Propelled by the same superb instinct for storytelling that made The Kite Runner a beloved classic, A Thousand Splendid Suns is at once an incredible chronicle. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. Life Improvement, Self Improvement, Spirituality Novel By Khaled Hosseini.
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A Thousand Splendid Suns Khaled Hosseini 'Thousand Splendid Suns A NOVEL ALSO BY KHALED HOSSEINI The Kite Runner This book is dedicated to Haris DONT DISTRIBUTE THIS PRIVATE BACKUP EBOOK IF U DONT HAVE. Read "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. **Propelled by the same. Latest and most complete edition of A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS digital Book by Khaled Hosseini on ruthenpress.info - EN.
He was looking away, toward the mountains. Mariam remembered him telling her that on the screen a human face looked as big as a house, that when a car crashed up there you felt the metal twisting in your bones. She pictured herself sitting in the private balcony seats, lapping at ice cream, alongside her siblings and Jalil. Jalil looked at her with a forlorn expression. At noon. I'll meet you at this very spot.
All right? He hunkered down, pulled her to him, and held her for a long, long time. Nana paced around th ekolba, clenching and unclenching her fists. Everything I endured for you! How dare you! You think you matter to him, that you're wanted in his ho- use? You think you're a daughter to him? That he's going to take you in? Let me tell you something- A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing, Mariam. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed, it won't stretch to make room for you. I'm the only one who loves you.
I'm all you have in this world, Mariam, and when I'm gone you'll have nothing. You'll have nothing. Youare nothing! The jinn will come, and I'll have one of my fits.
You'll see, I'll swal- low my tongue and die. Don't leave me, Mariam jo. Please stay. I'll die if you go. She feared she might say hurtful things if she stayed: She might have asked Nana why she refused to see Jalil's doctors, as he had insisted she do, why she wouldn't take the pills he'd bought for her.
If she could ar- ticulate it, she might have said to Nana that she was tired of being an instrument, of be- ing lied to, laid claim to, used. That she was sick of Nana twisting the truths of their life and making her, Mariam, another of her grievances against the world.
You 're afraid, Nana, she might have said. You 're afraid that 1 might find the happiness you never had. And you don 'i want me to be happy. You don't want a good life for me. She sat there now, on dry, warm grass. Herat was visible from here, spread below her like a child's board game: She could make out the mina- rets in the distance, like the dusty fingers of giants, and the streets that she imagined we- re milling with people, carts, mules.
She saw swallows swooping and circling overhead. She was envious of these birds. They had been to Herat. They had flown over its mos- ques, its bazaars. Maybe they had landed on the walls of Jalil's home, on the front steps of his cinema. She picked up ten pebbles and arranged them vertically, in three columns. This was a game that she played privately from time to time when Nana wasn't looking.
She put fo- ur pebbles in the first column, for Khadija's children, three for Afsoon's, and three in the third column for Nargis's children. Then she added a fourth column. A solitary, eleventh pebble. She agonized a bit over th ehijab, its being gre- en and not matching the dress, but it would have to do-moths had eaten holes into her white one.
She checked the clock. It was an old hand-wound clock with black numbers on a mint green face, a present from Mullah Faizullah. It was nine o'clock. She wondered where Nana was. She thought about going outside and looking for her, but she dreaded the confrontation, the aggrieved looks. Nana would accuse her of betrayal.
She would mock her for her mistaken ambitions. Mariam sat down. She tried to make time pass by drawing an elephant in one stroke, the way Jalil had shown her, over and over. She became stiff from all the sitting but wo- uldn't lie down for fear that her dress would wrinkle. When the hands finally showed eleven-thirty, Mariam pocketed the eleven pebbles and went outside. On her way to the stream, she saw Nana sitting on a chair, in the shade, beneath the domed roof of a weeping willow.
Mariam couldn't tell whether Nana saw her or not. At the stream, Mariam waited by the spot they had agreed on the day before.
