Mariam would wait and watch them disappear into the tall grass and flowering weeds.
“Are you coming?” “Yes, Nana.” “They laugh at you. They do. I hear them.”
“I'm coming.” “You don't believe me?” “Here I am.” “You know I love you, Mariam jo.”
In the mornings, they awoke to the distant bleating of sheep and the high-pitched toot of a flute
as Gul Daman's shepherds led their flock to graze on the grassy hillside.
Mariam and Nana milked the goats, fed the hens, and collected eggs. They made bread together.
Nana showed her how to knead dough, how to kindle the tandoor and slap the flattened dough onto its inner walls.
Nana taught her to sew too, and to cook rice and all the different toppings: shalqam stew with turnip, spinach sabzi, cauliflower with ginger.
Nana made no secret of her dislike for visitors and, in fact, people in general, but she made exceptions for a select few.
And so there was Gul Daman's leader, the village arbab, Habib Khan, a small-headed, bearded man with a large belly who came by once a month or so,
tailed by a servant, who carried a chicken, sometimes a pot of kichiri rice, or a basket of dyed eggs, for Mariam.
Then there was a rotund, old woman that Nana called Bibi jo, whose late husband had been a stone carver and friends with Nana's father.
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