The children Mariam saw, chasing after their mothers or running ahead of them, wore shirts patched and patched again.
They wore trousers that looked too big or too small, sandals with ragged straps that flapped back and forth.
They rolled discarded old bicycle tires with sticks. Their mothers walked in groups of three or four, some in burqas, others not.
Mariam could hear their high pitched chatter, their spiraling laughs.
As she walked with her head down, she caught bits of their banter,
which seemingly always had to do with sick children or lazy, ungrateful husbands.
As if the meals cook themselves. Wallah o billah, never a moment's rest!
And he says to me, I swear it, it's true, he actually says to me...
This endless conversation, the tone plaintive but oddly cheerful, flew around and around in a circle.
On it went, down the street, around the corner, in line at the tandoor.
Husbands who gambled. Husbands who doted on their mothers and wouldn't spend a rupiah on them, the wives.
Mariam wondered how so many women could suffer the same miserable luck, to have married, all of them, such dreadful men.
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