The Ramadan Diaries

Jalal.

"How long have you been living here, Sameer?"

"My forefathers built this road, sir." He replies, the heat building beads of sweat on his bearded face.

"Did your forefathers serve the house too?"

"No sire, my forefathers built the mansion. They were considered royalty, in their time. But the palace contained harems sire, so it was very unpopular among the people. That, and the modern day slavery. In 1950 it was shut down by the people. But I assure you sire, there is no place like home, and home for me is at the base of that 10 bedroom structure, where I've served, and my father before." Sameer was saying all this to make conversation, on the long walk to the mansion.

Blood attracts blood, Jalal. Hmm you're not old enough to understand. Grandpa will tell you a bedtime story instead.

"Tell me," Jalal said, in between deep exhales, though he knew perfectly well why "Sameer, why was, the palace, deemed, satanic?"

Sameer replied in perfect breaths, kicking a pebble on their path. He stared at the path ahead, and the man decided not to prod him further, sensing a look of hurt on Sameer's (aged) face.

"Here we are sir," he said, pushing open a rusty pair of gates that belonged to a forlorn looking house. There was poison ivy growing along the walls of the palace-like mansion, and the gargoyles on the walls glared upon the newcomers.

"Welcome to Janahi mansion," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. The two of them walked up the road that led to the mansion. Along the way, the stranger noticed a charred, half-burned, photograph. He picked it up, and saw a smiling couple, captured forever in time. The boy's face was half burned, but could be identified.

Something, a hint or a glimpse into the past told him that this person had everything to do with the Ramadan Diaries.

"Sameer, do you know this person?"

He knows, voices whisper, look at him, he is about to lie.

Sameer takes one look at the picture and spits, sideways. "No," he mutters, and keeps walking.