“You're not my Baba jan! My real Baba jan is away on a trip, and when he gets back he's going to beat you up!”
And you won't be able to run away, because he has two legs and you only have one!”
At night, Laila holds Zalmai against her chest and recites Babaloo prayers with him.
When he asks, she tells him the lie again, tells him his Baba jan has gone away and she doesn't know when he would come back.
She abhors this task, abhors herself for lying like this to a child. Laila knows that this shameful lie will have to be told again and again.
It will have to because Zalmai will ask, hopping down from a swing, waking from an afternoon nap,
and, later, when he's old enough to tie his own shoes, to walk to school by himself, the lie will have to be delivered again.
At some point, Laila knows, the questions will dry up.
Slowly, Zalmai will cease wondering why his father has abandoned him.
He will not spot his father any longer at traffic lights,
in stooping old men shuffling down the street or sipping tea in open fronted samovar houses.
And one day it will hit him, walking along some meandering river, or gazing out at an untracked snowfield,
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