The bleak isolation awaiting her, the murderous loneliness, it didn't have to be.
She could go. They could be together. They would have more afternoons like this.
“I want to marry you, Laila.” For the first time since they were on the floor, she raised her eyes to meet his.
She searched his face. There was no playfulness this time. His look was one of conviction, of guileless yet ironclad earnestness.
“Tariq—” “Let me marry you, Laila. Today. We could get married today.”
He began to say more, about going to a mosque, finding a mullah, a pair of witnesses, a quick nikka.
But Laila was thinking of Mammy, as obstinate and uncompromising as the Mujahideen, the air around her choked with rancor and despair,
and she was thinking of Babi, who had long surrendered, who made such a sad, pathetic opponent to Mammy.
Sometimes... I feel like you're all I have, Laila. These were the circumstances of her life, the inescapable truths of it.
I'll ask Kaka Hakim for your hand. He'll give us his blessing, Laila, I know it.”
He was right. Babi would. But it would shatter him.
Tariq was still speaking, his voice hushed, then high, beseeching, then reasoning; his face hopeful, then stricken.
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