From The 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 give up.
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