He knew the difference between a stalactite and a stalagmite,
and could tell you that the distance between the earth and the sun was the same as going from Kabul to Ghazni one and a half million times.
But if Laila needed the lid of a candy jar forced open, she had to go to Mammy, which felt like a betrayal.
Ordinary tools befuddled Babi. On his watch, squeaky door hinges never got oiled.
Ceilings went on leaking after he plugged them. Mold thrived defiantly in kitchen cabinets.
Mammy said that before he left with Noor to join the jihad against the Soviets, back in 1980,
it was Ahmad who had dutifully and competently minded these things.
“But if you have a book that needs urgent reading,” she said, “then Hakim is your man.”
Still, Laila could not shake the feeling that at one time, before Ahmad and Noor had gone to war against the Soviets,
before Babi had let them go to war, Mammy too had thought Babi's bookishness endearing,
that, once upon a time, she too had found his forgetfulness and ineptitude charming.
“So what is today?” he said now, smiling coyly. “Day five? Or is it six?”
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