"Good!" Mammy said. "That's resolved, then. Now, where is Hakim? Where, oh where, is
that sweet little husband of mine?"
It was a dazzling, cloudless day, perfect for a party. The men sat on rickety folding chairs
in the yard. They drank tea and smoked and talked in loud bantering voices about the
Mujahideen's plan. From Babi, Laila had learned the outline of it: Afghanistan was now
called the Islamic State of Afghanistan. An Islamic Jihad Council, formed in Peshawar by
several of the Mujahideen factions, would oversee things for two months, led by
Sibghatullah Mojadidi. This would be followed then by a leadership council led by Rabbani,
who would take over for four months. During those six months, aloyajirga would be held, a
grand council of leaders and elders, who would form an interim government to hold power
for two years, leading up to democratic elections.
One of the men was fanning skewers of lamb sizzling over a makeshift grill Babi and
Tariq's father were playing a game of chess in the shade of the old pear tree. Their faces
were scrunched up in concentration. Tariq was sitting at the board too, in turns watching
the match, then listening in on the political chat at the adjacent table.
The women gathered in the living room, the hallway, and the kitchen. They chatted as
they hoisted their babies and expertly dodged, with minute shifts of their hips, the children
tearing after each other around the house. An Ustad Sarahang ghazal blared from a cassette
player.
Laila was in the kitchen, making carafes of dogh with Giti. Giti was no longer as shy, or
as serious, as before. For several months now, the perpetual severe scowl had cleared from
her brow. She laughed openly these days, more frequently, and it struck Laila a bit
flirtatiously. She had done away with the drab ponytails, let her hair grow, and streaked it
with red highlights. Laila learned eventually that the impetus for this transformation was an
eighteen year old boy whose attention Giti had caught. His name was Sabir, and he was a
goalkeeper on Giti's older brother's soccer team.
"Oh, he has the most handsome smile, and this thick, thick black hair!" Giti had told Laila.
No one knew about their attraction, of course. Giti had secretly met him twice for tea,
fifteen minutes each time, at a small teahouse on the other side of town, in Taimani.
"He's going to ask for my hand, Laila! Maybe as early as this summer. Can you believe it?
I swear I can't stop thinking about him."
"What about school?" Laila had asked. Giti had tilted her head and given her aWe both
know better look.
By the time we're twenty, Hasina used to say, Giti and I, we'll have pushed out four, five
kids each Bui you, Laila, you '1Imake m two dummies proud. You 're going to be somebody.
I know one day I'll pick up a newspaper and find your picture on the front-page.