“Tomorrow is Friday,” Rasheed said. “What do you say I show you around?”
“Around Kabul?” “No. Calcutta.” Mariam blinked. “It's a joke. Of course Kabul. Where else?”
He reached into the brown paper bag. “But first, something I have to tell you.”
He fished a sky blue burqa from the bag. The yards of pleated cloth spilled over his knees when he lifted it.
He rolled up the burqa, looked at Mariam. “I have customers, Mariam, men, who bring their wives to my shop.”
“The women come uncovered, they talk to me directly, look me in the eye without shame.”
They wear makeup and skirts that show their knees.
Sometimes they even put their feet in front of me, the women do, for measurements, and their husbands stand there and watch.”
They allow it. They think nothing of a stranger touching their wives' bare feet!”
“They think they're being modern men, intellectuals, on account of their education, I suppose.”
“They don't see that they're spoiling their own nang and namoos, their honor and pride.”
He shook his head. “Mostly, they live in the richer parts of Kabul. I'll take you there. You'll see.”
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