his mother dies,
Mohammad, left with only the beautiful blue mosaic vase he once gave
begins his quest for identity, love and belonging in a land where women
bound by tradition and sons are prized.
Blue Mosaic Vase...
One of Jamal's wives shuffled
toward Mohammad and
his mother a few minutes later, a bowl in each hand, a tin spoon
sticking out from each one. She placed the bowls on the floor beside
them and quickly turned back to her children and the warmth of the korsee.
Pargol grabbed the bowls, saw they were less than
half full. She gave
the larger portion to her son. Servants – her son's wives
treated them like servants when Jamal was not at home. She
hesitated, thought of the past eight years. But was it so
different when her son was among them?
The smell of mutton lard brought her back and she
looked into her bowl
once more, inhaled its rancid aroma as though it were a tonic. Before
putting the spoon to her lips, she watched her skinny child stuff the
rice into his mouth like the street urchins that wandered the bazaar.
She shook her head, ate a spoonful of the sticky mixture. You,
my little one, who will be so full of greatness someday, do not ever
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