Page 73 - Leadership in the Indian Army

again and running, bolting past the women.

"What's the matter with you?"

"You're bleeding, hamshiral"

Mariam turned one corner, then the other. She found the correct street
but suddenly could not remember which was Rasheed's house. She ran

up then down the street, panting, near tears now, began trying doors

blindly. Some were locked, others opened only to reveal unfamiliar
yards, barking dogs, and startled chickens. She pictured Rasheed coming

home to find her still searching this way, her knee bleeding, lost on her

own street. Now she did start crying. She pushed on doors, muttering
panicked prayers, her face moist with tears, until one opened, and she

saw, with relief, the outhouse, the well, the toolshed. She slammed the

door behind her and turned the bolt. Then she was on all fours, next to

the wall, retching. When she was done, she crawled away, sat against the
wall, with her legs splayed before her. She had never in her life felt so

alone.

* * *

When Rasheed came home that night, he brought with him a brown

paper bag. Mariam was disappointed that he did not notice the clean

windows, the swept floors, the missing cobwebs. But he did look pleased
that she had already set his dinner plate, on a clean sofrah spread on the

living-room floor.

"I made daal" Mariam said.

"Good. I'm starving."