A Thousand Splendid Suns

were inseparable now. Of late, with Laila's blessing, Mariam had started
teaching Aziza verses from the Koran. Aziza could already recite by heart
the surah of ikhlas, the surah of'fatiha, and already knew how to perform
the four ruqats of morning prayer.
It's oil I have to give her, Mariam had said to Laila, this knowledge,
these prayers. They're the only true possession I've ever had.
Zalmai came into the room now. As Rasheed watched with anticipation,
the way people wait the simple tricks of street magicians, Zalmai pulled
on the TV's wire, pushed the buttons, pressed his palms to the blank
screen. When he lifted them, the condensed little palms faded from the
glass. Rasheed smiled with pride, watched as Zalmai kept pressing his
palms and lifting them, over and over.
The Taliban had banned television. Videotapes had been gouged
publicly, the tapes ripped out and strung on fence posts. Satellite dishes
had been hung from lampposts. But Rasheed said just because things
were banned didn't mean you couldn't find them.
"I'll start looking for some cartoon videos tomorrow," he said. "It won't
be hard. You can buy anything in underground bazaars."
"Then maybe you'll buy us a new well," Laila said, and this won her a
scornful gaze from him.
It was later, after another dinner of plain white rice had been consumed
and tea forgone again on account of the drought, after Rasheed had
smoked a cigarette, that he told Laila about his decision.
"No," Laila said.
He said he wasn't asking.
"I don't care if you are or not."
"You would if you knew the full story."
He said he had borrowed from more friends than he let on, that the