Page 203 - Leadership in the Indian Army

at the girl, at her blond curls, her slender neck and green eyes, her high

cheekbones and plump lips. Mariam remembered seeing her on the
streets when she was little, tottering after her mother on the way to the

tandoor, riding on the shoulders of her brother, the younger one, with

the patch of hair on his ear. Shooting marbles with the carpenter's boy.

The girl was looking back as if waiting for Mariam to pass on some
morsel of wisdom, to say something encouraging- But what wisdom did

Mariam have to offer? What encouragement? Mariam remembered the

day they'd buried Nana and how little comfort she had found when Mullah
Faizullah had quoted the Koran for her. Blessed is He in Whose hand is

the kingdom, and He Who has power over all things, Who created death
and life that He may try you. Or when he'd said of her own guilt, These

thoughts are no good, Mariam jo. They will destroy you. It wasn't your

fault It wasn't your fault.

What could she say to this girl that would ease her burden?

As it turned out, Mariam didn't have to say anything. Because the girl's
face twisted, and she was on all fours then saying she was going to be

sick.

"Wait! Hold on. I'll get a pan. Not on the floor. I just cleaned…Oh. Oh.
Khodaya. God."

* * *

Then one day, about a month after the blast that killed the girl's
parents, a man came knocking. Mariam opened the door. He stated his

business.

"There is a man here to see you," Mariam said.

The girl raised her head from the pillow.
"He says his name is Abdul Sharif."