He began to say more, about going to a mosque, finding a mullah, a pair of witnesses, a
quick nikka. ...
But Laila was thinking of Mammy, as obstinate and uncompromising as the Mujahideen,
the air around her choked with rancor and despair, and she was thinking of Babi, who had
long surrendered, who made such a sad, pathetic opponent to Mammy.
Sometimes...I feel like you 're all I have, Laila.
These were the circumstances of her life, the inescapable truths of it.
"I'll ask Kaka Hakim for your hand He'll give us his blessing, Laila, I know it."
He was right. Babi would. But it would shatter him.
Tariq was still speaking, his voice hushed, then high, beseeching, then reasoning; his face
hopeful, then stricken.
"I can't," Laila said.
"Don't say that. I love you."
"I'm sorry "
"I love you."
How long had she waited to hear those words from him? How many times had she
dreamed them uttered? There
they were, spoken at last, and the irony crushed her.
"It's my father I can't leave," Laila said "I'm all he has left. His heart couldn't take it
either."
Tariq knew this. He knew she could not wipe away the obligations of her life any more
than he could his, but it went on, his pleadings and her rebuttals, his proposals and her
apologies, his tears and hers.
In the end, Laila had to make him leave.
At the door, she made him promise to go without good byes. She closed the door on him.
Laila leaned her back against it, shaking against his pounding fists, one arm gripping her
belly and a hand across her mouth, as he spoke through the door and promised that he
would come back, that he would come back for her. She stood there until he tired, until he
gave up, and then she listened to his uneven footsteps until they faded, until all was quiet,
save for the gunfire cracking in the hills and her own heart thudding in her belly, her eyes,
her bones.