Page 369 - Leadership in the Indian Army

tags along, a mop in one hand, the bean-stuffed doll Mariam had made

for her in the other. Zalmai trails them reluctantly, sulkily, always a few
steps behind.

Laila vacuums, makes the bed, and dusts. Tariq washes the bathroom

sink and tub, scrubs the toilet and mops the linoleum floor. He stocks the
shelves with clean towels, miniature shampoo bottles, and bars of

almond-scented soap. Aziza has laid claim to the task of spraying and

wiping the windows. The doll is never far from where she works.
Laila told Aziza about Tariq a few days after the nikka

It is strange, Laila thinks, almost unsettling, the thing between Aziza

and Tariq. Already, Aziza is finishing his sentences and he hers. She

hands him things before he asks for them. Private smiles shoot between
them across the dinner table as if they are not strangers at all but

companions reunited after a lengthy separation.

Aziza looked down thoughtfully at her hands when Laila told her.

"I like him," she said, after a long pause.

"He loves you."

"He said that?"

"He doesn't have to, Aziza."

"Tell me the rest, Mammy. Tell me so I know."

And Laila did.

"Your father is a good man. He is the best man I've ever known."

"What if he leaves?" Aziza said