The tiny bristles scratched Laila's palm pleasantly. Tariq wasn't like some of the other
boys, whose hair concealed
cone shaped skulls and unsightly lumps. Tariq's head was perfectly curved and lump free.
When he looked up, Laila saw that his cheeks and brow had sunburned
"What took you so long?" she said
"My uncle was sick. Come on. Come inside."
He led her down the hallway to the family room. Laila loved everything about this house.
The shabby old rug in the family room, the patchwork quilt on the couch, the ordinary
clutter of Tariq's life: his mother's bolts of fabric, her sewing needles embedded in spools,
the old magazines, the accordion case in the corner waiting to be cracked open.
"Who is it?"
It was his mother calling from the kitchen.
"Laila," he answered
He pulled her a chair. The family room was brightly lit and had double windows that
opened into the yard. On the sill were empty jars in which Tariq's mother pickled eggplant
and made carrot marmalade.
"You mean our aroos, our daughter in law, "his father announced, entering the room. He
was a carpenter, a lean, white haired man in his early sixties. He had gaps between his front
teeth, and the squinty eyes of someone who had spent most of his life outdoors. He opened
his arms and Laila went into them, greeted by his pleasant and familiar smell of sawdust.
They kissed on the cheek three times.
"You keep calling her that and she'll stop coming here," Tariq's mother said, passing by
them. She was carrying a tray with a large bowl, a serving spoon, and four smaller bowls
on it. She set the tray on the table. "Don't mind the old man." She cupped Laila's face. "It's
good to see you, my dear. Come, sit down. I brought back some water soaked fruit with
me."
The table was bulky and made of a light, unfinished wood Tariq's father had built it, as
well as the chairs. It was covered with a moss green vinyl tablecloth with little magenta
crescents and stars on it. Most of the living room wall was taken up with pictures of Tariq
at various ages. In some of the very early ones, he had two legs.
"I heard your brother was sick," Laila said to Tariq's father, dipping a spoon into her bowl
of soaked raisins, pistachios, and apricots.
He was lighting a cigarette. "Yes, but he's fine now, shokr-e-Khoda, thanks to God."