Page 235 - Leadership in the Indian Army

"I was listening to the radio the other night. Voice of America. I heard

an interesting statistic. They said that in Afghanistan one out of four
children will die before the age of five. That's what they said. Now,

they-What? What? Where are you going? Come back here. Get back here

this instant!"

He gave Mariam a bewildered look. "What's the matter with her?"

That night, Mariam was lying in bed when the bickering started again. It
was a hot, dry summer night, typical of the month of Saratan in Kabul.

Mariam had opened her window, then shut it when no breeze came

through to temper the heat, only mosquitoes. She could feel the heat
rising from the ground outside, through the wheat brown, splintered

planks of the outhouse in the yard, up through the walls and into her

room.

Usually, the bickering ran its course after a few minutes, but half an
hour passed and not only was it still going on, it was escalating. Mariam

could hear Rasheed shouting now. The girl's voice, underneath his, was

tentative and shrill. Soon the baby was wailing.

Then Mariam heard their door open violently. In the morning, she
would find the doorknob's circular impression in the hallway wall. She

was sitting up in bed when her own door slammed open and Rasheed

came through.
He was wearing white underpants and a matching undershirt, stained

yellow in the underarms with sweat. On his feet he wore flip-flops. He
held a belt in his hand, the brown leather one he'd bought for his nikka

with the girl, and was wrapping the perforated end around his fist.

"It's your doing. I know it is," he snarled, advancing on her.

Mariam slid out of her bed and began backpedaling. Her arms

instinctively crossed over her chest, where he often struck her first.