Page 394 - Leadership in the Indian Army

her grace not sullied but shaped by the turbulence that washes over her.

Already Laila sees something behind this young girl's eyes, something
deep in her core, that neither Rasheed nor the Taliban will be able to

break. Something as hard and unyielding as a block of limestone.

Something that, in the end, will be her undoing and Laila's salvation.

The little girl looks up. Puts down the doll. Smiles.

Laila jo?

Laila's eyes snap open. She gasps, and her body pitches forward. She

startles the bat, which zips from one end of the kolba to the other, its

beating wings like the fluttering pages of a book, before it flies out the
window.

Laila gets to her feet, beats the dead leaves from the seat of her
trousers. She steps out of the kolba Outside, the light has shifted slightly.

A wind is blowing, making the grass ripple and the willow branches click.

Before she leaves the clearing, Laila takes one last look at the kolba

where Mariam had slept, eaten, dreamed, held her breath for Jalil. On

sagging walls, the willows cast crooked patterns that shift with each gust

of wind. A crow has landed on the flat roof. It pecks at something,
squawks, flies off.

"Good-bye, Mariam."

And, with that, unaware that she is weeping, Laila begins to run through

the grass.

She finds Hamza still sitting on the rock. When he spots her, he stands

up.