Q. The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already. Why Amirah, the eldest daughter of a business elite wanted to marry in a bungalow situated in muggy Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was happy with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say often, �He gave us the Shamsi�s,�
Zara�s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed�s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, �That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,� He�d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow.
�Our family has served the Shamsi�s for as long as I can remember,� When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi�s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed.
�I never wanted to work for the Shamsi�s,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn�t be here today,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach her two daughters the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would return after a long day of chores at the Shamsi�s, Farida would be sitting inside the shed, the light bulb glowing directly over her head, she would pat the spot next to her and Zara would skid down next to her mother. After watching her mother�s hands working through the fabric, the shiny silver of the needle poking back and forth, she too would hold the needle in her hand, and she too would make a stitch here, a stitch there.
�Who taught you to sew, mama?� said Zara, impressed by how fluently her mother�s hands worked. If her mother was an expert in anything, it had to be sewing.
She smiled, �Just like you have a Farida in your life, I had one too,�
�Nani jaan taught you? She must�ve been very good,�
�She was,� Farida sighed, �There�s not much a woman can do here,�
Zara nodded in agreement.
�Especially women like us, the best we can do is to find something one of us already knows, and then pass it along, hoping to keep the chain going, I�m only doing my job,�
�You�re doing a very good job mama, did you see that new blouse I made?� Zara asked.
Farida beamed, patting Zara on the head, �I did, and it was beautiful,� She had smiled so hard that it made her beady black eyes look even smaller than usual, �one day you can open your very own boutique�make clothes of your own�name it after someone special��
�I�d like that very much,�
�Like what?� Zara�s father had just appeared after a long, tiring day at Bata shoes.
�Your daughter would like to own a boutique one day,� said Farida.
Azim frowned. �There will be no such thing,�
�And why not? You want her to rot like the rest of us?� Her voice rose, bouncing off the shed�s thin walls.
�Don�t you dare say such things, you evil, ungrateful w
She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was happy with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say often, �He gave us the Shamsi�s,�
Zara�s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed�s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, �That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,� He�d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow.
�Our family has served the Shamsi�s for as long as I can remember,� When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi�s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed.
�I never wanted to work for the Shamsi�s,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn�t be here today,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach her two daughters the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would return after a long day of chores at the Shamsi�s, Farida would be sitting inside the shed, the light bulb glowing directly over her head, she would pat the spot next to her and Zara would skid down next to her mother. After watching her mother�s hands working through the fabric, the shiny silver of the needle poking back and forth, she too would hold the needle in her hand, and she too would make a stitch here, a stitch there.
�Who taught you to sew, mama?� said Zara, impressed by how fluently her mother�s hands worked. If her mother was an expert in anything, it had to be sewing.
She smiled, �Just like you have a Farida in your life, I had one too,�
�Nani jaan taught you? She must�ve been very good,�
�She was,� Farida sighed, �There�s not much a woman can do here,�
Zara nodded in agreement.
�Especially women like us, the best we can do is to find something one of us already knows, and then pass it along, hoping to keep the chain going, I�m only doing my job,�
�You�re doing a very good job mama, did you see that new blouse I made?� Zara asked.
Farida beamed, patting Zara on the head, �I did, and it was beautiful,� She had smiled so hard that it made her beady black eyes look even smaller than usual, �one day you can open your very own boutique�make clothes of your own�name it after someone special��
�I�d like that very much,�
�Like what?� Zara�s father had just appeared after a long, tiring day at Bata shoes.
�Your daughter would like to own a boutique one day,� said Farida.
Azim frowned. �There will be no such thing,�
�And why not? You want her to rot like the rest of us?� Her voice rose, bouncing off the shed�s thin walls.
�Don�t you dare say such things, you evil, ungrateful w
A. That was really awesome, are you an author, when you finish you should think about publishing it. you could probably get lots of money from it.
How is the beginning of my story =)?
Q. The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already. Why Amirah, the eldest daughter of a business elite wanted to marry in a bungalow situated in muggy Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was happy with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say often, �He gave us the Shamsi�s,�
Zara�s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed�s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, �That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,� He�d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow.
�Our family has served the Shamsi�s for as long as I can remember,� When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi�s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed.
�I never wanted to work for the Shamsi�s,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn�t be here today,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around.
She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was happy with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say often, �He gave us the Shamsi�s,�
Zara�s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed�s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, �That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,� He�d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow.
