Page 378 - Leadership in the Indian Army

her to him, she lets him. When he kisses her hand, then her brow, she

lets him. She knows that he is probably right. She knows how his
comment was intended. Maybe this is necessary. Maybe there mil be

hope when Bush's bombs stop falling. But she cannot bring herself to say

it, not when what happened to Babi and Mammy is happening to

someone now in Afghanistan, not when some unsuspecting girl or boy
back home has just been orphaned by a rocket as she was. Laila cannot

bring herself to say it. It's hard to rejoice. It seems hypocritical,

perverse.

That night, Zalmai wakes up coughing. Before Laila can move, Tariq

swings his legs over the side of the bed. He straps on his prosthesis and

walks over to Zalmai, lifts him up into his arms. From the bed, Laila
watches Tariq's shape moving back and forth in the darkness. She sees

the outline of Zalmai's head on his shoulder, the knot of his hands at

Tariq's neck, his small feet bouncing by Tariq's hip.

When Tariq comes back to bed, neither of them says anything. Laila

reaches over and touches his face. Tariq's cheeks are wet.

50.

For Laila, life in Murree is one of comfort and tranquillity. The work is

not cumbersome, and, on their days off, she and Tariq take the children
to ride the chairlift to Patriata hill, or go to Pindi Point, where, on a clear

day, you can see as far as Islamabad and downtown Rawalpindi. There,

they spread a blanket on the grass and eat meatball sandwiches with

cucumbers and drink cold ginger ale.
It is a good life, Laila tells herself, a life to be thankful for. It is, in fact,