“I do understand,” Mariam said. “I wonder,” the young Talib said.
“God has made us differently, you women and us men. Our brains are different. You are not able to think like we can.”
“Western doctors and their science have proven this. This is why we require only one male witness but two female ones.”
“I admit to what I did, brother,” Mariam said. “But, if I hadn't, he would have killed her. He was strangling her.”
“So you say. But, then, women swear to all sorts of things all the time.” “It's the truth.”
“Do you have witnesses? Other than your ambagh?” “I do not,” said Mariam. “Well, then.” He threw up his hands and snickered.
It was the sickly Talib who spoke next. “I have a doctor in Peshawar,” he said. “A fine, young Pakistani fellow.”
“I saw him a month ago, and then again last week. I said, tell me the truth, friend, and he said to me, three months, Mullah sahib,”
“maybe six at most all God's will, of course.” He nodded discreetly at the square shouldered man on his left and took another sip of the tea.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his tremulous hand. “It does not frighten me to leave this life that my only son left five years ago,”
“this life that insists we bear sorrow upon sorrow long after we can bear no more. No, I believe I shall gladly take my leave when the time comes.”
“What frightens me, hamshira, is the day God summons me before Him and asks, Why did you not do as I said, Mullah?”
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