Page 188 - Leadership in the Indian Army

disbelief at their own boldness, their courage. The strange and

indescribable pleasure, interlaced with the pain. And the look, the myriad
of looks, on Tariq: of apprehension, tenderness, apology,

embarrassment, but mostly, mostly, of hunger.

* * *

There was frenzy after. Shirts hurriedly buttoned, belts buckled, hair

finger-combed. They sat, then, they sat beside each other, smelling of
each other, faces flushed pink, both of them stunned, both of them

speechless before the enormity of what had just happened. What they

had done.

Laila saw three drops of blood on the rug, her blood, and pictured her
parents sitting on this couch later, oblivious to the sin that she had

committed. And now the shame set in, and the guilt, and, upstairs, the

clock ticked on, impossibly loud to Laila's ears. Like a judge's gavel

pounding again and again, condemning her.
Then Tariq said, "Come with me."

For a moment, Laila almost believed that it could be done. She, Tariq,

and his parents, setting out together-Packing their bags, climbing aboard
a bus, leaving behind all this violence, going to find blessings, or trouble,

and whichever came they would face it together. The bleak isolation

awaiting her, the murderous loneliness, it didn't have to be.

She could go. They could be together.
They would have more afternoons like this.

"I want to marry you, Laila."
For the first time since they were on the floor, she raised her eyes to
meet his. She searched his face. There was no playfulness this time. His

look was one of conviction, of guileless yet ironclad earnestness.

"Tariq-"