enough to know that he was here, to feel the warmth of him next to her, to lie with him,
their heads touching, his right hand laced in her left.
In the middle of the night, when Laila woke up thirsty, she found their hands still clamped
together, in the white knuckle, anxious way of children clutching balloon strings.
Laila likes Mukree'S cool, foggy mornings and its dazzling twilights, the dark brilliance of
the sky at night; the green of the pines and the soft brown of the squirrels darting up and
down the sturdy tree trunks; the sudden downpours that send shoppers in the Mall
scrambling for awning cover. She likes the souvenir shops, and the various hotels that
house tourists, even as the locals bemoan the constant construction, the expansion of
infrastructure that they say is eating away at Murree's natural beauty. Laila finds it odd that
people should lament the building of buildings. In Kabul, they would celebrate it.
She likes that they have a bathroom, not an outhouse but an actual bathroom, with a toilet
that flushes, a shower, and a sink too, with twin faucets from which she can draw, with a
flick of her wrist, water, either hot or cold. She likes waking up to the sound of Alyona
bleating in the morning, and the harmlessly cantankerous cook, Adiba, who works marvels
in the kitchen.
Sometimes, as Laila watches Tariq sleep, as her children mutter and stir in their own sleep,
a great big lump of gratitude catches in her throat, makes her eyes water.
In the mornings, Laila follows Tariq from room to room. Keys jingle from a ring clipped
to his waist and a spray bottle of window cleaner dangles from the belt loops of his jeans.
Laila brings a pail filled with rags, disinfectant, a toilet brush, and spray wax for the
dressers. Aziza tags along, a mop in one hand, the bean stuffed doll Mariam had made for
her in the other. Zalmai trails them reluctantly, sulkily, always a few steps behind.
Laila vacuums, makes the bed, and dusts. Tariq washes the bathroom sink and tub, scrubs
the toilet and mops the linoleum floor. He stocks the shelves with clean towels, miniature
shampoo bottles, and bars of almond scented soap. Aziza has laid claim to the task of
spraying and wiping the windows. The doll is never far from where she works.
Laila told Aziza about Tariq a few days after the nikka
It is strange, Laila thinks, almost unsettling, the thing between Aziza and Tariq. Already,
Aziza is finishing his sentences and he hers. She hands him things before he asks for them.
Private smiles shoot between them across the dinner table as if they are not strangers at all
but companions reunited after a lengthy separation.
Aziza looked down thoughtfully at her hands when Laila told her.
"I like him," she said, after a long pause.
"He loves you."