�Our family has served the Shamsi�s for as long as I can remember,� When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi�s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed.
�I never wanted to work for the Shamsi�s,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn�t be here today,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around.
A. It's amazing, great, etc.
I'm really impressed.
I'm really impressed.
How is my story so far?
Q. The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already. Why Amirah, the eldest daughter of a business elite wanted to marry in a bungalow situated in muggy Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was happy with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say often, �He gave us the Shamsi�s,�
Zara�s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed�s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, �That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,� He�d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow.
�Our family has served the Shamsi�s for as long as I can remember,� When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi�s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed.
�I never wanted to work for the Shamsi�s,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn�t be here today,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around.
She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was happy with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say often, �He gave us the Shamsi�s,�
Zara�s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed�s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, �That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,� He�d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow.
�Our family has served the Shamsi�s for as long as I can remember,� When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi�s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed.
�I never wanted to work for the Shamsi�s,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn�t be here today,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around.
A. Well, the beginning seems fine, you just need to change a few things:
First, change "the daughter of a business elite..." to something like, "the daughter of a wealthy businessman"; "elite" refers to a group of people, not a single person, Amirah is the daughter of one man, not a group.
Second, the plural of the family's name should be "Shamsis", not including the apostrophe. Now, the phrase "...the Shamsi's bungalow" is correct because here, the apostrophe and 's' denotes possession. They are the owners of the bungalow, but if you're writing about the group as a plural, use "Shamsis" (I never wanted to work for the Shamsis... Our family has served the Shamsis...)
Other than this, the story is good so far. Keep writing. Hope it helps!
First, change "the daughter of a business elite..." to something like, "the daughter of a wealthy businessman"; "elite" refers to a group of people, not a single person, Amirah is the daughter of one man, not a group.
Second, the plural of the family's name should be "Shamsis", not including the apostrophe. Now, the phrase "...the Shamsi's bungalow" is correct because here, the apostrophe and 's' denotes possession. They are the owners of the bungalow, but if you're writing about the group as a plural, use "Shamsis" (I never wanted to work for the Shamsis... Our family has served the Shamsis...)
Other than this, the story is good so far. Keep writing. Hope it helps!
How is my story so far?
Q. The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already.
�Bibi, look at these marigolds, you won�t find better in all Karachi�
�Oh, Mrs. Shamsi, name the color and it is yours, however you look stunning in this one right here, and it�s bringing an�an indescribable glow�
�A waterproof tent? That certainly will require more rupees,�
Flower vendors, food caterers, venue organizers�the list simply went on, the gates were left open as these people and alike bustled in and out, day and night.
Why Amirah, one of the many daughters of a wealthy businessman, wanted to marry in a bungalow in sultry Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was very ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and without any second thoughts, she had chosen it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Unlike Amirah, Zara could only dream of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. No doubt, the bungalow was certainly remarkable; with its impressive pair of wrought iron gates. A tall, sturdy wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines that clung to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer stretched to a soaring staircase twirling up to the second floor, which branched off into many bedrooms, each one roomier than the next.
Zara loved the way the stifling, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening. She loved the way a single giant palm tree swayed in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace as if welcoming and bidding farewell to the many guests coming and going through the wide gates, or how the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea. A pack of children often giggled and ran around the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi, keeping the place alive and careless of the time flying by. Or the way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny stone floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a grimy flat she shared with her parents. It had a single, lumpy mattress that Zara and her mother slept on, or rather tried to as they spent most of their nights tossing and turning, often left facing each other and finding each other�s wide open eyes. Her father had grown accustomed to spreading a thick sheet onto the floor after a day�s work, he�d sprawl down, too exhausted to complain. Zara and her mother would often catch him snoring peacefully, only to listen to his routine complaints of a searing pain in his back and neck the next morning, �One day he�d wake up with no backbones,� Zara�s mother would say.
