A Thousand Splendid Suns

veiled woman at his side and a little boy in a skullcap, roughly Aziza's
age, bouncing on his knees. He was tall and slender, bearded, wearing
an open-collared shirt and a modest gray coat with missing buttons.
"Wait here," she said to Mariam. Walking away, she again heard
Mariam muttering a prayer.
When Laila approached the young man, he looked up, shielded the sun
from his eyes with a hand.
"Forgive me, brother, but are you going to Peshawar?"
"Yes," he said, squinting.
"I wonder if you can help us. Can you do us a favor?"
He passed the boy to his wife. He and Laila stepped away.
"What is it, hamshiraT'
She was encouraged to see that he had soft eyes, a kind face.
She told him the story that she and Mariam had agreed on. She was a
biwa, she said, a widow. She and her mother and daughter had no one
left in Kabul. They were going to Peshawar to stay with her uncle.
"You want to come with my family," the young man said
"I know it's zahmat for you. But you look like a decent brother, and I-"
"Don't worry, hamshira I understand. It's no trouble. Let me go and buy
your tickets."
"Thank you, brother. This is sawab, a good deed. God will remember."
She fished the envelope from her pocket beneath the burqa and passed
it to him. In it was eleven hundred afghanis, or about half of the money
she'd stashed over the past year plus the sale of the ring. He slipped the
envelope in his trouser pocket.
"Wait here."
She watched him enter the station. He returned half an hour later.
"It's best I hold on to your tickets," he said. The bus leaves in one hour,
at eleven. We'll all board together. My name is Wakil. If they ask-and
they shouldn't-I'll tell them you're my cousin."