The girl gathered her skirt and breathed out a word or two of apology,
and, as she hurried past, Madam would chance a sidelong glance and catch a blush.
Sometimes she could smell Rasheed on her. She could smell his sweat on the girl's skin, his tobacco, his appetite.
Sex, mercifully, was a closed chapter in her own life.
It had been for some time, and now even the thought of those laborious sessions of lying beneath Rasheed made Madam queasy in the gut.
At night, however, this mutually orchestrated dance of avoidance between her and the girl was not possible.
Rasheed said they were a family. He insisted they were, and families had to eat together, he said.
“What is this?” he said, his fingers working the meat off a bone. The spoon and fork charade was abandoned a week after he married the girl.
Have I married a pair of statues? Go on, Madam, gap bezan, say something to her. Where are your manners?
Sucking marrow from a bone, he said to the girl, “But you mustn't blame her. She is quiet.
A blessing, really, because, wallah, if a person hasn't got much to say she might as well be stingy with words.
We are city people, you and I, but she is dehati. A village girl. Not even a village girl. No.
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