Then it was all dust and fists and kicks and yelps. Khadim never bothered Laila again.
That night, as most nights, Laila set the dinner table for two only. Mammy said she wasn't hungry.
On those nights that she was, she made a point of taking a plate to her room before Babi even came home.
She was usually asleep or lying awake in bed by the time Laila and Babi sat down to eat.
Babi came out of the bathroom, his hair peppered white with flour when he'd come home, washed clean now and combed back.
“What are we having, Laila?” “Leftover aush soup.” “Sounds good,” he said, folding the towel with which he'd dried his hair.
“So what are we working on tonight? Adding fractions?” “Actually, converting fractions to mixed numbers.” “Ah. Right.”
Every night after dinner, Babi helped Laila with her homework and gave her some of his own.
This was only to keep Laila a step or two ahead of her class,
not because he disapproved of the work assigned by the school, the propaganda teaching notwithstanding.
In fact, Babi thought that the one thing the communists had done right, or at least intended to, was in the field of education,
the vocation from which they had fired him. More specifically, the education of women.
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