Gunnah e Shab

16. Fire • آگ

Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time — Sappho

*A few months later*
May

The days when the month of fasting were ending, were slow. In those days, time would stop. The lingering heat of the sun, that burnt the roads and set the skin on fire with the lightest of grazes ; all would bring a mirage to life. Of water in the streets, of customers walking towards you, of a cooler wind but most importantly of better days to come. The bright days would dwindle into extinguished fires, the embers of their soul looking—searching for a fleeting moment of relief. It would begin at the dawn, the first call to prayer, the men averting their gazes from the diamond street—all in due time. The rest would spit at the start of the street, a sign to demean the residents. One's in between who's legs comfort was sought three hundred and thirty five days of the year.

As the days progressed and the holy month came to an end, the abandoned streets began brimming with life. The road that had withered like leaves in autumn finally achieved full bloom, all sorts of colours filing into the broken pavements, sounds of feet running around as the muezzin [man who calls prayer] announces the end. Announces that the day of celebration would be in the morning. Then, men of all sizes and ages thronged to their doors, knocking rapidly for them to be opened once more, looking for the inviting warmth of human bodies. To be deeply sunk in between a woman's cunt after a month of abstaining. They had after all—worked for it. They deserved it.

The streets were fixed with a handful of fairy lights, acting as a cover from the open eye. A long line of wooden tables on each side covered with a white starchy linen cloth, and a wide array of products. Starting from glass bangles, henna cones, earrings—just about everything you could want on the day before Eid. Women of all professions, moved in the already densely crowded streets, their fingers skimming the thin plastic wrappers that covered the bangles, touching the dangling beads of the jhumkas [earrings], feeling the cold henna cones. Meanwhile, the men diverted their whole attention towards the windows left ajar, women with tightly fitted clothing sitting in between stroking their hair, fixing their makeup. All in preparation for the arrival of the feast.

To prostitutes of Heera Mandi, the end of Ramadan was like the end of winter. In the thirty days, the would excruciatingly waste time, fasting some days—skipping most after all they were already sinners, might as well commit more. They would nimble away slowly at all that they had earned in the eleven months prior. Waiting for the drought to end. And then when the first man walked through their doors on the last day, it was cause for rejoicing. Winter was over, bread had found it's way back to their kitchens.

Laila strutted around the open veranda of the small home. The plain grey, cemented floors were covered in rugs, their colours ranging from husky brown to deep azure blue swirling in them. Her thin brown kaulapuris [traditional foot wear] sunk into the threads, her toenails painted brightest of ruby reds. Henna swirling along the planes of her feet. Locks of her thick black hair—almost a deep caramel un the setting sun teased the chandelier shaped earrings. Khol lined her eyes and a sharp eyeliner jutted out from the ends of her eye.

She walked around with authority her hands holding on to a thin notebook listening to a woman her age inform her about the expenditure of the week. Sighing, Laila nodded her head—owning your own place was definitely a tough job. And Asma Bi had made it seem effortless.

"Rukshanda I get it. Thanks, could you please ask my mother to bring me a cup of tea? My head is hurting," Laila begged.

Her novice apprentice nodded her head running towards the narrow entrance of the kitchen. Meanwhile Laila sunk deep into the garden chair, her legs crossed as she massaged her forehead. Groaning at the realisation that tonight was going to be a busy night.