A Thousand Splendid Suns

"We're in Deh-Mazang," he said. They were outside, on the sidewalk. He
had her suitcase in one hand and was unlocking the wooden front gate
with the other. "In the south and west part of the city. The zoo is nearby,
and the university too."
Mariam nodded. Already she had learned that, though she could
understand him, she had to pay close attention when he spoke. She was
unaccustomed to the Kabuli dialect of his Farsi, and to the underlying
layer of Pashto accent, the language of his native Kandahar. He, on the
other hand, seemed to have no trouble understanding her Herati Farsi.
Mariam quickly surveyed the narrow, unpaved road along which
Rasheed's house was situated. The houses on this road were crowded
together and shared common walls, with small, walled yards in front
buffering them from the street. Most of the homes had flat roofs and
were made of burned brick, some of mud the same dusty color as the
mountains that ringed the city. Gutters separated the sidewalk from the
road on both sides and flowed with muddy water. Mariam saw small
mounds of flyblown garbage littering the street here and there.
Rasheed's house had two stories. Mariam could see that it had once been
blue.
When Rasheed opened the front gate, Mariam found herself in a small,
unkempt yard where yellow grass struggled up in thin patches. Mariam
saw an outhouse on the right, in a side yard, and, on the left, a well with
a hand pump, a row of dying saplings. Near the well was a toolshed, and
a bicycle leaning against the wall.
"Your father told me you like to fish," Rasheed said as they were
crossing the yard to the house. There was no backyard, Mariam saw.