Nana put down the bowl of chicken feed. She lifted Mariam's chin with a finger. “Look at me, Mariam.”
Reluctantly, Mariam did. Nana said, “Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter:
“Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman. Always. You remember that, Mariam.”
2.
To Jalil and his wives, I was a pokeroot. A mugwort. You too. And you weren't even born yet.”
“What's a mugwort?” Mariam asked. “A weed,” Nana said. “Something you rip out and toss aside.”
Mariam frowned internally. Jalil didn't treat her as a weed. He never had.
But Mariam thought it wise to suppress this protest.
“Unlike weeds, I had to be replanted, you see, given food and water. On account of you. That was the deal Jalil made with his family.”
Nana said she had refused to live in Herat. “For what? To watch him drive his kinchini wives around town all day?”
She said she wouldn't live in her father's empty house either, in the village of Gul Daman,
which sat on a steep hill two kilometers north of Herat.
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