Page 249 - Leadership in the Indian Army

loaded gun near Aziza.

One day that winter, Laila asked to braid Mariam's hair.

Mariam sat still and watched Laila's slim fingers in the mirror tighten
her plaits, Laila's face scrunched in concentration. Aziza was curled up

asleep on the floor. Tucked under her arm was a doll Mariam had

hand-stitched for her. Mariam had stuffed it with beans, made it a dress

with tea-dyed fabric and a necklace with tiny empty thread spools
through which she'd threaded a string.

Then Aziza passed gas in her sleep. Laila began to laugh, and Mariam

joined in. They laughed like this, at each other's reflection in the mirror,
their eyes tearing, and the moment was so natural, so effortless, that

suddenly Mariam started telling her about Jalil, and Nana, and the jinn.

Laila stood with her hands idle on Mariam's shoulders, eyes locked on

Mariam's face in the mirror. Out the words came, like blood gushing from
an artery. Mariam told her about Bibi jo, Mullah Faizullah, the humiliating

trek to Jalil's house, Nana's suicide. She told about Jalil's wives, and the

hurried nikka with Rasheed, the trip to Kabul, her pregnancies, the

endless cycles of hope and disappointment, Rasheed's turning on her.
After, Laila sat at the foot of Mariam's chair. Absently, she removed a

scrap of lint entangled in Aziza's hair. A silence ensued.

"I have something to tell you too," Laila said.

* * *

Maeiamdid not sleep that night. She sat in bed, watched the snow

falling soundlessly.

Seasons had come and gone; presidents in Kabul had been inaugurated

and murdered; an empire had been defeated; old wars had ended and