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In the autumn of 1971, Mr. Pirzada comes to Lilia's house to dine each night. Mr.Pirzada is from Dacca, then a part of Pakistan. He left behind his wife and seven daughters for a fellowship to study the foliage of New England.
We made dioramas out of colored construction paper depicting George Washington crossing the choppy waters of the Delaware River, and we made puppets of King George wearing white tights and a black bow in his hair.
I noticed that there were two distinct parts to it, one much larger than the other, separated by an expanse of Indian territory;
He unlaced his shoes and lined them against the baseboard; a golden paste clung to the toes and heels, the result of walking through our damp, unraked lawn.
That year, and every year, it seemed, we began by studying the Revolutionary War.
Then he followed my father to the living room, where the television was tuned to the local news.
“Lilia has plenty to learn at school,” my mother said. “We live here now, she was born here.
She ran a hand through her hair, bobbed to a suitable length for her part-time job as a bank teller.
“But what does she learn about the world?” My father rattled the cashew can in his hand.
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