The Taliban had banned television. Videotapes had been gouged publicly, the tapes ripped out and strung on fence posts.
Satellite dishes had been hung from lampposts. But Rasheed said just because things were banned didn't mean you couldn't find them.
“I'll start looking for some cartoon videos tomorrow,” he said. “It won't be hard. You can buy anything in underground bazaars.”
“Then maybe you'll buy us a new well,” Laila said, and this won her a scornful gaze from him.
It was later, after another dinner of plain white rice had been consumed and tea forgone again on account of the drought,
after Rasheed had smoked a cigarette, that he told Laila about his decision.
“No,” Laila said. He said he wasn't asking. “I don't care if you are or not.” “You would if you knew the full story.”
He said he had borrowed from more friends than he let on, that the money from the shop alone was no longer enough to sustain the five of them.
“I didn't tell you earlier to spare you the worrying. Besides,” he said, “you'd be surprised how much they can bring in.”
Laila said no again. They were in the living room. Mariam and the children were in the kitchen.
Laila could hear the clatter of dishes, Zalmai's high-pitched laugh, Aziza saying something to Mariam in her steady, reasonable voice.
“There will be others like her, younger even,” Rasheed said. “Everyone in Kabul is doing the same.”
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