Page 368 - Leadership in the Indian Army

children clutching balloon strings.

* * *

Laila likes Mukree'S cool, foggy mornings and its dazzling twilights, the

dark brilliance of the sky at night; the green of the pines and the soft
brown of the squirrels darting up and down the sturdy tree trunks; the

sudden downpours that send shoppers in the Mall scrambling for awning

cover. She likes the souvenir shops, and the various hotels that house
tourists, even as the locals bemoan the constant construction, the

expansion of infrastructure that they say is eating away at Murree's

natural beauty. Laila finds it odd that people should lament the building

of buildings. In Kabul, they would celebrate it.

She likes that they have a bathroom, not an outhouse but an actual

bathroom, with a toilet that flushes, a shower, and a sink too, with twin

faucets from which she can draw, with a flick of her wrist, water, either
hot or cold. She likes waking up to the sound of Alyona bleating in the

morning, and the harmlessly cantankerous cook, Adiba, who works

marvels in the kitchen.

Sometimes, as Laila watches Tariq sleep, as her children mutter and

stir in their own sleep, a great big lump of gratitude catches in her

throat, makes her eyes water.

In the mornings, Laila follows Tariq from room to room. Keys jingle

from a ring clipped to his waist and a spray bottle of window cleaner

dangles from the belt loops of his jeans. Laila brings a pail filled with
rags, disinfectant, a toilet brush, and spray wax for the dressers. Aziza