amadan came in the fall that year, 1974. For the first time in her life, Mariam saw how
the sighting of the new crescent moon could transform an entire city, alter its rhythm
and mood. She noticed a drowsy hush overtaking Kabul Traffic became languid, scant,
even quiet. Shops emptied. Restaurants turned off their lights, closed their doors. Mariam
saw no smokers on the streets, no cups of tea steaming from window ledges. And at ifiar,
when the sun dipped in the west and the cannon fired from the Shir Darwaza mountain, the
city broke its fast, and so did Mariam, with bread and a date, tasting for the first time in her
fifteen years the sweetness of sharing in a communal experience.
Except for a handful of days, Rasheed didn't observe the fast. The few times he did, he
came home in a sour mood. Hunger made him curt, irritable, impatient. One night, Mariam
was a few minutes late with dinner, and he started eating bread with radishes. Even after
Mariam put the rice and the lamb and okra qurma in front of him, he wouldn't touch it. He
said nothing, and went on chewing the bread, his temples working, the vein on his forehead,
full and angry. He went on chewing and staring ahead, and when Mariam spoke to him he
looked at her without seeing her face and put another piece of bread into his mouth.
Mariam was relieved when Ramadan ended.
Back at the kolba, on the first of three days of Eid ul Fitr celebration that followed
Ramadan, Jalil would visit Mariam and Nana. Dressed in suit and tie, he would come
bearing Eid presents. One year, he gave Mariam a wool scarf. The three of them would sit
for tea and then Jalil would excuse himself "Off to celebrate Eid with his real family," Nana
would say as he crossed the stream and waved Mullah Faizullah would come too. He would
bring Mariam chocolate candy wrapped in foil, a basketful of dyed boiled eggs, cookies.
After he was gone, Mariam would climb one of the willows with her treats. Perched on a
high branch, she would eat Mullah Faizullah's chocolates and drop the foil wrappers until
they lay scattered about the trunk of the tree like silver blossoms. When the chocolate was
gone, she would start in on the cookies, and, with a pencil, she would draw faces on the
eggs he had brought her now. But there was little pleasure in this for her. Mariam dreaded
Eid, this time of hospitality and ceremony, when families dressed in their best and visited
each other. She would imagine the air in Herat crackling with merriness, and high spirited,
bright eyed people showering each other with endearments and goodwill. A forlornness
would descend on her like a shroud then and would lift only when Eid had passed.
This year, for the first time, Mariam saw with her eyes the Eid of her childhood
imaginings.
Rasheed and she took to the streets. Mariam had never walked amid such liveliness.
Undaunted by the chilly weather, families had flooded the city on their frenetic rounds to
visit relatives. On their own street, Mariam saw Fariba and her son Noor, who was dressed
in a suit. Fariba, wearing a white scarf, walked beside a small boned, shy looking man with
eyeglasses. Her older son was there too Mariam somehow remembered Fariba saying his
name, Ahmad, at the tandoor that first time. He had deep set, brooding eyes, and his face
was more thoughtful, more solemn, than his younger brother's, a face as suggestive of early
maturity as his brother's was of lingering boyishness. Around Ahmad's neck was a
glittering allah pendant.