A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Let's go, then."
Laila lets the children out of the house, locks the door. They step out
into the cool morning. It isn't raining today. The sky is blue, and Laila
sees no clumps of clouds in the horizon. Holding hands, the three of them
make their way to the bus stop. The streets are busy already, teeming
with a steady stream of rickshaws, taxicabs, UN trucks, buses, ISAF
jeeps. Sleepy-eyed merchants are unlocking store gates that had been
rolled down for the night-Vendors sit behind towers of chewing gum and
cigarette packs. Already the widows have claimed their spots at street
corners, asking the passersby for coins.
Laila finds it strange to be back in Kabul The city has changed Every
day now she sees people planting saplings, painting old houses, carrying
bricks for new ones. They dig gutters and wells. On windowsills, Laila
spots flowers potted in the empty shells of old Mujahideen rockets-rocket
flowers, Kabulis call them. Recently, Tariq took Laila and the children to
the Gardens of Babur, which are being renovated. For the first time in
years, Laila hears music at Kabul's street corners, rubab and tabla,
dooiar, harmonium and tamboura, old Ahmad Zahir songs.
Laila wishes Mammy and Babi were alive to see these changes. But,
like Mil's letter, Kabul's penance has arrived too late.
Laila and the children are about to cross the street to the bus stop when
suddenly a black Land Cruiser with tinted windows blows by. It swerves
at the last instant and misses Laila by less than an arm's length. It
splatters tea-colored rainwater all over the children's shirts.