A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Your parents came here with you dressed like this?"
"They're home, actually," he said.
The previous fall, Tariq's uncle in Ghazni had died of a heart attack,
and, a few weeks later, Tariq's father had suffered a heart attack of his
own, leaving him frail and tired, prone to anxiety and bouts of
depression that overtook him for weeks at a time. Laila was glad to see
Tariq like this, like his old self again. For weeks after his father's illness,
Laila had watched him moping around, heavy-faced and sullen.
The three of them stole away while Mammy and Babi stood watching
the Soviets. From a street vendor, Tariq bought them each a plate of
boiled beans topped with thick cilantro chutney. They ate beneath the
awning of a closed rug shop, then Hasina went to find her family.
On the bus ride home, Tariq and Laila sat behind her parents. Mammy
was by the window, staring out, clutching the picture against her chest.
Beside her, Babi was impassively listening to a man who was arguing
that the Soviets might be leaving but that they would send weapons to
Najibullah in Kabul.
"He's their puppet. They'll keep the war going through him, you can bet
on that."
Someone in the next aisle voiced his agreement.
Mammy was muttering to herself, long-winded prayers that rolled on
and on until she had no breath left and had to eke out the last few words
in a tiny, high-pitched squeak.
* * *