A Thousand Splendid Suns

She poured water for him from the afiawa to wash his hands with. As he
dried with a towel, she put before him a steaming bowl of daal and a
plate of fluffy white rice. This was the first meal she had cooked for him,
and Mariam wished she had been in a better state when she made it.
She'd still been shaken from the incident at the tandoor as she'd cooked,
and all day she had fretted about the daal'% consistency, its color,
worried that he would think she'd stirred in too much ginger or not
enough turmeric.
He dipped his spoon into the gold-colored daal.
Mariam swayed a bit. What if he was disappointed or angry? What if he
pushed his plate away in displeasure?
"Careful," she managed to say. "It's hot."
Rasheed pursed his lips and blew, then put the spoon into his mouth.
"It's good," he said. "A little undersalted but good. Maybe better than
good, even."
Relieved, Mariam looked on as he ate. A flare of pride caught her off
guard. She had done well -maybe better than good, even- and it
surprised her, this thrill she felt over his small compliment- The day's
earlier unpleasantness receded a bit.
"Tomorrow is Friday," Rasheed said. "What do you say I show you
around?"
"Around Kabul?"
"No. Calcutta."