Apa pulled Lira to the closest room by her ear, not caring for Lira’s yell as she dragged her forcefully through the wooden doors. Maryam came in behind them, closing the doors and drawing the curtains shut as Apa let Lira go. Frankencense burned by the north window, its wispy tendrils coating the drawing room in a hazy embrace.
She didn’t know how long she slept for. It took all of her strength not to lose consciousness before she reached the bathhouse, and she nearly threw up from the pain as she limped through the front yard.
For the first time that evening, the reality of the situation was sinking into her, and nervousness was beginning to unravel in the center of her chest…
Lira coughed as she was thrown onto the dirty ground, the dust from the ground making its way into her mouth. As she struggled to catch her breath, the iron gates slammed shut behind her, the walls shuddering. The lock groaned as it was slid into place, and the sound echoed off the stone walls surrounding her. It had all happened so fast that she had barely been able to gather her bearings. She had been led down a series of stone stairs, through underground tunnels which were lined with jail cells, often filled with half-dressed men, whose bones were unnaturally visible through their skin. Her eyes had caught on a particular set of angry eyes that were watching her from behind iron bars when the guard forced her head to the ground, after which she was forced to watch her feet as they stormed through the tunnels.
Lira held her chador close to her face as she scurried through the city’s streets towards the palace. The city’s streets at night were dangerous for women to pass through alone. The veil of religiosity sunk down with the sun, the night sky casting shadows on the vagrancies unfolding on the streets. There was a reason most windows had shutters and locks on them, and many were sealed shut for the night already.
Apa pulled Lira to the closest room by her ear, not caring for Lira’s yell as she dragged her forcefully through the wooden doors. Maryam came in behind them, closing the doors and drawing the curtains shut as Apa let Lira go. Frankencense burned by the north window, its wispy tendrils coating the drawing room in a hazy embrace.
Lira coughed as she was thrown onto the dirty ground, the dust from the ground making its way into her mouth. As she struggled to catch her breath, the iron gates slammed shut behind her, the walls shuddering. The lock groaned as it was slid into place, and the sound echoed off the stone walls surrounding her. It had all happened so fast that she had barely been able to gather her bearings. She had been led down a series of stone stairs, through underground tunnels which were lined with jail cells, often filled with half-dressed men, whose bones were unnaturally visible through their skin. Her eyes had caught on a particular set of angry eyes that were watching her from behind iron bars when the guard forced her head to the ground, after which she was forced to watch her feet as they stormed through the tunnels.
Lira held her chador close to her face as she scurried through the city’s streets towards the palace. The city’s streets at night were dangerous for women to pass through alone. The veil of religiosity sunk down with the sun, the night sky casting shadows on the vagrancies unfolding on the streets. There was a reason most windows had shutters and locks on them, and many were sealed shut for the night already.
It was always hot inside the bathhouse, and it was unbearable to stay inside unless the chill of the Islamabad night was available to escape to for periodic moments. Each floor had a communal pool, with the second and third floors providing private pools for parties that came together, or for matters that required some secrecy. Before the doors opened at eight, each floor required scrubbing, the water needed to be salted, and the lanterns needed their oils replenished. They didn’t often serve food but it was required that the kitchen be stocked with an assortment of snacks and spirits, so thousands of peanuts needed to be deshelled on a daily basis, paan needed to be folded into neat bamboo leaves and imli needed to be ground into paste constantly. Lira’s palms wore callouses to prove the hours she spent scrubbing, and cleaning. The salt used in the water had become an inescapable part of her. She would find it in her hair, in her clothes, and oftentimes caked into the beds of her nails. It was grueling work, and even after a decade of it, Lira found it never got easier.
The mid-day heat of Islamabad’s summer was sweltering. The intense rays of the sun seemed to slither over the city like a heavy blanket, cocooning the populace in a dizzying heat that made the crumbly dirt painfully hot to walk on, and the air difficult to breathe. The heat was palpable, glimmering in the distant in the form of mirages on overbaked sand. The rich fragrance of spices remained subdued, as if they too, were weighed down by the heat, and the sound of the city remained dulled.
