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he thought his mother was taking
liberties that were not the privilege of any woman alive
on this earth.
“Are you sure? Do you know much
about the family?” Sebhagi asked.
Mohammed Karim snorted. “They’re family.
What more do we need to know? Haji Ghulam is a good
man. Ghulam Farid has studied, up to eighth class. Quite
an accomplishment. Your daughter will be happy with
him. And as long as she bears him sons, he will be happy
with her.”
Sebhagi said nothing, her eyes
following a truck that was weighed down with bundles
of sugar cane, trundling slowly down the road. Their
house was situated closer to the road than any of the
others, and watching the travelers passing to and fro
on the artery was like always having a portrait in front
of her that changed constantly, from morning to afternoon
to evening, never standing still, always flowing with
the movement of the rural landscape. In this place of
transition, Sebhagi could feel the currents of change
beneath the seemingly never-changing atmosphere that
surrounded them. Each day had its own rhythms, each
month and season, the years made up of interlocking
patterns of sowing, growing, threshing and harvesting,
patterns that built upon each other, one after the other.
Over the months, trucks filled with wheat were replaced
by trucks bearing fruit, and then sugar cane, and although
the order never changed, the elements of which they
were composed always seemed just a little bit different
than the year before. It was always a different truck,
a different driver, people she never recognized, in
contrast to the people that she never recognized, in
contrast to the people that she knew and loved, who
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