Page 372 - Leadership in the Indian Army

hand as they walk the tree-shaded road to the Governor's House. They

stop by the old British cemetery, or take a taxi up a mountain peak for a
view of the verdant, fog-shrouded valley below.

Sometimes on these outings, when they pass by a store window, Laila

catches their reflections in it. Man, wife, daughter, son. To strangers, she
knows, they must appear like the most ordinary of families, free of

secrets, lies, and regrets.

* * *

Azizahas nightmares from which she wakes up shrieking. Laila has to lie

beside her on the cot, dry her cheeks with her sleeve, soothe her back to
sleep.

Laila has her own dreams. In them, she's always back at the house in

Kabul, walking the hall, climbing the stairs.

She is alone, but behind the doors she hears the rhythmic hiss of an

iron, bedsheets snapped, then folded. Sometimes she hears a woman's
low-pitched humming of an old Herati song. But when she walks in, the

room is empty. There is no one there.

The dreams leave Laila shaken. She wakes from them coated in sweat,

her eyes prickling with tears. It is devastating. Every time, it is
devastating.

49.

One Sunday that September, Laila is putting Zalmai, who has a cold,

down for a nap when Tariq bursts into their bungalow.