A thousand Splendid Suns

Giti and I, we'll have pushed out four, five kids each Bui you, Laila, you'll make us two 
dummies proud. You 're going to be somebody. I know one day I'll pick up a newspaper 
and find your picture on the frontpage. The photo hadn't made the front page, but there 
it was nevertheless, as Hasina had predicted. 
 
  Laila takes a turn and makes her way down the same hallway where, two years before, 
she and Mariam had delivered Aziza to Zaman. Laila still remembers how they had to 
pry Aziza's fingers from her wrist. She remembers running down this hallway, holding 
back a howl, Mariam calling after her, Aziza screaming with panic. The hallway's walls 
are covered now with posters, of dinosaurs, cartoon characters, the Buddhas of Bami-
yan, and displays of artwork by the orphans. Many of the drawings depict tanks running 
over huts, men brandishing AK-47s, refugee camp tents, scenes of jihad. 
 
  Laila turns a corner in the hallway and sees the children now, waiting outside the clas-
sroom. She is greeted by their scarves, their shaved scalps covered by skullcaps, their 
small, lean figures, the beauty of their drabness. 
 
  When the children spot Laila, they come running. They come running at full tilt. Laila 
is swarmed. There is a flurry of high-pitched greetings, of shrill voices, of patting, clutc-
hing, tugging, groping, of jostling with one another to climb into her arms. There are 
outstretched little hands and appeals for attention. Some of them call herMother. Laila 
does not correct them. 
  It takes Laila some work this morning to calm the children down, to get them to form a 
proper queue, to usher them into the classroom. 
 
  It was Tariq and Zaman who built the classroom by knocking down the wall between 
two adjacent rooms. The floor is still badly cracked and has missing tiles. For the time 
being, it is covered with tarpaulin, but Tariq has promised to cement some new tiles and 
lay down carpeting soon. 
  Nailed above the classroom doorway is a rectangular board, which Zaman has sanded 
and painted in gleaming white. On it, with a brush, Zaman has written four lines of po-
etry, his answer, Laila knows, to those who grumble that the promised aid money to 
Afghanistan isn't coming, that the rebuilding is going too slowly, that there is corrupti-
on, that the Taliban are regrouping already and will come back with a vengeance, that 
the world will forget once again about Afghanistan. The lines are from his favorite of 
Hafez'sghazals: 
 
  Joseph shall return to Canaan, grieve not, Hovels shall turn to rose gardens, grieve 
not. If a flood should arrive, to drown all that's alive, Noah is your guide in the typho-
on's eye, grieve not 

---

 
  Laila passes beneath the sign and enters the classroom. The children are taking their 
seats, flipping notebooks open, chattering- Aziza is talking to a girl in the adjacent row. 
A paper airplane floats across the room in a high arc. Someone tosses it back. 
  "Open your Farsi books, children," Laila says, dropping her own books on her desk. 
 
  To a chorus of flipping pages, Laila makes her way to the curtainless window. Thro-
ugh the glass, she can see the boys in the playground lining up to practice their free 
throws. Above them, over the mountains, the morning sun is rising. It catches the metal-
lic rim of the basketball hoop, the chain link of the tire swings, the whistle hanging aro-
und Zaman's neck, his new, unchipped spectacles. Laila flattens her palms against the 
warm glass panes. Closes her eyes. She lets the sunlight fall on her cheeks, her eyelids, 
her brow. 
 
  When they first came back to Kabul, it distressed Laila that she didn't know where the 
Taliban had buried Mariam. She wished she could visit Mariam's grave, to sit with her 
awhile, leave a flower or two. But Laila sees now that it doesn't matter. Mariam is never 
very far. She is here, in these walls they've repainted, in the trees they've planted, in the 
blankets that keep the children warm, in these pillows and books and pencils. She is in 
the children's laughter. She is in the verses Aziza recites and in the prayers she mutters 
when she bows westward. But, mostly, Mariam is in Laila's own heart, where she shines 
with the bursting radiance of a thousand suns. 
 
  Someone has been calling her name, Laila realizes. She turns around, instinctively tilts 
her head, lifting her good ear just a tad. It's Aziza. 
  "Mammy? Are you all right?" 
 
  The room has become quiet. The children are watching her. 
 
  Laila is about to answer when her breath suddenly catches. Her hands shoot down. 
They pat the spot where, a moment before, she'd felt a wave go through her. She waits. 
But there is no more movement. 
 
  "Mammy?" 
 
  "Yes, my love." Laila smiles. "I'm all right. Yes. Very much." 
 
  As she walks to her desk at the front of the class, Laila thinks of the naming game 
they'd played again over dinner the night before. It has become a nightly ritual ever sin-
ce Laila gave Tariq and the children the news. Back and forth they go, making a case 
for their own choice. Tariq likes Mohammad. Zalmai, who has recently watchedSuper-
man on tape, is puzzled as to why an Afghan boy cannot be named Clark. Aziza is cam-
paigning hard for Aman. Laila likes Omar. 
 
  But the game involves only male names. Because, if it's a girl, Laila has already named 
her.