Page 78 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

Mr. Markos, when I tell you that in all the years I had watched him sketch, this

was the first time I had actually laid eyes on his artwork.
One of the effects of Pari’s entrance was that for the first time the Wahdati
household resembled a proper family. Bound now by their affection for Pari,
Nila and her husband took all their meals together. They walked Pari to a nearby
park and sat contentedly beside each other on a bench to watch her play. When I
served them tea at night after I had cleared the table, I often found one or the
other reading a children’s book to Pari as she reclined on their laps, she, with
each passing day, more forgetful of her past life in Shadbagh and of the people
in it.
The other consequence of Pari’s arrival was one I had not anticipated: I
receded into the background. Judge me charitably, Mr. Markos, and remember

that I was a young man, but I admit I had hopes, foolish as they might have been.
I was the instrument of Nila’s becoming a mother, after all. I had uncovered the
source of her unhappiness and delivered an antidote. Did I think we would
become lovers now? I want to say I was not so foolish as that, Mr. Markos, but
that wouldn’t be entirely truthful. I suspect the truth is that we are waiting, all of
us, against insurmountable odds, for something extraordinary to happen to us.
What I did not foresee was that I would fade away. Pari consumed Nila’s time
now. Lessons, games, naps, walks, more games. Our daily chats went by the
wayside. If the two of them were playing with building blocks or working on a
puzzle, Nila would hardly notice that I had brought her coffee, that I was still in

the room standing back on my heels. When we did speak, she seemed distracted,
always eager to cut the conversation short. In the car, her expression was distant.
For this, though it shames me, I will admit to feeling a shade of resentment
toward my niece.
As part of the agreement with the Wahdatis, Pari’s family was not allowed to
visit. They were not allowed any contact at all with her. I drove to Shadbagh one
day soon after Pari moved in with the Wahdatis. I went there bearing a small
present each for Abdullah and for my sister’s little boy, Iqbal, who was a toddler
by then.
Saboor said pointedly, “You’ve given your gifts. Now it’s time to go.”

I told him I didn’t understand the reason for his cold reception, his gruff
manner with me.
“You do understand,” he said. “And don’t feel like you have to come out and
see us anymore.”
He was right, I did understand. A chill had grown between us. My visit had
been awkward, tense, even contentious. It felt unnatural to sit together now, to