All day, they ran around, making up lively games, unaware of the stench of feces and urine that permeated Walayat and their own bodies,
unmindful of the Talib guards until one smacked them.
Mariam had no visitors. That was the first and only thing she had asked the Talib officials here. No visitors.
None of the women in Mariam's cell were serving time for violent crime; they were all there for the common offense of “running away from home.”
As a result, Mariam gained some notoriety among them, became a kind of celebrity.
The women eyed her with a reverent, almost awestruck, expression.
They offered her their blankets. They competed to share their food with her.
The most avid was Naghma, who was always hugging her elbows and following Mariam everywhere she went.
Naghma was the sort of person who found it entertaining to dispense news of misfortune, whether others' or her own.
She said her father had promised her to a tailor some thirty years older than her.
“He smells like goh, and has fewer teeth than fingers,” Naghma said of the tailor.
She'd tried to elope to Gardez with a young man she'd fallen in love with, the son of a local mullah.
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