One time, he'd tapped her on the shoulder and said, “You're so very pretty, Yellow Hair. I want to marry you.”
Now he waved the gun. “Don't worry,” he said. “This won't show. Not on your hair.”
“Don't you do it! I'm warning you.” “What are you going to do?” he said.
Sic your cripple on me? ‘Oh, Tariq jan. Oh, won't you come home and save me from the badmash!’”
Laila began to backpedal, but Khadim was already pumping the trigger.
One after another, thin jets of warm water struck Laila's hair, then her palm when she raised it to shield her face.
Now the other boys came out of their hiding, laughing, cackling.
An insult Laila had heard on the street rose to her lips.
She didn't really understand—it couldn't quite picture the logistics of it—but the words packed a fierce potency, and she unleashed them now.
“Your mother eats cock!” “At least she's not a loony like yours,” Khadim shot back, unruffled.
“At least my father's not a sissy! And, by the way, why don't you smell your hands?”
The other boys took up the chant. “Smell your hands! Smell your hands!”
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