Every afternoon, after lunch, Amabi settles down on the couch in the seh-dari, opens her sewing box and scatters about her a colorful array of snippets. Seated next to the stone mortar, washing dishes, Kubra observes these colorful pieces of cloth and a red band of color surges across her pale, muddy complexion.
When Amabi lifts tiny gilded flowerets from the sewing box with her small, soft-skinned fingers, her strange drooping face suddenly lights up with a strange, hope-filled luminescence; the glow of the gloden flowerets is reflected on the deep, craggy folds of her face, glimmering there like the flames of tiny candles. With every stitch the gold sparkles and the candles flutter.

_______________________________
The Wedding Shroud | I Chugtai