These clothes, like other things about the baby, became a point of contention.
“What's the matter with them?” Rasheed said. “They're boys' clothes. For a bacha.”
You think she knows the difference? I paid good money for those clothes. And another thing, I don't care for that tone.
“Consider that a warning.” Every week, without fail, the girl heated a black metal brazier over a flame,
tossed a pinch of wild rue seeds in it, and wafted the espandi smoke in her baby's direction to ward off evil.
Mariam found it exhausting to watch the girl's lolloping enthusiasm and had to admit, if only privately, to a degree of admiration.
She marveled at how the girl's eyes shone with worship,
even in the mornings when her face drooped and her complexion was waxy from a night's worth of walking the baby.
The girl had fits of laughter when the baby passed gas.
The tiniest changes in the baby enchanted her, and everything it did was declared spectacular.
“Look! She's reaching for the rattle. How clever she is.” “I'll call the newspapers,” said Rasheed.
Every night, there were demonstrations.
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