Page 85 - Leadership in the Indian Army

out "Eidmubarak" to her as they passed.

That night they went to Chaman, and, standing behind Rasheed, Mariam

watched fireworks light up the sky, in flashes of green, pink, and yellow.

She missed sitting with Mullah Faizullah outside the kolba, watching the

fireworks explode over Herat in the distance, the sudden bursts of color
reflected in her tutor's soft, cataract-riddled eyes. But, mostly, she

missed Nana. Mariam wished her mother were alive to see this. To see

her, amid all of it. To see at last that contentment and beauty were not

unattainable things. Even for the likes of them.

* * *

They had Eid visitors at the house. They were all men, friends of

Rasheed's. When a knock came, Mariam knew to go upstairs to her room

and close the door. She stayed there, as the men sipped tea downstairs

with Rasheed, smoked, chatted. Rasheed had told Mariam that she was
not to come down until the visitors had left

Mariam didn't mind. In truth, she was even flattered. Rasheed saw

sanctity in what they had together. Her honor, her namoos, was
something worth guarding to him. She felt prized by his protectiveness.

Treasured and significant.

On the third and last day of Eid, Rasheed went to visit some friends.
Mariam, who'd had a queasy stomach all night, boiled some water and

made herself a cup of green tea sprinkled with crushed cardamom. In the

living room, she took in the aftermath of the previous night's Eid visits:

the overturned cups, the half-chewed pumpkin seeds stashed between
mattresses, the plates crusted with the outline of last night's meal.