In the sky, a few gray, cauliflower-shaped clouds drifted by. Jalil had taught her that gray clo- uds got their color by being so dense that their top parts absorbed the sunlight and cast their own shadow along the base. That's what you see, Mariam jo, he had said, the dark in their underbelly.
Some time passed. Mariam went back to th ekolba This time, she walked around the west-facing periphery of the clearing so she wouldn't have to pass by Nana.
It was al- most one o'clock. He's a businessman, Mariam thought. Something has come up. She went back to the stream and waited awhile longer. Blackbirds circled overhead, dipped into the grass somewhere. She watched a caterpillar inching along the foot of an immature thistle. She waited until her legs were stiff.
This time, she did not go back to th ekolba She rol- led up the legs of her trousers to the knees, crossed the stream, and, for the first time in her life, headed down the hill for Herat. No one pointed. No one laughed. Mariam walked along noisy, crowded, cypress-lined boulevards, amid a steady stream of pedestrians, bicycle riders, and mule-drawn garis, and no one threw a rock at her.
No one called her a harami. Hardly anyone even looked at her. She was, unexpectedly, marvelously, an or- dinary person here. For a while, Mariam stood by an oval-shaped pool in the center of a big park where pebble paths crisscrossed. With wonder, she ran her fingers over the beautiful marble horses that stood along the edge of the pool and gazed down at the water with opaque eyes. She spied on a cluster of boys who were setting sail to paper ships.
Mariam saw flowers everywhere, tulips, lilies, petunias, their petals awash in sunlight. People wal- ked along the paths, sat on benches and sipped tea.
Mariam could hardly believe that she was here. Her heart was battering with excite- ment.
She wished Mullah Faizullah could see her now. How daring he would find her. How brave! She gave herself over to the new life that awaited her in this city, a life with a father, with sisters and brothers, a life in which she would love and be loved back, without reservation or agenda, without shame. Sprightly, she walked back to the wide thoroughfare near the park.
She passed old ven- dors with leathery faces sitting under the shade of plane trees, gazing at her impassively behind pyramids of cherries and mounds of grapes. Barefoot boys gave chase to cars and buses, waving bags of quinces. Mariam stood at a street corner and watched the passersby, unable to understand how they could be so indifferent to the marvels around them.
After a while, she worked up the nerve to ask the elderly owner of a horse-drawn gari if he knew where Jalil, the cinema's owner, lived. The old man had plump cheeks and wore a rainbow-stripedchaparz. I'll take you.
I don't have any money. He said he hadn't had a ride in two hours and he was planning on going home anyway. Jalil's house was on the way. Mariam climbed onto thegarz. They rode in silence, side by side.
On the way there, Mariam saw herb shops, and open-fronted cubbyholes where shoppers bought oranges and pears, books, shawls, even falcons. Children played marbles in circles drawn in dust. Outside teahouses, on carpet-covered wooden platforms, men drank tea and smo- ked tobacco from hookahs.
The old man turned onto a wide, conifer-lined street. He brought his horse to a stop at the midway point. Looks like you're in luck, dokhiarjo. That's his car. He smiled and rode on. She ran her fingers along the hood of Jalil's car, which was black, shiny, with glittering wheels in which Mariam saw a flattened, widened version of herself.
The seats were made of white leather. Behind the steering wheel, Mariam saw round glass panels with needles behind them. For a moment, Mariam heard Nana's voice in her head, mocking, dousing the deep-se- ated glow of her hopes. With shaky legs, Mariam approached the front door of the ho- use. She put her hands on the walls. They were so tall, so foreboding, Jalil's walls. She had to crane her neck to see where the tops of cypress trees protruded over them from the other side.
The treetops swayed in the breeze, and she imagined they were nodding their welcome to her. Mariam steadied herself against the waves of dismay passing thro- ugh her. A barefoot young woman opened the door. She had a tattoo under her lower lip. I'm Mariam. His daughter. Then, a flash of recognition. There was a faint smile on her lips now, and an air of eagerness about her, of anticipation. She closed the door. A few minutes passed. Then a man opened the door.
