Or was this a wifely game that she did not know about, a daily ritual, like soaking rice or making dough?
Would they expect her soon to join in? In the tandoor line, Mariam caught sideways glances shot at her, heard whispers.
Her hands began to sweat. She imagined they all knew that she'd been born a harami, a source of shame to her father and his family.
They all knew that she'd betrayed her mother and disgraced herself.
With a corner of her hijab, she dabbed at the moisture above her upper lip and tried to gather her nerves.
For a few minutes, everything went well. Then someone tapped her on the shoulder.
Mariam turned around and found a light skinned, plump woman wearing a hijab, like her.
She had short, wiry black hair and a good humored, almost perfectly round face.
Her lips were much fuller than Mariam's, the lower one slightly droopy, as though dragged down by the big, dark mole just below the lip line.
She had big greenish eyes that shone at Mariam with an inviting glint.
“You're Rasheed jan's new wife, aren't you?” the woman said, smiling widely.
“The one from Herat. You're so young! Mariam jan, isn't it?”
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