around and ran back in the other direction, head down, tripping once and scraping her knee
badly, then up again and running, bolting past the women.
"What's the matter with you?"
"You're bleeding, hamshiral"
Mariam turned one corner, then the other. She found the correct street but suddenly could
not remember which was Rasheed's house. She ran up then down the street, panting, near
tears now, began trying doors blindly. Some were locked, others opened only to reveal
unfamiliar yards, barking dogs, and startled chickens. She pictured Rasheed coming home
to find her still searching this way, her knee bleeding, lost on her own street. Now she did
start crying. She pushed on doors, muttering panicked prayers, her face moist with tears,
until one opened, and she saw, with relief, the outhouse, the well, the toolshed. She
slammed the door behind her and turned the bolt. Then she was on all fours, next to the
wall, retching. When she was done, she crawled away, sat against the wall, with her legs
splayed before her. She had never in her life felt so alone.
When Rasheed came home that night, he brought with him a brown paper bag. Mariam
was disappointed that he did not notice the clean windows, the swept floors, the missing
cobwebs. But he did look pleased that she had already set his dinner plate, on a cleansofrah
spread on the living room floor.
"I made daal" Mariam said.
"Good. I'm starving."
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 bowlof 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 under-salted 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