A Thousand Splendid Suns

say to you about the crying?"
* * *
The next morning, after Rasheed left for work, Mariam unpacked her
clothes and put them in the dresser. She drew a pail of water from the
well and, with a rag, washed the windows of her room and the windows
to the living room downstairs- She swept the floors, beat the cobwebs
fluttering in the corners of the ceiling. She opened the windows to air the
house.
She set three cups of lentils to soak in a pot, found a knife and cut
some carrots and a pair of potatoes, left them too to soak. She searched
for flour, found it in the back of one of the cabinets behind a row of dirty
spice jars, and made fresh dough, kneading it the way Nana had shown
her, pushing the dough with the heel of her hand, folding the outer edge,
turning it, and pushing it away again. Once she had floured the dough,
she wrapped it in a moist cloth, put on a hijab, and set out for the
communal tandoor.
Rasheed had told her where it was, down the street, a left then a quick
right, but all Mariam had to do was follow the flock of women and
children who were headed the same way. The children Mariam saw,
chasing after their mothers or running ahead of them, wore shirts
patched and patched again. They wore trousers that looked too big
or too small, sandals with ragged straps that flapped back and forth.
They rolled discarded old bicycle tires with sticks.