A Thousand Splendid Suns

hasn't got much to say she might as well be stingy with words. We are
city people, you and I, but she is dehati. A village girl. Not even a village
girl. No. She grew up in a kolba made of mud outside the village. Her
father put her there. Have you told her, Mariam, have you told her that
you are a harami 1 ? Well, she is. But she is not without qualities, all
things considered. You will see for yourself, Laila jan. She is sturdy, for
one thing, a good worker, and without pretensions. I'll say it this way: If
she were a car, she would be a Volga."
Mariam was a thirty-three-year-old woman now, but that word, harami,
still had sting. Hearing it still made her feel like she was a pest, a
cockroach. She remembered Nana pulling her wrists. You are a clumsy
Utile harami. This is my reward for everything I've endured. An
heirloom-breaking clumsy Utile harami.
"You," Rasheed said to the girl, "you, on the other hand, would be a
Benz. A brand-new, first-class, shiny Benz. Wah wah. But. But." He raised
one greasy index finger. "One must take certain…cares…with a Benz. As a
matter of respect for its beauty and craftsmanship, you see. Oh, you
must be thinking that I am crazy, diwana, with all this talk of
automobiles. I am not saying you are cars. I am merely making a point."
For what came next, Rasheed put down the ball of rice he'd made back
on the plate. His hands dangled idly over his meal, as he looked down
with a sober, thoughtful expression.
"One mustn't speak ill of the dead much less the,shaheed. And I intend
no disrespect when I say this, I want you to know, but I have certain…
reservations…about the way your parents-Allah, forgive them and grant
them a place in paradise-about their, well, their leniency with you. I'm
sorry."
The cold, hateful look the girl flashed Rasheed at this did not escape
Mariam, but he was looking down and did not notice.