A Thousand Splendid Suns

by Khaled Hosseini

“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.”

“They’ll comfort you too, Mariam jo,” he said. “You can summon them in your time of need, and they won’t fail you. God’s words will never betray you, my girl.”

“Now he is a little older than you,” Afsoon chimed in. “But he can’t be more than…forty. Forty-five at the most. Wouldn’t you say, Nargis?” “Yes. But I’ve seen nine-year-old girls given to men twenty years older than your suitor, Mariam. We all have. What are you, fifteen? That’s a good, solid marrying age for a girl.”

A LITTLE OLDER?!!!@(!(/!,!!!!@?!?@

Pangs of longing bore into her, for Nana, for Mullah Faizullah, for her old life. Then she was crying.

As a reminder of how women like us suffer, she’d said. How quietly we endure all that falls upon us.

Because a society has no chance of success if its women are uneducated, Laila. No chance.

Boys, Laila came to see, treated friendship the way they treated the sun: its existence undisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.

school, of course. You know how I feel about that. That would be our absolute top priority, to get you a good education, high school then college.

so sad

“One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.”

And, really, what could be said, what needed saying, when you’d shoved the barrel of your gun into your wife’s mouth?

Astagfirullah setan

“Jack! Say my name, Khala Mariam. Say it. Jack!” “Your father will be angry if you wake him.” “Jack! And you’re Rose.” It would end with Mariam on her back, surrendering, agreeing again to be Rose. “Fine, you be Jack,” she relented. “You die young, and I get to live to a ripe old age.” “Yes, but I die a hero,” said Aziza, “while you, Rose, you spend your entire, miserable life longing for me.” Then, straddling Mariam’s chest, she’d announce, “Now we must kiss!” Mariam whipped her head side to side, and Aziza, delighted with her own scandalous behavior, cackled through puckered lips. Sometimes Zalmai would saunter in and watch this game. What did he get to be, he asked. “You can be the iceberg,” said Aziza.

Gemes

She thought of Aziza’s stutter, and of what Aziza had said earlier about fractures and powerful collisions deep down and how sometimes all we see on the surface is a slight tremor.

“And I wrote you.” “You did?” “Oh, volumes,” he said.

Rasheed setan

“I know you’re a married woman and a mother now. And here I am, after all these years, after all that’s happened, showing up at your doorstep. Probably, it isn’t proper, or fair, but I’ve come such a long way to see you, and…Oh, Laila, I wish I’d never left you.” “Don’t,” she croaked. “I should have tried harder. I should have married you when I had the chance. Everything would have been different, then.” “Don’t talk this way. Please. It hurts.”

:(

Laila crawled to her and again put her head on Mariam’s lap. She remembered all the afternoons they’d spent together, braiding each other’s hair, Mariam listening patiently to her random thoughts and ordinary stories with an air of gratitude, with the expression of a person to whom a unique and coveted privilege had been extended.

Monyekkkkkk

“For me, it ends here. There’s nothing more I want. Everything I’d ever wished for as a little girl you’ve already given me. You and your children have made me so very happy. It’s all right, Laila jo. This is all right. Don’t be sad.”

“Kiss Aziza for me,” she said. “Tell her she is the noor of my eyes and the sultan of my heart. Will you do that for me?”

SYP YG NARO BAWANG

Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for the most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it.

That night, it was blessing enough to be beside him. It was blessing enough to know that he was here, to feel the warmth of him next to her, to lie with him, their heads touching, his right hand laced in her left.

“He will never leave. Look at me, Aziza. Your father will never hurt you, and he will never leave.” The relief on Aziza’s face broke Laila’s heart.

demi allah sedih bgt

Laila is struck again by how beautiful he is, the perfect curve of his forehead, the slender muscles of his arms, his brooding, intelligent eyes. A year has passed, and still there are times, at moments like this, when Laila cannot believe that they have found each other again, that he is really here, with her, that he is her husband.

“Me?” he says. “I’ll follow you to the end of the world, Laila.”

Here, Laila can lay her cheek on the softness of Mariam’s lap again, can feel Mariam swaying back and forth, reciting verses from the Koran, can feel the words vibrating down Mariam’s body, to her knees, and into her own ears.

nangis

A woman who will be like a rock in a riverbed, enduring without complaint, her grace not sullied but shaped by the turbulence that washes over her.

I have dreams of you too, Mariam jo. I miss you. I miss the sound of your voice, your laughter. I miss reading to you, and all those times we fished together. Do you remember all those times we fished together? You were a good daughter, Mariam jo, and I cannot ever think of you without feeling shame and regret. Regret…When it comes to you, Mariam jo, I have oceans of it. I regret that I did not see you the day you came to Herat. I regret that I did not open the door and take you in. I regret that I did not make you a daughter to me, that I let you live in that place for all those years. And for what? Fear of losing face? Of staining my so-called good name? How little those things matter to me now after all the loss, all the terrible things I have seen in this cursed war. But now, of course, it is too late. Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, to understand only when nothing can be undone. Now all I can do is say that you were a good daughter, Mariam jo, and that I never deserved you. Now all I can do is ask for your forgiveness. So forgive me, Mariam jo. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. I am not the wealthy man you once knew. The communists confiscated so much of my land, and all of my stores as well. But it is petty to complain, for God—for reasons that I do not understand—has still blessed me with far more than most people. Since my return from Kabul, I have managed to sell what little remained of my land. I have enclosed for you your sha...

SWDIH COOOOOK

But, mostly, Mariam is in Laila’s own heart, where she shines with the bursting radiance of a thousand suns.

Laila thinks of the naming game they’d played again over dinner the night before. It has become a nightly ritual ever since Laila gave Tariq and the children the news. Back and forth they go, making a case for their own choice. Tariq likes Mohammad. Zalmai, who has recently watched Superman on tape, is puzzled as to why an Afghan boy cannot be named Clark. Aziza is campaigning hard for Aman. Laila likes Omar. But the game involves only male names. Because, if it’s a girl, Laila has already named her.