T H E first rays of the sun, the kiran [first ray of light], flew into the room from the slightly pulled apart curtains. They shabby, worn out purple cloth hanging floor to ceiling was a star contrast to the white chipping walls of the bedroom. Adjacent to the window was a small wooden bed with legs hanging on hooks, a mattress -it would be a joke to call it one- that was tattered peice of foam so worn down that it had been reduced into a thin layer of an icthy and rough piece of cloth. The small wooden door had a fading polish on it. Clearly showing the age that the door had been in use for. In the small room, there was a small circular table, on which a jai namaz [prayer mat], rested. The tassels of the green prayer mat hung off of the table and acted as a cushion to a light green tasbih [rosary beads].

The light rays scattered on the back of the young lady who was laying on the mattress. The consistent digging of the foam and peeking rays that played hide and seek with her, woke Hoor up. Her natural body clock was used to waking up at the time of Fajar [first prayer of the day]. She stretched her body raising her delicate wrists. Her pink soles touched the ground as she yawned out loud. Piling her black silky tresses into a bun, she went to the small bathroom on the rooftop to perform ablution. The concrete stairs were chilled by the chilly October morning. The sunlight reflected on her wheat-ish skin tone. Giving her a golden halo. The rusted metal bathroom door rattled as it was opened. Hoor stepped inside the tiny bathroom that had only a small sink and a tiny mirror. Followed by a white commode and a faucet surrounded by a tub for taking showers. She rushed to make her wudu [ablution] before going into her tiny bedroom. Spreading out her prayer mat, she stood and aligned her feet. Her hands were raised as she made her niyat [intention].

"Ya Allah meray maa baap ki parishaniyan sab khatam karde. Tujh sai behtar meray dil ki halat koi nahi janta. Meray andar ki bebasi ko khatam karde. Meri rooh ko sukoon de. Meri dil ki har dua qabool kar. Allah mujhe meray maa baap ke liye kabhi bhoj na bannay dein-"
[Oh Allah end the problems of my parents. You are the one who knows what goes on in my heart. Give my soul peace. Accept all my prayers. Oh Allah, never make me a burden on my parents]
her melodious voice sobbed as she bowed her head infront of her Lord. Letting her heart be completely vulnerable.

Wiping her tears away, Hoor stood up and pulled the curtains away. The light poured into her room and lit it up. Heading to a worn out chest of drawers. Pulling one of those open, she took out her outfit of the day. Deciding on a pink cotton shirt with a golden lace on the neck line, she paired it with white trousers and a blush pink net dupatta. Her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Hoor decided to wear her golden jhumki's [traditional earrings] and khusas [traditional foot wear] of the same shade. Hoor had a slight obsession with those dangling earrings. Much like the rest of the women who fell under the category of "brown" . So much so that the meager 1000 rupees that she got every month from her father were mostly used to buy them. With the rest she would but loose cloth and stitch her own outfits, with the aid of the twenty something old Singer machine that was a part of her mother's dowry.

As soon as the pigeons that lived in her street and had made home on the tiny holes in the intricate patters of the walls, began to shake their feathers, her name was called out. The loud and clear voice belonged to her step mother, Jahan-ara, whom her father married after her mother had passed away due to a raging kidney disease they could not afford to get operated.

"Hoor! Neechay utro! Akar nashta banao!"
[Hoor! Come downstairs! Come and make the breakfast]
The voice echoed throughout their tiny home.
"Aai ammi," [Coming mom]
Hoor replied meekly. Sometimes, Hoor thought of Jahan-ara as the purple coloured evil mermaid in that cartoon people liked to see. The two shared a fondness for having thin brows and violet lips. Jahan-ara, who had become a beast in the last few years thanks to diabetes resembled that chudail [witch] more and more each day.

Rushing her way down the steep concrete staircase, Hoor was led into an open veranda. It was surrounded on two sides by large rooms. One belonging to her parents and the other to her elder brother Ali. On the side perpendicular to the rooms was a kicthen. The kitchen had a window that opened into the veranda and just below it was a day bed. Where the raging bull, her mother, sat. Lowering her head, she passed a low salam and entered the kitchen.

