Page 229 - Leadership in the Indian Army

imagined. He had her sit behind his crowded workbench, the top of which

was littered with old soles and scraps of leftover leather. He showed her
his hammers, demonstrated how the sandpaper wheel worked, his voice

ringing high and proud-He felt her belly, not through the shirt but under

it, his fingertips cold and rough like bark on her distended skin. Laila

remembered Tariq's hands, soft but strong, the tortuous, full veins on
the backs of them, which she had always found so appealingly

masculine.

"Swelling so quickly," Rasheed said. "It's going to be a big boy. My son

will be apahlawanl Like his father."
Laila pulled down her shirt. It filled her with fear when he spoke like
this.

"How are things with Mariam?"
She said they were fine.
"Good. Good."
She didn't tell him that they'd had their first true fight.

It had happened a few days earlier. Laila had gone to the kitchen and
found Mariam yanking drawers and slamming them shut. She was

looking, Mariam said, for the long wooden spoon she used to stir rice.

"Where did you put it?" she said, wheeling around to face Laila.

"Me?" Laila said "I didn't take it. I hardly come in here."
"I've noticed."
"Is that an accusation? It's how you wanted it, remember. You said you

would make the meals. But if you want to switch-"
"So you're saying it grew little legs and walked out. Teep, teep, teep,

teep. Is that what happened, degeh?'
"I'm saying…" Laila said, trying to maintain control. Usually, she could

will herself to absorb Mariam's derision and finger-pointing. But her

ankles had swollen, her head hurt, and the heartburn was vicious that
day. "I am saying that maybe you've misplaced it."