Gunnah e Shab

1. Life • زندگی

"Chup kar. Sun lia na kisi nai tou masla ban jaye ga!" [Keep quiet. If someone hears you, there will be a huge problem!] Sarah smacked her on the head.

Her words and actions, contradicted the softness inside her eyes. That stared at Laila with a kindness unknown in this world. This was a dog eats dog world and you had to be the strongest one to survive.

"Acha batao na kidhr hain?" [Okay tell me where are they?] Laila whined.

Although Laila did not get along with those three well, they were the only company she had most days.

"University". Sarah gave a one word reply.

Forcing her to straighten her back, Sarah ran her thick fingers through her silky hair. Tying them into a loose three strand braid, Sarah sighed softly. She had tried her best to keep Laila away from this world. However, when Laila had refused to show interest in getting more education and instead found love in the shiny dresses and dark henna stains, Sarah had no choice left. Not that she would have one anyways. Asma Bi's daughters were lucky because their mother ran the brothel and had money. All Sarah could afford were the tiny trinkets used to decorate Laila's small bedroom on the rooftop.

"Laila you're happy right?" Sarah was worried sick.

Her daughter would be heading to the den of the vultures tomorrow for the first time and she could only send her prayers. At the age of sixty, she was of no help to her daughter or the brothel. She was lucky that Asma had not kicked her out.

"Yes mama," turning around, she rested her head on Sarah's thigh.

Her eyes looked up at her. Lashes curled and smeared with mascara, eyes drenched in khol. Their almond shape highlighted. She brought her hand up to her mother's face. Touching the loosely curled strand of hair that rested on her cheek bone. Her silver bangles creating a rhythmic noise as she smiled. Getting up, she fixed her veil and wrapped the shawl around herself.

The maroon shawl was embroidered with dark earthy tones. It was delicately crafted and unlike anything she had ever seen. Its soft material and rich colour were beyond the cheaply made ones everyone else had. Laila had on many occasions insisted she be informed about the pashmina, but Sarah always shook her head. One day, Laila promised herself, she would discover the past of her mother.

—

Laila stared out of the tiny window in the kitchen. Mindlessly stirring the onions inside the oil. Her mother standing next to her, chopping the vegetables. Laila smiled on seeing the light drizzle. Droplets falling on the thin iron bars fixed inside the oval window. Sneaking her free hand in between the bars, she squealed at the cold contact. Winter rain and smell of onions frying — a nostalgic memory.

It took her back to the days of her childhood. When her life was all about hanging out with her mother inside the kitchen. Unable to shower in the winter rains given her tendency to fall sick instantaneously.

She whisked the onions around with the thick wooden spoon in the pot. Her eyes still trained on the droplets falling from one leaf to another. Laila's thoughts came to halt when a sharp slap landed on her hand. Shrieking, she pulled her hand back. Her face reflected the shock she felt.

"Piyaz jala dia larki!" [Girl you burnt the onions!] Her mother slapped her head again.

Laila looked at the charred slivers of red onion, floating in the oil. She gulped, afraid of her mother's wrath.