cold meatballs sloshing in oil; fried chicken wings, the crust gone hard and dry; stuffed pasta shells turned chewy; stiff, gravelly rice.
Rasheed had promised Laila that once he had some money saved up, Aziza could move back home.
Rasheed was wearing his uniform, a burgundy red polyester suit, white shirt, clip on tie, visor cap pressing down on his white hair.
In this uniform, Rasheed was transformed. He looked vulnerable, pitiably bewildered, almost harmless.
Like someone who had accepted without a sigh of protest the indignities life had doled out to him.
Someone both pathetic and admirable in his docility. They rode the bus to Titanic City.
They walked into the riverbed, flanked on either side by makeshift stalls clinging to the dry banks.
Near the bridge, as they were descending the steps, a barefoot man dangled dead from a crane, his ears cut off, his neck bent at the end of a rope.
In the river, they melted into the horde of shoppers milling about, the money changers and bored looking NGO workers,
the cigarette vendors, the covered women who thrust fake antibiotic prescriptions at people and begged for money to fill them.
Whip-toting, naswar-chewing Talibs patrolled Titanic City on the lookout for the indiscreet laugh, the unveiled face.
From a toy kiosk, between a poosteen coat vendor and a fake flower stand, Zalmai picked out a rubber basketball with yellow and blue swirls.
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