A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Not yet, Rasheed. No. Let go. Come on. Don't do that."
"It's been two months."
"Sshi. There. You woke up the baby." Then more sharply, "Khosh shodi?
Happy now?"
Mariam would sneak back to her room.
"Can't you help?" Rasheed said now. "There must be something you can
do."
"What do I know about babies?" Mariam said.
"Rasheed! Can you bring the bottle? It's sitting on the almari. She won't
feed. I want to try the bottle again."
The baby's screeching rose and fell like a cleaver on meat.
Rasheed closed his eyes. "That thing is a warlord. Hekmatyar. I'm
telling you, Laila's given birth to Gulbuddin Hekmatyar."
* * *
Mariam watched as the girl's days became consumed with cycles of
feeding, rocking, bouncing, walking. Even when the baby napped, there
were soiled diapers to scrub and leave to soak in a pail of the
disinfectant that the girl had insisted Rasheed buy for her. There were
fingernails to trim with sandpaper, coveralls and pajamas to wash and
hang to dry. These clothes, like other things about the baby, became a
point of contention.
"What's the matter with them?" Rasheed said
"They're boys' clothes. For a bacha"
"You think she knows the difference? I paid good money for those
clothes. And another thing, I don't care for that tone. Consider that a
warning."
Every week, without fail, the girl heated a black metal brazier over a