He was tall and square-shoulde- red, with sleepy-looking eyes and a calm face. Jalil Khan is not here. Mariam sat, and drew her knees to her chest. It was early evening already, and she was getting hungry. A while later, the driver came out again. Why don't you let me drive you home? I'll tell him you were here. You can sleep comfortably there. We'll see what we can do in the morning.
Look, no one knows when he's coming back. It could be days. The driver sighed and looked at her with gentle reproach. Over the years, Mariam would have ample occasion to think about how things might have turned out if she had let the driver take her back to th ekolba But she didn't.
She spent the night outside Jalil's house. She watched the sky darken, the shadows engulf the neighboring housefronts. The tattooed girl brought her some bread and a plate of ri- ce, which Mariam said she didn't want.
The girl left it near Mariam. From time to time, Mariam heard footsteps down the street, doors swinging open, muffled greetings. Elect- ric lights came on, and windows glowed dimly. Dogs barked. When she could no longer resist the hunger, Mariam ate the plate of rice and the bread. Then she listened to the crickets chirping from gardens.
Overhead, clouds slid past a pale moon. In the morning, she was shaken awake. Mariam saw that during the night someone had covered her with a blanket. It was the driver shaking her shoulder. You've made a scene. It's time to go. Her back and neck were sore. Right now. Do you understand? Jalil Khan says so. Her eyes were tearing over. The driver sighed. Come on, dokhtarjo. But then, at the last moment, she changed direction and ran to the front gates.
She felt the driver's fingers fumbling for a grip at her shoulder. She shed him and burst through the open gates. In the handful of seconds that she was in Jalil's garden, Mariam's eyes registered see- ing a gleaming glass structure with plants inside it, grape vines clinging to wooden trel- lises, a fishpond built with gray blocks of stone, fmit trees, and bushes of brightly colored flowers everywhere. Her gaze skimmed over all of these things before they found a face, across the garden, in an upstairs window.
The face was there for only an instant, a flash, but long enough. Long enough for Mariam to see the eyes widen, the mouth open. Then it snapped away from view. A hand appeared and frantically pulled at a cord.
The curtains fell shut. Then a pair of hands buried into her armpits and she was lifted off the ground. Mariam kicked. The pebbles spilled from her pocket. Mariam kept kicking and crying as she was carried to the car and lowered onto the cold leather of the backseat.
Mariam did not hear him. All during the ride, as she bounced in the backseat, she cried. They were tears of grief, of anger, of disillusionment. And she was ashamed of how she had dismissed her mother's stricken looks, her puffy eyes. Nana, who had warned her, who had been right all along. Mariam kept thinking of his face in the upstairs window. He let her sleep on the stre- et. On the street Mariam cried lying down. She didn't sit up, didn't want to be seen.
She imagined all of Herat knew this morning how she'd disgraced herself. She wished Mul- lah Faizullah were here so she could put her head on his lap and let him comfort her. After a while, the road became bumpier and the nose of the car pointed up. They were on the uphill road between Herat and Gul Daman. What would she say to Nana, Mariam wondered.
How would she apologize? How co- uld she even face Nana now? The car stopped and the driver helped her out. She let him guide her across the road and up the track. There was honeysuckle gro- wing along the path, and milkweed too. Bees were buzzing over twinkling wildflowers. The driver took her hand and helped her cross the stream. Then he let go, and he was talking about how Herat's famous one hundred and twenty days' winds would start blo- wing soon, from midmorning to dusk, and how the sand flies would go on a feeding frenzy, and then suddenly he was standing in front of her, trying to cover her eyes, pus- hing her back the way they had come and saying, "Go back!
