that his father's disappearance is no longer an open, raw wound.
That it has become something else altogether, something more soft edged and indolent. Like a lore. Something to be revered, mystified by.
Laila is happy here in Murree. But it is not an easy happiness. It is not a happiness without cost.
On his days off, Tariq takes Laila and the children to the Mall, along which are shops that sell trinkets
and next to which is an Anglican church built in the mid nineteenth century.
Tariq buys them spicy chapli kebabs from street vendors.
They stroll amid the crowds of locals, the Europeans and their cellular phones and digital cameras,
the Punjabis who come here to escape the heat of the plains.
Occasionally, they board a bus to Kashmir Point. From there, Tariq shows them the valley of the Jhelum River,
the pine carpeted slopes, and the lush, densely wooded hills, where he says monkeys can still be spotted hopping from branch to branch.
They go to the maple clad Nathia Gali too, some thirty kilometers from Murree,
where Tariq holds Laila's hand as they walk the tree shaded road to the Governor's House.
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