Page 88 - Leadership in the Indian Army

bordering on the violent. The way he pinned her down, his hard squeezes

at her breasts, how furiously his hips worked. He was a man. All those
years without a woman. Could she fault him for being the way God had

created him?

Mariam knew that she could never talk to him about this. It was
unmentionable. But was it unforgivable? She only had to think of the

other man in her life. Jalil, a husband of three and father of nine at the

time, having relations with Nana out of wedlock. Which was worse,

Rasheed's magazine or what Jalil had done? And what entitled her
anyway, a villager, a harami, to pass judgment?

Mariam tried the bottom drawer of the dresser.

It was there that she found a picture of the boy, Yunus. It was

black-and-white. He looked four, maybe five. He was wearing a striped

shirt and a bow tie. He was a handsome little boy, with a slender nose,
brown hair, and dark, slightly sunken eyes. He looked distracted, as

though something had caught his eye just as the camera had flashed.

Beneath that, Mariam found another photo, also black-and-white, this

one slightly more grainy. It was of a seated woman and, behind her, a

thinner, younger Rasheed, with black hair. The woman was beautiful. Not

as beautiful as the women in the magazine, perhaps, but beautiful.
Certainly more beautiful than her, Mariam. She had a delicate chin and

long, black hair parted in the center. High cheekbones and a gentle

forehead. Mariam pictured her own face, her thin lips and long chin, and

felt a flicker of jealousy.
She looked at this photo for a long time. There was something vaguely