he gun was red, the trigger guard bright green. Behind the gun loomed Khadim's
grinning face. Khadim was eleven, like Tariq. He was thick, tall, and had a severe
underbite. His father was a butcher in Deh Mazang, and, from time to time, Khadim was
known to fling bits of calf intestine at passersby. Sometimes, if Tariq wasn't nearby,
Khadim shadowed Laila in the schoolyard at recess, leering, making little whining noises.
One time, he'd tapped her on the shoulder and said, You 're so very pretty, Yellow Hair. I
want to marry you.
Now he waved the gun. "Don't worry," he said. "This won't show. Not on your hair."
"Don't you do it! I'm warning you."
"What are you going to do?" he said. "Sic your cripple on me? 'Oh, Tariq jan. Oh, won't
you come home and save me from the badmashl'"
Laila began to backpedal, but Khadim was already pumping the trigger. One after another,
thin jets of warm water struck Laila's hair, then her palm when she raised it to shield her
face.
Now the other boys came out of their hiding, laughing, cackling.
An insult Laila had heard on the street rose to her lips. She didn't really understand it
couldn't quite picture the logistics of it but the words packed a fierce potency, and she
unleashed them now.
"Your mother eats cock!"
"At least she's not a loony like yours," Khadim shot back, unruffled "At least my father's
not a sissy! And, by the way, why don't you smell your hands?"
The other boys took up the chant. "Smell your hands! Smell your hands!"
Laila did, but she knew even before she did, what he'd meant about it not showing in her
hair. She let out a high pitched yelp. At this, the boys hooted even harder.
Laila turned around and, howling, ran home.
She drew water from the well, and, in the bathroom, filled a basin, tore off her clothes.
She soaped her hair, frantically digging fingers into her scalp, whimpering with disgust.
She rinsed with a bowl and soaped her hair again. Several times, she thought she might
throw up. She kept mewling and shivering, as she rubbed and rubbed the soapy washcloth
against her face and neck until they reddened.
This would have never happened if Tariq had been with her, she thought as she put on a
clean shirt and fresh trousers. Khadim wouldn't have dared. Of course, it wouldn't have