panjshir, God bless him, would oversee their
burial."

Mammy rolled onto her back. Laila shifted, rested her head on

Mammy's chest.
"Some days," Mammy said in a hoarse voice, "I listen to that clock

ticking in the hallway. Then I think of all the ticks, all the minutes, all

the hours and days and weeks and months and years waiting for me. All
of it without them. And I can't breathe then, like someone's stepping on

my heart, Laila. I get so weak. So weak I just want to collapse

somewhere."

"I wish there was something I could do," Laila said, meaning it. But it

came out sounding broad, perfunctory, like the token consolation of a

kind stranger.

"You're a good daughter," Mammy said, after a deep sigh. "And I

haven't been much of a mother to you."

"Don't say that."