Unlike the magnificent chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single fluorescent light tube clung to one of the walls in the flat. There was a small stove that took most of the room in the so-called �kitchen�. A tiny, cheap cooler lay next to it that Zara�s father had bought. A couple mismatched utensils, several pots and pans with missing handles and burnt surfaces were stored in a single cupboard over the stove. There was hardly ever any water coming through the sinks, and Zara would regularly bring water and leftovers from the Shamsis. The three of them would sit on the rackety wooden table to eat and drink, atop three wooden chairs that creaked with their weight.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was a grateful man, �Too grateful for his own good,� Zara�s mother would snicker. He was a man contented with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say, �He gave us the Shamsis,�
�Our family has served the Shamsis for as long as I can remember,� he�d say this as if it were a very grand accomplishment. When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsis bungalow and tend to their wide garden of bright flowers and small trees, pregnant with berries and fruit. He�d do the chores he was ordered perfectly, leaving Abdul Shamsi�s white Honda spotless. Abdul Shamsi had been so pleased with his servant that he had found him a good wife and had given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy flat.
�I never wanted your father to work for that Shamsi,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted him to do something on his own. I knew he was capable of it. Besides, if I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I would be with a man who would have realized it,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach Zara the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would r
�Bibi, look at these marigolds, you won�t find better in all Karachi�
�Oh, Mrs. Shamsi, name the color and it is yours, however you look stunning in this one right here, and it�s bringing an�an indescribable glow�
�A waterproof tent? That certainly will require more rupees,�
Flower vendors, food caterers, venue organizers�the list simply went on, the gates were left open as these people and alike bustled in and out, day and night.
Why Amirah, one of the many daughters of a wealthy businessman, wanted to marry in a bungalow in sultry Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was very ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and without any second thoughts, she had chosen it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Unlike Amirah, Zara could only dream of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. No doubt, the bungalow was certainly remarkable; with its impressive pair of wrought iron gates. A tall, sturdy wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines that clung to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer stretched to a soaring staircase twirling up to the second floor, which branched off into many bedrooms, each one roomier than the next.
Zara loved the way the stifling, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening. She loved the way a single giant palm tree swayed in front of the bungalow�s wide terrace as if welcoming and bidding farewell to the many guests coming and going through the wide gates, or how the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea. A pack of children often giggled and ran around the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi, keeping the place alive and careless of the time flying by. Or the way Danya, the bungalow�s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny stone floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a grimy flat she shared with her parents. It had a single, lumpy mattress that Zara and her mother slept on, or rather tried to as they spent most of their nights tossing and turning, often left facing each other and finding each other�s wide open eyes. Her father had grown accustomed to spreading a thick sheet onto the floor after a day�s work, he�d sprawl down, too exhausted to complain. Zara and her mother would often catch him snoring peacefully, only to listen to his routine complaints of a searing pain in his back and neck the next morning, �One day he�d wake up with no backbones,� Zara�s mother would say.
Unlike the magnificent chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single fluorescent light tube clung to one of the walls in the flat. There was a small stove that took most of the room in the so-called �kitchen�. A tiny, cheap cooler lay next to it that Zara�s father had bought. A couple mismatched utensils, several pots and pans with missing handles and burnt surfaces were stored in a single cupboard over the stove. There was hardly ever any water coming through the sinks, and Zara would regularly bring water and leftovers from the Shamsis. The three of them would sit on the rackety wooden table to eat and drink, atop three wooden chairs that creaked with their weight.
But beside all this, Zara�s father was a grateful man, �Too grateful for his own good,� Zara�s mother would snicker. He was a man contented with what he and his family had, �Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah� He�d say, �He gave us the Shamsis,�
�Our family has served the Shamsis for as long as I can remember,� he�d say this as if it were a very grand accomplishment. When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsis bungalow and tend to their wide garden of bright flowers and small trees, pregnant with berries and fruit. He�d do the chores he was ordered perfectly, leaving Abdul Shamsi�s white Honda spotless. Abdul Shamsi had been so pleased with his servant that he had found him a good wife and had given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy flat.
�I never wanted your father to work for that Shamsi,� Zara�s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. �I wanted him to do something on his own. I knew he was capable of it. Besides, if I hadn�t been forced by my father to marry him, I would be with a man who would have realized it,� Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she�d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach Zara the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would r
A. i like the concept. i can see where you are going. but, this definitely needs more action. something wrong, perhaps a little action/mishap
Powered by Yahoo! Answers
Title Post: How is the beginning of my story?
Rating: 94% based on 1258 ratings. 4,3 user reviews.
Author: Unknown
Thanks For Coming To My Blog
Rating: 94% based on 1258 ratings. 4,3 user reviews.
Author: Unknown
Thanks For Coming To My Blog
No comments:
Post a Comment