Page 69 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

interest in me and apprehensive, for I anticipated my discomfort—and, yes, my

shame—when I showed her the poverty into which I had been born.
We set off on an overcast morning. She wore high heels and a peach
sleeveless dress, but I didn’t deem it my place to advise her otherwise. On the
way, she asked questions about the village, the people I knew, my sister and
Saboor, their children.
“Tell me their names.”
“Well,” I said, “there is Abdullah, who is nearly nine. His birth mother died
last year, so he is my sister Parwana’s stepson. His sister, Pari, is almost two.
Parwana gave birth to a baby boy this past winter—Omar, his name was—but he

died when he was two weeks old.”
“What happened?”
“Winter, Bibi Sahib. It descends on these villages and takes a random child or
two every year. You can only hope it will bypass your home.”
“God,” she muttered.

“On a happier note,” I said, “my sister is expecting again.”
At the village, we were greeted by the usual throng of barefoot children
rushing the car, though once Nila emerged from the backseat the children grew
quiet and pulled back, perhaps out of fear that she may chide them. But Nila
displayed great patience and kindness. She knelt down and smiled, spoke to each
of them, shook their hands, stroked their grubby cheeks, tousled their unwashed
hair. To my embarrassment, people were gathering for a view of her. There was
Baitullah, a childhood friend of mine, looking on from the edge of a roof,
squatting with his brothers like a line of crows, all of them chewing naswar
tobacco. And there was his father, Mullah Shekib himself, and three white-

bearded men sitting in the shade of a wall, listlessly fingering their prayer beads,
their ageless eyes fixed on Nila and her bare arms with a look of displeasure.
I introduced Nila to Saboor, and we made our way to his and Parwana’s small
mud house trailed by a mob of onlookers. At the door, Nila insisted on taking off
her shoes, though Saboor told her it was not necessary. When we entered the
room, I saw Parwana sitting in a corner in silence, shriveled up into a stiff ball.
She greeted Nila in a voice hardly above a whisper.
Saboor flicked his eyebrows at Abdullah. “Bring some tea, boy.”

“Oh no, please,” Nila said, taking a seat on the floor beside Parwana. “It’s not
necessary.” But Abdullah had already disappeared into the adjoining room,
which I knew served both as kitchen and sleeping quarters for him and Pari. A
cloudy plastic sheet nailed to the threshold separated it from the room where we
had all gathered. I sat, toying with the car keys, wishing I had had the chance to