Laila thinks of her own life and all that has happened to her, and she is astonished that she too has survived,
that she is alive and sitting in this taxi listening to this man's story.
Gul Daman is a village of a few walled houses rising among flat kolbas built with mud and straw.
Outside the kolbas, Laila sees sunburned women cooking,
their faces sweating in steam rising from big blackened pots set on makeshift firewood grills.
Mules eat from troughs. Children giving chase to chickens begin chasing the taxi.
Laila sees men pushing wheelbarrows filled with stones. They stop and watch the car pass by.
The driver takes a turn, and they pass a cemetery with a weather worn mausoleum in the center of it.
The driver tells her that a village Sufi is buried there.
There is a windmill too. In the shadow of its idle, rust colored vanes, three little boys are squatting, playing with mud.
The driver pulls over and leans out of the window. The oldest looking of the three boys is the one to answer.
He points to a house farther up the road. The driver thanks him, puts the car back in gear.
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