Page 403 - Leadership in the Indian Army

Laila yanks her children back onto the sidewalk, heart somersaulting in

her throat.
The Land Cruiser speeds down the street, honks twice, and makes a

sharp left.
Laila stands there, trying to catch her breath, her fingers gripped tightly
around her children's wrists.

It slays Laila. It slays her that the warlords have been allowed back to

Kabul That her parents' murderers live in posh homes with walled

gardens, that they have been appointed minister of this and deputy
minister of that, that they ride with impunity in shiny, bulletproof SUVs

through neighborhoods that they demolished. It slays her.

But Laila has decided that she will not be crippled by resentment.

Mariam wouldn't want it that way. What's the sense? she would say with

a smile both innocent and wise. What good is it, Laila jo? And so Laila has

resigned herself to moving on. For her own sake, for Tariq's, for her
children's. And for Mariam, who still visits Laila in her dreams, who is

never more than a breath or two below her consciousness. Laila has

moved on. Because in the end she knows that's all she can do. That and

hope.

* * *

Zamanis standing at the free throw line, his knees bent, bouncing a
basketball. He is instructing a group of boys in matching jerseys sitting in

a semicircle on the court. Zaman spots Laila, tucks the ball under his

arm, and waves. He says something to the boys, who then wave and cry
out, "Salaam, moalim sahib!"

Laila waves back.