You Can Run

Jambiya

The next morning, Abru woke up to the sound of the Adhan, the entrancing, almost musical call to offer the dawn prayer, Fajr. The elongated notes of the Arabic announcement reminded Abru of her home in Hyderabad, and her nanny, Roshanunnisa waking her up to offer the prayer. Most days, Abru would follow the prayer with a hot cup of milk, spiced with saffron, cardamom and turmeric, and would study the Quran with her ustazah, a frail old lady with a concerning fondness for pinching Abru's cheeks, until eight o'clock, when she was served breakfast, which was usually made up of roti, a round Indian flatbread, a curry, some pickled mango, and whatever fruit happened to be in season. Her governess would then begin her English lessons, followed by composition, history, Latin, geography and etiquette. She'd then break for lunch (rice, lentils, curry and some sort of meat), followed by an hour of sparring with whatever soldier her father had decided to appoint (they never lasted long once Abru won against them) and then the singing classes her mother had forced her into when she turned 12.

And as Abru recalled all this from the comfort (or lack of it) of her wafer thin bedroll in Dema's hut; Dema waved a hand in front of her drowsy eyes. Abru blinked, forcing herself to wake up. There was no Roshu to chide her, no ustazah to make sure she read the Quran daily, no Sanju to cook her warm meals, no more Miss Hampton to cane her when she brought her knee up to her chest while seated on her chair, no random boastful soldier whose ego she could crush, no Sondesh Babu to catch her off-key notes, no Ammi (although Abru saw that as a victory) but most importantly;

No Baba.

Realising that made Abru want to hug her knees. Her safety net––her most fail-proof defence against all her adversaries was no longer with her. What had been her only support was now non-existent; she had no one, she was all alone. She pushed her thoughts aside; she had to be strong, a whole village was depending on her. She got up, wanting nothing more than to sink back into the bedroll and go back to sleep. The adhan rang in her ears, as if God himself hadn't approved of Abru's drowsiness.

As-salaat khairum minan naum,

Prayer is better than sleep.

Abru pushed up and stretched, letting her braid, which Dema had tied for her the night before, off her shoulder. Dema yawned, a hand concealing her mouth. Her curly hair stood up at odd angles, and she stared at Abru with something murderous in her eyes.

"Salaam. Let's go," she croaked, her morning voice vastly different from her regular voice. Abru huffed, putting on her shoes and waited for Dema. Dema nodded towards the headveil that was placed on the trunk. Abru put it on, not bothering to secure it. She waited for Dema to put hers on.

They both left the house and made their way to a well behind the hut, where Dema's little brothers were wrestling each other, arguing in the strange Khaizarigari language. Dema walked forward and pulled them apart, giving each a whack on the head.

"How many times have I told you both, do not try me before Fajr!" Dema warned them. "Exactly what made the two of you fight at such an early hour?"

"Devud started it!" blamed one of the twins, pointing to his equally tan, equally curly haired twin, who averted the accusation, with a "No, you did!"

"I didn't ask who started it!" Dema reminded, pulling both of their ears. The twins whimpered, as the one on the right, which Abru guessed was Dewud replied "Belal dropped my cart into the well!"

"No I didn't, I just tickled you, you dropped it!"

"You made me drop it!"

Dema released them both as Abru stood awkwardly to the side. She never really knew what to do when siblings started fighting. She liked to think if she had a little sister, they'd get along really well, but she'd seen enough sisters to know that was only true half of the time.