Both Mammy and Babi, who were first cousins, had been born and raised in Panjshir;
they had moved to Kabul back in 1960 as hopeful, bright-eyed newlyweds when Babi had been admitted to Kabul University.
Laila scrambled downstairs, hoping Mammy wouldn't come out of her room for another round.
She found Babi kneeling by the screen door. “Did you see this, Laila?”
The rip in the screen had been there for weeks. Laila hunkered down beside him. “No. Must be new.”
“That's what I told Fariba.” He looked shaken, reduced, as he always did after Mammy was through with him.
“She says it's been letting in bees.” Laila's heart went out to him.
Babi was a small man, with narrow shoulders and slim, delicate hands, almost like a woman's.
At night, when Laila walked into Babi's room, she always found the downward profile of his face burrowing into a book,
his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Sometimes he didn't even notice that she was there.
When he did, he marked his page, smiled a close-lipped, companionable smile. Babi knew most of Rumi's and Hafez's ghazals by heart.
He could speak at length about the struggle between Britain and czarist Russia over Afghanistan.
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