Don't look now. Turn around! Go back! Mariam saw. A gust of wind blew and parted the drooping branches of the weeping willow like a curtain, and Mariam caught a glimpse of what was beneath the tree: The rope dropping from a high branch. Nana dangling at the end of it. Mariam stood beside Bi- bi jo, with the women, as Mullah Faizullah recited prayers at the graveside and the men lowered Nana's shrouded body into the ground-Afterward, Jalil walked Mariam to th ekolba, where, in front of the villagers who accompanied them, he made a great show of tending to Mariam.
He collected a few of her things, put them in a suitcase. He sat beside her cot, where she lay down, and fanned her face. He stroked her forehead, and, with a woebegone expression on his face, asked if she neededanything? He's outside. I'll get him for you. Go on. There is no shame in it. But remember, my girl, what the Koran says, 'Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and He Who has power over all things, Who created death and life that He may try you.
Behind every trial and every sorrow that He makes us shoulder, God has a reason. Not that day. Not then. I'll just die.
All she could do was cry and cry and let her tears fall on the spotted, paper-thin skin of Mullah Faizullah's hands. It's upstairs. You'll like it, I think. You'll have a view of the garden. She could hear so clearly now the insincerity that had always lurked beneath, the hollow, false assurances. She could not bring herself to look at him. When the car stopped before Jalil's house, the driver opened the door for them and car- ried Mariam's suitcase. Jalil guided her, one palm cupped around each of her shoulders, through the same gates outside of which, two days before, Mariam had slept on the side- walk waiting for him.
Two days before-when Mariam could think of nothing in the world she wanted more than to walk in this garden with Jalil-felt like another lifetime. How could her life have turned upside down so quickly, Mariam asked herself. She kept her gaze to the ground, on her feet, stepping on the gray stone path.
She was aware of the presence of people in the garden, murmuring, stepping aside, as she and Jalil walked past. She sensed the weight of eyes on her, looking down from the windows upstairs. Inside the house too, Mariam kept her head down. She walked on a maroon carpet with a repeating blue-and-yellow octagonal pattern, saw out of the corner of her eye the marble bases of statues, the lower halves of vases, the frayed ends of richly colored ta- pestries hanging from walls.
The stairs she and Jalil took were wide and covered with asimilar carpet, nailed down at the base of each step. At the top of the stairs, Jalil led her to the left, down another long, carpeted hallway.
He stopped by one of the doors, ope- ned it, and let her in. You'll be comfortable here, I think. It's nice, isn't it?
The curtains, pulled back to reveal the garden below, matched the blanket. Besi- de the bed was a three-drawer chest with a flower vase on it. There were shelves along the walls, with framed pictures of people Mariam did not recognize.
On one of the shel- ves, Mariam saw a collection of identical wooden dolls, arranged in a line in order of decreasing size. Jalil saw her looking. I got them in Moscow. You can play with them, if you want. No one will mind. Mariam lay down.
Closed her eyes. After a while, she heard him softly shut the door. The girl with the tattoo, the one who had opened the gates to her, brought her meals on a tray: Most of it went uneaten. Jalil came by several times a day, sat on the bed beside her, asked her if she was all right. He understood a little too readily when Mariam said she preferred to eat alone. From the window, Mariam watched impassively what she had wondered about and longed to see for most of her life: Servants rushed in and out of the front gates.
A gardener was always trimming bushes, watering plants in the greenhouse. Cars with long, sleek hoods pulled up on the street. From them emerged men in suits, in chapcms and caracul hats, women in hijabs, children with neatly combed hair. And as Mariam watched Jalil shake these strangers' hands, as she saw him cross his palms on his chest and nod to their wives, she knew that Nana had spoken the truth.
She did not belong here. But where do I belong? What am I going to do now? Like the wind through the willows around th ekolba, gusts of an inexpressible black- ness kept passing through Mariam. On Mariam's second full day at Jalil's house, a little girl came into the room. Mariam sat up on the bed and crossed her legs, pulled the blanket on her lap.
