My name is Fariba. I live on your street, five houses to your left, the one with the green door. This is my son Noor.
The boy at her side had a smooth, happy face and wiry hair like his mother's.
There was a patch of black hairs on the lobe of his left ear. His eyes had a mischievous, reckless light in them.
He raised his hand. “Salaam, Khala Jan.” “Noor is ten. I have an older boy too, Ahmad.”
“He's thirteen,” Noor said. “Thirteen going on forty.”
The woman Fariba laughed. “My husband's name is Hakim,” she said. “He's a teacher here in Deh Mazang.”
You should come by sometime, we'll have a cup.
And then suddenly, as if emboldened, the other women pushed past Fariba and swarmed Mariam, forming a circle around her with alarming speed.
“So you're Rasheed jan's young bride.” “How do you like Kabul?”
“I've been to Herat. I have a cousin there.” “Do you want a boy or a girl first?”
“The minarets! Oh, what beauty! What a gorgeous city!”
“Boy is better, Mariam jan, they carry the family name.”
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