Bibi jo was invariably accompanied by one of her six brides and a grandchild or two.
She limped and huffed her way across the clearing and made a great show of rubbing her hip
and lowering herself, with a pained sigh, onto the chair that Nana pulled up for her.
Bibi jo too always brought Mariam something, a box of dishlemeh candy, a basket of quinces.
For Nana, she first brought complaints about her failing health, and then gossip from Herat and Gul Daman,
delivered at length and with gusto, as her daughter-in-law sat listening quietly and dutifully behind her.
But Mariam's favorite, other than Jalil of course, was Mullah Faizullah, the elderly village Koran tutor, its akhund.
He came by once or twice a week from Gul Daman to teach Mariam the five daily namaz prayers and tutor her in Koran recitation,
just as he had taught Nana when she'd been a little girl.
It was Mullah Faizullah who had taught Mariam to read, who had patiently looked over her shoulder as her lips worked the words soundlessly,
her index finger lingering beneath each word, pressing until the nail bed went white,
as though she could squeeze the meaning out of the symbols.
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