The girl hurried across the room and opened the closet door. She fetched a square-sha- ped gray box. She opened the box. Gra- mo. It plays records. You know, music. A gramophone. You're eight. She had Jalil's smile and his dimpled chin. She didn't say to this girl that she'd once named a pebble after her. Niloufar plugged in the gramophone.
She fished a small record from a pouch beneath the box's lid. She put it on, lowered the needle. Music began to play. I saw it at my father's cinema. Hey, do you want to see so- mething? I never said I was," Mariam lied.
I don't care. What I mean is, I don't mind if you did say it, or if you are my sister. I don't mind. It was raining by the time she came. She lowered her large body onto the chair beside the bed, grimacing. Just murder, I tell you. I hope Oh, now, come here, child.
Come here to Bibi jo. Don't cry. There, now. You poor thingAsk You poor, poor thing. She lay in bed looking at the sky, listening to the footsteps below, the voices muffled by walls and the sheets of rain pu- nishing the window. When she did doze off, she was starded awake by shouting. Voices downstairs, sharp and angry. Mariam couldn't make out the words. Someone slammed a door. The next morning, Mullah Faizullah came to visit her.
When she saw her friend at the door, his white beard and his amiable, toothless smile, Mariam felt tears stinging the corners of her eyes again. She swung her feet over the side of the bed and hurried over. She kissed his hand as always and he her brow. She pulled him up a chair-He showed her the Koran he had brought with him and opened it.
You taught me every surrah and ayat in the Koran years ago. I've been fo- und out. But I can think of worse excuses to visit you. Not you. As he'd taught her, she kissed it three times-touching it to her brow between each kiss-and gave it back to him. She had to stop, feeling like a rock had lodged itself in her throat.
She-" "Nay, nay, nay. She did a terrible thing to herself. To herself, to you, and also to Allah. He will forgive her, for He is all-forgiving, but Allah is saddened by what she did. He does not approve of the taking of life, be it another's or one's own, for He says that life is sacred You see-" He pulled his chair clo- ser, took Mariam's hand in both of his own.
The seed for what she did was planted long ago, I'm afraid. What I mean to say is that this was not your fault. It wasn't your fault, my girl. I should have-" "You stop that. These thoughts are no good, Mariam jo. You hear me, child? No good. They will destroy you. It wasn't your fault. She was fair-skinned, had reddish hair and long fingers. Why don't you wash up, Mariam, and come downstairs?
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I love this book. By chapter 6 I was in tears. He is an amazing author! I loved reading A Thousand Splendid Suns, it's beautifully written.
The story is so heart wrenching and compelling, the author really makes you feel a part of the story. Please read and share. Excellent read, really captured my attention and imagination. The story takes place during the war in Afghanistan, before and after the Taliban. A beautifully haunting story of 2 unlikely characters brought together during the war, and the sacrifices they had to make for the ones they love. Loved this book. I used this novel for an english essay and it was very easy to find strong themes and quotes.
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls. This title contains Violence. Skip to main navigation Skip to main navigation Skip to search Skip to search Skip to content.
Help Help, opens a new window. Admin Admin Admin, collapsed. Main navigation. Open search form. Enter search query Clear Text. Saved Searches Advanced Search. Average Rating: Rate this: Two women born a generation apart witness the destruction of their home and family in wartorn Kabul, losses incurred over the course of thirty years that test the limits of their strength and courage.
New York: Riverhead Books, First Riverhead trade paperback edition. Copyright Date: Branch Call Number: From the critics. Comment Add a Comment. As the cliche goes, "torn from the pages of today's headlines". Like 1 like. Intensely poignant at times. A really beautiful story. It leaves you feeling thoughtful. Summary Add a Summary. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia The novel is divided into four parts. Main Characters: Change in Kabul from Soviet occupation to post-taliban.
Quotes Add a Quote. Poem written by Saeb-e-Tabrizi, a seventeenth - century Persian poet. We endure. It's all we have. Age Add Age Suitability. Nilufar Nov 19,