"How is Tariq?"
"His father's been ill," Laila said "How old is he now anyway?"
"I don't know. Sixties, I guess."
"I meant Tariq."
"Oh. Sixteen."
"He's a nice boy. Don't you think?"
Laila shrugged.
"Not really a boy anymore, though, is he? Sixteen. Almost a man. Don't you think?"
"What are you getting at, Mammy?"
"Nothing," Mammy said, smiling innocently. "Nothing. It's just that you...Ah, nothing. I'd
better not say anyway."
"I see you want to," Laila said, irritated by this circuitous, playful accusation.
"Well." Mammy folded her hands on the rim of the pot. Laila spotted an unnatural, almost
rehearsed, quality to the way she said "Well" and to this folding of hands. She feared a
speech was coming.
"It was one thing when you were little kids running around. No harm in that. It was
charming But now. Now. I notice you're wearing a bra, Laila."
Laila was caught off guard.
"And you could have told me, by the way, about the bra. I didn't know. I'm disappointed
you didn't tell me." Sensing her advantage, Mammy pressed on.
"Anyway, this isn't about me or the bra. It's about you and Tariq. He's a boy, you see, and,
as such, what does he care about reputation? But you? The reputation of a girl, especially
one as pretty as you, is a delicate thing, Laila. Like a mynah bird in your hands. Slacken
your grip and away it flies."
"And what about all your wall climbing, the sneaking around with Babi in the orchards?"
Laila said, pleased with her quick recovery.
"We were cousins. And we married. Has this boy asked for your hand?"
"He's a friend. Arqfiq. It's not like that between us," Laila said, sounding defensive, and