A Thousand Splendid Suns

in loud bantering voices about the Mujahideen's plan. From Babi, Laila
had learned the outline of it: Afghanistan was now called the Islamic
State of Afghanistan. An Islamic Jihad Council, formed in Peshawar by
several of the Mujahideen factions, would oversee things for two months,
led by Sibghatullah Mojadidi. This would be followed then by a leadership
council led by Rabbani, who would take over for four months. During
those six months, a loyajirga would be held, a grand council of leaders
and elders, who would form an interim government to hold power for two
years, leading up to democratic elections.
One of the men was fanning skewers of lamb sizzling over a makeshift
grill Babi and Tariq's father were playing a game of chess in the shade of
the old pear tree. Their faces were scrunched up in concentration. Tariq
was sitting at the board too, in turns watching the match, then listening
in on the political chat at the adjacent table.
The women gathered in the living room, the hallway, and the kitchen.
They chatted as they hoisted their babies and expertly dodged, with
minute shifts of their hips, the children tearing after each other around
the house. An Ustad Sarahang ghazal blared from a cassette player.
Laila was in the kitchen, making carafes of dogh with Giti. Giti was no
longer as shy, or as serious, as before. For several months now, the
perpetual severe scowl had cleared from her brow. She laughed openly
these days, more frequently, and-it struck Laila-a bit flirtatiously. She
had done away with the drab ponytails, let her hair grow, and streaked it
with red highlights. Laila learned eventually that the impetus for this
transformation was an eighteen-year-old boy whose attention Giti had
caught. His name was Sabir, and he was a goalkeeper on Giti's older
brother's soccer team.