Page 58 - Leadership in the Indian Army

over her knuckles.

"There," he said.

"It's a pretty ring," one of the wives said. "It's lovely, Mariam."

"All that remains now is the signing of the contract," the mullah said.

Mariam signed her name-the meem, the reh, the 3^ and the meem

again-conscious of all the eyes on her hand. The next time Mariam
signed her name to a document, twenty-seven years later, a mullah

would again be present.

"You are now husband and wife," the mullah said. "Tabreek.

Congratulations."

* * *

Rasheed waited in the multicolored bus. Mariam could not see him from

where she stood with Jalil, by the rear bumper, only the smoke of his

cigarette curling up from the open window. Around them, hands shook
and farewells were said. Korans were kissed, passed under. Barefoot

boys bounced between travelers, their faces invisible behind their trays

of chewing gum and cigarettes.

Jalil was busy telling her that Kabul was so beautiful, the Moghul

emperor Babur had asked that he be buried there. Next, Mariam knew,

he'd go on about Kabul's gardens, and its shops, its trees, and its air,
and, before long, she would be on the bus and he would walk alongside

it, waving cheerfully, unscathed, spared.