Page 190 - Leadership in the Indian Army

closed the door on him. Laila leaned her back against it, shaking against

his pounding fists, one arm gripping her belly and a hand across her
mouth, as he spoke through the door and promised that he would come

back, that he would come back for her. She stood there until he tired,

until he gave up, and then she listened to his uneven footsteps until they

faded, until all was quiet, save for the gunfire cracking in the hills and
her own heart thudding in her belly, her eyes, her bones.

26.

It was, by far, the hottest day of the year. The mountains trapped the

bone-scorching heat, stifled the city like smoke. Power had been out for

days. All over Kabul, electric fans sat idle, almost mockingly so.
Laila was lying still on the living-room couch, sweating through her

blouse. Every exhaled breath burned the tip of her nose. She was aware

of her parents talking in Mammy's room. Two nights ago, and again last

night, she had awakened and thought she heard their voices downstairs.
They were talking every day now, ever since the bullet, ever since the

new hole in the gate.

Outside, the far-off boom of artillery, then, more closely, the
stammering of a long string of gunfire, followed by another.

Inside Laila too a battle was being waged: guilt on one side, partnered

with shame, and, on the other, the conviction that what she and Tariq

had done was not sinful; that it had been natural, good, beautiful, even
inevitable, spurred by the knowledge that they might never see each

other again.

Laila rolled to her side on the couch now and tried to remember
something: At one point, when they were on the floor, Tariq had lowered
his forehead on hers. Then he had panted something, either Am I hurting
you? or Is this hurting you?