The Taste Of Culture
The warm summer air danced around my cousin's home. I sat there, watching her little boy walking, falling each time, but so determined, like the heat that was trying to make me become fatigued. The smell of fried onions and garlic filled the air, and then I jerked out of my trance at the sound of a heavy knock on the door.
'Isse kaha per bunana hai?' asked a gruff voice. The man's face was the color of milk chocolate. His white, stiff clothes were slightly soiled with dirt, as if he had been in a brawl.
My cousin replied in Urdu, 'You can put it on the porch and work there. Do you need any ingredients?'
'Nahi. Sirf pyali chaye hain,' said the other man.
'Here are the bowls,' she said again in Urdu.
' Fariha,' I asked my cousin, ' why are these men here?
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