A Thousand Splendid Suns

* * *
Mammy had pulled the yellowish curtains. In the darkness, the room
had a layered smell about it: sleep, unwashed linen, sweat, dirty socks,
perfume, the previous night's leftover qurma. Laila waited for her eyes
to adjust before she crossed the room. Even so, her feet became
entangled with items of clothing that littered the floor.
Laila pulled the curtains open. At the foot of the bed was an old metallic
folding chair. Laila sat on it and watched the unmoving blanketed mound
that was her mother.
The walls of Mammy's room were covered with pictures of Ahmad and
Noor. Everywhere Laila looked, two strangers smiled back. Here was
Noor mounting a tricycle. Here was Ahmad doing his prayers, posing
beside a sundial Babi and he had built when he was twelve. And there
they were, her brothers, sitting back to back beneath the old pear tree in
the yard.
Beneath Mammy's bed, Laila could see the corner of Ahmad's shoe box
protruding. From time to time, Mammy showed her the old, crumpled
newspaper clippings in it, and pamphlets that Ahmad had managed to
collect from insurgent groups and resistance organizations headquartered
in Pakistan. One photo, Laila remembered, showed a man in a long white
coat handing a lollipop to a legless little boy. The caption below the
photo read: Children are the intended victims of Soviet land mine
campaign. The article went on to say that the Soviets also liked to hide
explosives inside brightly colored toys. If a child picked it up, the toy
exploded, tore off fingers or an entire hand. The father could not join the