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gracious as His book says He is。 I bow to the west and kiss the ground and promise that I will do _zakat_； I will do _namaz_； I will fast during Ramadan and when Ramadan has passed I will go on fasting； I will mit to memory every last word of His holy book； and I will set on a pilgrimage to that sweltering city in the desert and bow before the Ka bah too。 I will do all of this and I will think of Him every day from this day on if He only grants me this one wish： My hands are stained with Hassan s blood； I pray God doesn t let them get stained with the blood of his boy too。
I hear a whimpering and realize it is mine； my lips are salty with the tears trickling down my face。 I feel the eyes of everyone in this corridor on me and still I bow to the west。 I pray。 I pray that my sins have not caught up with me the way I d always feared they would。
A STARLESS； BLACK NIGHT falls over Islamabad。 It s a few hours later and I am sitting now on the floor of a tiny lounge off the corridor that leads to the emergency ward。 Before me is a dull brown coffee table cluttered with newspapers and dog…eared magazines……an April 1996 issue of Time； a Pakistani newspaper showing the face of a young boy who was hit and killed by a train the week before； an entertainment magazine with smiling Hollywood actors on its glossy cover。 There is an old woman wearing a jade green shalwar…kameez and a crocheted shawl nodding off in a wheelchair across from me。 Every once in a while； she stirs awake and mutters a prayer in Arabic。 I wonder tiredly whose prayers will be heard tonight； hers or mine。 I picture Sohrab s face； the pointed meaty chin； his small seashell ears； his slanting bambooleaf eyes so much like his father s。 A sorrow as black as the night outside invades me； and I feel my throat clamping。
I need air。
I get up and open the windows。 The air ing through the screen is musty and hot……it smells of overripe dates and dung。 I force it into my lungs in big heaps； but it doesn t clear the clamping feeling in my chest。 I drop back on the floor。 I pick up the Time magazine and flip through the pages。 But I can t read； can t focus on anything。 So I toss it on the table and go back to staring at the zigzagging pattern of the cracks on the cement floor； at the cobwebs on the ceiling where the walls meet； at the dead flies littering the windowsill。 Mostly； I stare at the clock on the wall。 It s just past 4 A。M。 and I have been shut out of the room with the swinging double doors for over five hours now。 I still haven t heard any news。
The floor beneath me begins to feel like part of my body； and my breathing is growing heavier； slower。 I want to sleep； shut my eyes and lie my head down on this cold； dusty floor。 Drift off。 When I wake up； maybe I will discover that everything I saw in the hotel bathroom was part of a dream： the water drops dripping from the faucet and landing with a plink into the bloody bathwater； the left arm dangling over the side of the tub； the blood…soaked razor sitting on the toilet tank……the same razor I had shaved with the day before……and his eyes； still half open but l