for eating meals that were too spicy, for not eating enough fruit, for drinking too much tea.
It was God's fault, for taunting her as He had. For not granting her what He had granted so many other women.
For dangling before her, tantalizingly, what He knew would give her the greatest happiness, then pulling it away.
But it did no good, all this fault-laying, all these harangues of accusations bouncing in her head.
It was kufr, sacrilege, to think these thoughts. Allah was not spiteful. He was not a petty God.
Mullah Faizullah's words whispered in her head: Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom,
and He Who has power over all things, Who created death and life that He may try you.
Ransacked with guilt, Mariam would kneel and pray for forgiveness for these thoughts.
Meanwhile, a change had come over Rasheed ever since the day at the bathhouse.
Most nights when he came home, he hardly talked anymore.
He ate, smoked, went to bed, sometimes came back in the middle of the night for a brief and, of late, quite rough session of coupling.
He was more apt to sulk these days, to fault her cooking,
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