A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Gently," Mariam said now, her knees over the edge. They lowered the
TV into the hole by each clutching one end of the plastic sheet in which it
was wrapped
"That should do it," Mariam said.
They patted the dirt when they were done, filling the hole up again.
They tossed some of it around so it wouldn't look conspicuous.
"There," Mariam said, wiping her hands on her dress.
When it was safer, they'd agreed, when the Taliban cut down on their
raids, in a month or two or six, or maybe longer, they would dig the TV
up.
* * *
In Laila'S dream, she and Mariam are out behind the toolshed digging
again. But, this time, it's Aziza they're lowering into the ground. Aziza's
breath fogs the sheet of plastic in which they have wrapped her. Laila
sees her panicked eyes, the whiteness of her palms as they slap and
push against the sheet. Aziza pleads. Laila can't hear her screams. Only
for a while, she calls down, it's only for a while. It's the raids, don't you
know, my love? When the raids are over, Mammy and Khala Mariam will
dig you out. I promise, my love. Then we can play. We can play all you
want. She fills the shovel. Laila woke up, out of breath, with a taste of
soil in her mouth, when the first granular lumps of dirt hit the plastic.
41.
Madam
In the summer of 2000, the drought reached its third and worst year.
In Helmand, Zabol, Kandahar, villages turned into herds of nomadic
communities, always moving, searching for water and green pastures for