A Thousand Splendid Suns

transpiration.
More than once, Laila had wondered what the Taliban would do about
Kaka Zaman's clandestine lessons if they found out.
During visits, Aziza didn't allow for much silence. She filled all the
spaces with effusive speech, delivered in a high, ringing voice. She was
tangential with her topics, and her hands gesticulated wildly, flying up
with a nervousness that wasn't like her at all. She had a new laugh, Aziza
did. Not so much a laugh, really, as nervous punctuation, meant, Laila
suspected, to reassure.
And there were other changes. Laila would notice the dirt under Aziza's
fingernails, and Aziza would notice her noticing and bury her hands under
her thighs. Whenever a kid cried in their vicinity, snot oozing from his
nose, or if a kid walked by bare-assed, hair clumped with dirt, Aziza's
eyelids fluttered and she was quick to explain it away. She was like a
hostess embarrassed in front of her guests by the squalor of her home,
the untidiness of her children.
Questions of how she was coping were met with vague but cheerful
replies.
Doing Jim, Khala I'm fine.
Do kids pick on you?
They dont Mammy. Everyone is nice.
Are you eating? Sleeping all right?