Page 284 - Leadership in the Indian Army

yard with her and Aziza. Sometimes, in his calmer moments, he liked to

sit on Laila's lap and have her sing to him. His favorite song was
"Mullah Mohammad Jan." He swung his meaty little feet as she sang into

his curly hair and joined in when she got to the chorus, singing what

words he could make with his raspy voice:

Come and lei's go to Mazar, Mullah Mohammadjan, To see the fields of

tulips, o beloved companion.

Laila loved the moist kisses Zalmai planted on her cheeks, loved his
dimpled elbows and stout little toes. She loved tickling him, building

tunnels with cushions and pillows for him to crawl through, watching him

fall asleep in her arms with one of his hands always clutching her ear.
Her stomach turned when she thought of that afternoon, lying on the

floor with the spoke of a bicycle wheel between her legs. How close she'd

come. It was unthinkable to her now that she could have even
entertained the idea. Her son was a blessing, and Laila was relieved to

discover that her fears had proved baseless, that she loved Zalmai with

the marrow of her bones, just as she did Aziza.

But Zalmai worshipped his father, and, because he did, he was
transformed when his father was around to dote on him. Zalmai was

quick then with a defiant cackle or an impudent grin. In his father's

presence, he was easily offended. He held grudges. He persisted in

mischief in spite of Laila's scolding, which he never did when Rasheed
was away.

Rasheed approved of all of it. "A sign of intelligence," he said. He said

the same of Zalmai's recklessness-when he swallowed, then pooped,
marbles; when he lit matches; when he chewed on Rasheed's cigarettes.

When Zalmai was born, Rasheed had moved him into the bed he shared