A Thousand Splendid Suns

Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It was Rasheed's fault for
his premature celebration. For his foolhardy faith that she was carrying a
boy. Naming the baby as he had. Taking God's will for granted. His fault,
for making her go to the bathhouse. Something there, the steam, the
dirty water, the soap, something there had caused this to happen. No.
Not Rasheed. She was to blame. She became furious with herself for
sleeping in the wrong position, for eating meals that were too spicy, for
not eating enough fruit, for drinking too much tea.
It was God's fault, for taunting her as He had. For not granting her what
He had granted so many other women. For dangling before her,
tantalizingly, what He knew would give her the greatest happiness, then
pulling it away.
But it did no good, all this fault laying, all these harangues of
accusations bouncing in her head. It was kojr, sacrilege, to think these
thoughts. Allah was not spiteful. He was not a petty God. Mullah
Faizullah's words whispered in her head:
Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and He Who has power
over all things, Who created death and life that He may try you.
Ransacked with guilt, Mariam would kneel and pray for forgiveness for
these thoughts.
* * *
Meanwhile, a change had come over Rasheed ever since the day at the
bathhouse. Most nights when he came home, he hardly talked anymore.