Page 263 - Leadership in the Indian Army

"Soon." Laila kissed her daughter, aiming for the forehead, finding the

crown of her head instead. "We'll have milk soon. You just be patient. Be
a good, patient little girl for Mammy, and I'll get you some aishee."

Laila sang her a few songs.

Azan rang out a second time and still Rasheed had not given them any

food, and, worse, no water. That day, a thick, suffocating heat fell on
them. The room turned into a pressure cooker. Laila dragged a dry

tongue over her lips, thinking of the well outside, the water cold and

fresh. Aziza kept crying, and Laila noticed with alarm that when she

wiped her cheeks her hands came back dry. She stripped the clothes off
Aziza, tried to find something to fan her with, settled for blowing on her

until she became light-headed. Soon, Aziza stopped crawling around. She

slipped in and out of sleep.
Several times that day, Laila banged her fists against the walls, used up

her energy screaming for help, hoping that a neighbor would hear. But

no one came, and her shrieking only frightened Aziza, who began to cry
again, a weak, croaking sound. Laila slid to the ground. She thought

guiltily of Mariam, beaten and bloodied, locked in this heat in the

toolshed.

Laila fell asleep at some point, her body baking in the heat. She had a
dream that she and Aziza had run into Tariq. He was across a crowded

street from them, beneath the awning of a tailor's shop. He was sitting
on his haunches and sampling from a crate of figs. That's your father,

Laila said. That man there, you see him? He's your real baba. She called
his name, but the street noise drowned her voice, and Tariq didn't hear.

She woke up to the whistling of rockets streaking overhead.
Somewhere, the sky she couldn't see erupted with blasts and the long,

frantic hammering of machine-gun fire. Laila closed her eyes. She woke