A Thousand Splendid Suns

unwelcome intrusion. If she asked to hold Zalmai-or, worse, if Zalmai
reached for her-Rasheed glowered at her.
Laila walked away feeling stung.
* * *
Then one night, a few weeks after Zalmai turned two, Rasheed came
home with a television and a VCR. The day had been warm, almost
balmy, but the evening was cooler and already thickening into a starless,
chilly night-He set it down on the living-room table. He said he'd bought
it on the black market. "Another loan?" Laila asked. "It'saMagnavox."
Aziza came into the room. When she saw the TV, she ran to it. "Careful,
Aziza jo," saidMariam. "Don't touch."
Aziza's hair had become as light as Laila's. Laila could see her own
dimples on her cheeks. Aziza had turned into a calm, pensive little girl,
with a demeanor that to Laila seemed beyond her six years. Laila
marveled at her daughter's manner of speech, her cadence and rhythm,
her thoughtful pauses and intonations, so adult, so at odds with the
immature body that housed the voice. It was Aziza who with lightheaded
authority had taken it upon herself to wake Zalmai every day, to dress
him, feed him his breakfast, comb his hair. She was the one who put him
down to nap, who played even-tempered peacemaker to her volatile
sibling. Around him, Aziza had taken to giving an exasperated, queerly
adult headshake.
Aziza pushed the TV's power button. Rasheed scowled, snatched her
wrist and set it on the table, not gently at all.
"This is Zalmai's TV," he said.
Aziza went over to Mariam and climbed in her lap. The two of them