Hoor was a twenty three year old girl. The only daughter of her parents. She was a meek little thing who liked to mind her own business most of the time. Her father, was the driver of a rich man and earned a nice deal of money. Out of which only a 1000 was given to her, the rest being chipped in to make Ali's brides "bari" [gifts for bride from groom and his family] and her "jahez" [gifts for the bride from her family]. Her one and only dream had been to go to a school and get an education. Unfortunately that was not possible and since young all she had been taught was to how to make perfect circular rotiyan [bread].

Inside the kicthen, she stood and prepared lacha parathas [a kind of bread] her with fried eggs for her family. The tea pot was also bubbling with rage. She simultaneously, warmed up last nights dinner which just happened to be her favourite. A scrumptious aloo matar [peas and potatoes] gravy. Pouring that into a steel tiffin with a few chopari [ rubbed with oil] rotis, she placed into a plastic shopper. Running around to serve everyone, she set the dining table that was parallel to the stairs and opposite to the kitchen.

"Nashta lag gaya hai,"
[breakfast is served] her voice loud and clear enough to make her father and brother aware that it was time for them to come out of their bedrooms. Then grabbing the heavy palms of her mother, she led her to the dinning table and sat her down.

"Hoor pani lana,"
[Hoor bring water] her brother told her.
"Hoor meri dawai laa dou,"
[Hoor bring my medicines] her mother ordered.
"Bachay mera tiffin de do,"
[child give me my lunch box] her abba jaan [father dearest] politely requested. And just like that the young girl was on her feet for most of the time and by the time she sat down for breakfast, no one was there to accompany her and her lovely breakfast was stone cold. But still praying and thanking Allah for the food she had, she dug in. Gobbling it down fastly so that she could get started on the days chores.

First on her agenda were doing the dishes. After having scrubbed off each and every particle of food on them, Hoor grabbed her large black chaddar [veil]  around herself and headed to the market to get a vegetable for the day.
"Ammi konsi sabzi laun?"
[Mom what vegetables should I bring?] She consulted her mother.
"Gobi le aao. Uss mein murghi daal kar pakana. Aur haan rastay sai karyanay ki dukan sai gachak bhi leti ana,"
[Bring cauliflower. Add chicken and then cook it. And yes, on your way back, bring sweets from the local shop] Jahan-ara told her.
"Ji theek hai,"
[Alright] Hoor nodded her head. Knowing it was not of any use to tell her that being diabetic she should avoid having sweet things.

Once in the market, it was a task in itself to find a kilo of Gobi. All the sellers sold it for outrageously expensive prices. 120/kg was totally unacceptable to the penny saver in her heart.

"Arrey bhai sab tou 80 ki detay hain. Tum 90 ki dedo. 120 tou bohat ziada ha!"
[Oh brother everyone sells it for 80. You give it for 90. 120 is too much!]
If Hoor had a talent it would be bargain. She could effortlessly convince the vendors to sell her the stuff for a discounted price. And that is what happened. She got the vegetable for the price she demanded. Now she had to cook it. Not that it was a huge task but seeing as she had to clean the entire home, Hoor could already feel the incoming back ache.

《 I N T H E E V E N I N G 》

In the evening her father and brother returned home to a warm meal. Obviously other than her father, nobody else acknowledged the hard work Hoor put in each day just to take care of them. Kissing her forehead, Jamal sat down on the table and signalled for the rest to dig in as well.

At night, Hoor returned to the prayer mat and prayed the last prayer of the day i.e. Isha [last prayer of the day]. Her hands once again raised as she bowed to her Lord to give her strength to go about her day. And to be able to earn some money for her family. She knew that eventhough they owned the house, her brother did not work and would steal from her parent's savings to live a lavish life and indulge in his habit of betting. Her father earned 25,000 rupees. They barely managed to pay all bills. And with Jahan-ara's diabetes medication was getting expensive by the day.

Hoor sat on the ground and began to stitch the clothes of her neighbours. They paid her and all that money was used for running the household so she had little to no savings. The family was at the end of the month left scraping the ends of the pot each month.

Hoor slept near midnight. She would wake up at five every morning. Her life was repetitive. But that was the fun of it. Having a life that was beautifully chaotic every moment.

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