A Thousand Splendid Suns

by Khaled Hosseini

But then it would pass. The moment would pass. Leave her deflated, feeling nothing but a vague restlessness.

:(

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

“But, mostly, he talked about you, hamshira. He said you were—how did he put it—his earliest memory. I think that’s right, yes. I could tell he cared a great deal about you. Balay, that much was plain to see. But he said he was glad you weren’t there. He said he didn’t want you seeing him like that.”

Now another stranger bringing news of another death. Now she was the one sitting on the chair. Was this her penalty, then, her punishment for being aloof to her own mother’s suffering?

But, miraculously, something of her former life remained, her last link to the person that she had been before she had become so utterly alone. A part of Tariq still alive inside her, sprouting tiny arms, growing translucent hands. How could she jeopardize the only thing she had left of him, of her old life?

Mariam never heard him call his daughter by the name the girl had given her, Aziza, the Cherished One. It was always the baby, or, when he was really exasperated, that thing.

He's a jerk

Mariam had never before been wanted like this. Love had never been declared to her so guilelessly, so unreservedly.

:(

“As a matter of policy, we do not interfere with private family matters, hamshira.” “Of course you don’t. When it benefits the man. And isn’t this a ‘private family matter,’ as you say? Isn’t it?”

She wished she’d understood then what she understood now about motherhood.

Mariam understood that this was a woman far past outrage. Here was a woman, she thought, who had understood that she was lucky to even be working, that there was always something, something else, that they could take away.

It’s all I have to give her, Mariam had said to Laila, this knowledge, these prayers. They’re the only true possession I’ve ever had.

And you’re not alone, hamshira. We get mothers like you all the time—all the time—mothers who come here who can’t feed their children because the Taliban won’t let them go out and make a living.

So heartbreking...

Before Mammy and Babi had died and her life turned upside down, Laila never would have believed that a human body could withstand this much beating, this viciously, this regularly, and keep functioning.

“And I wrote you.” “You did?” “Oh, volumes,” he said. “Your friend Rumi would have envied my production.”

“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?”

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.

Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her.

She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings.

So much had happened since those childhood days, so much that needed to be said. But that first night the enormity of it all stole the words from her. 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.

Laila says, marveling at how every Afghan story is marked by death and loss and unimaginable grief. And yet, she sees, people find a way to survive, to go on. Laila thinks of her own life and all that has happened to her, and she is astonished that she too has survived, that she is alive and sitting in this taxi listening to this man’s story.

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.

When the children spot Laila, they come running. They come running at full tilt. Laila is swarmed. There is a flurry of high-pitched greetings, of shrill voices, of patting, clutching, tugging, groping, of jostling with one another to climb into her arms. There are outstretched little hands and appeals for attention. Some of them call her Mother. Laila does not correct them.

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