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Authors: Amulya Malladi
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guilty about having that Afghan girl in his house. She just sat there and wired and wired and cleaned and he did not talk to her at all. She was here to learn Danish and he said about three words to her every day. But then, he reminded himself, that was not his job. He was not a Danish teacher and he hadn't wanted her to come in the first place.
She came at eight in the morning sharp, wearing some frilly shirt over pants. She didn't wear any headgear like the other Muslim women he saw on the streets and neither did she wear an abaya to cover the rest of her body. She wore sensible shoes, not like the skimpy, high-heeled ones Maria wore. And she brought a cheap-looking black backpack.
She ate lunch in the kitchen, alone, because the first time she had asked if it was time for lunch, looking hopeful, Gunnar had said she could eat and went inside his bedroom. When he came out there was no trace of her or her food except for the faint smell of exotic spices and garlic. She had also started to pick up after him in the living room, which was now devoid of stained cups of coffee, dirty plates, and crumpled and soiled paper towels.
In the kitchen, the dishes that had been lying in the sink for days, well, since Peter had last come and cleaned up, had also been taken care of. She had stacked everything neatly in the dishwasher and had even started it.
He was pleased because it wasn't easy to live in a mess when you had lived most of your life with the ultra-neat Anna. But he was too lazy to clean. And this was quite a perk for having that Afghan girl here, he thought. Maybe she could clean the bedroom and bathroom as well, he would be happy to pay her.
It wasn't because he was grateful to her for keeping the kitchen, living room, and now dining room clean that he decided to spend some time teaching her how to lay foundation wax on the frames. He did it because he was bored and drinking another cup of coffee could, he feared, erode the last of his stomach lining. He knew he had to do something, so that morning, when Raihana knocked, he told her they'd melt wax today.
Having the Afghan girl around had certainly changed a few things for Gunnar. She always seemed happy. Content. Far removed from Gunnar's mourning.
Gunnar wondered if Christina had told him the truth about this girl losing her husband in Afghanistan. She didn't look like someone who had lost a spouse. She was just a girl, about twenty-two, twenty-three? How long could they have been married? Two or three years? Not like him and Anna. Maybe when you were married a short time the impact of a loss was not as great. She grinned at his suggestion that they work together on the frames, decidedly one of the most boring parts of beekeeping.
Gunnar started the motor of the electrodes and placed them on the wires that ran through the wooden frames. Raihana laid a sheet of foundation wax, which smelled sharply of honey. It was made of the wax from the hives when they were full of honey. These were commercially bought sheets, Gunnar told her, showing her the label on top of the plastic bag that held the sheets.
Raihana had held a sheet of foundation wax and smelled it eagerly. The sheet was segmented evenly into cells. It had amazed her to read in that black notebook that the bees built their cells exactly on top of the cells on the foundation sheet.
“Is it going to be melting full?” Raihana asked in distress as the electrodes heated the wires that melted the foundation wax so that it stuck to the wires and became part of the frame. She worried the wax would melt away from the wires and onto the table.
“It doesn't melt that much,” Gunnar said, a little irritated. Couldn't she wait to see what happened instead of jumping in? She was just like Anna, interrupting instead of waiting and seeing what happened.
“How do bees know where cells are to building their honey on top?” she asked.
“They just know,” Gunnar said.
The Afghan girl looked at him, confused. He
She came at eight in the morning sharp, wearing some frilly shirt over pants. She didn't wear any headgear like the other Muslim women he saw on the streets and neither did she wear an abaya to cover the rest of her body. She wore sensible shoes, not like the skimpy, high-heeled ones Maria wore. And she brought a cheap-looking black backpack.
She ate lunch in the kitchen, alone, because the first time she had asked if it was time for lunch, looking hopeful, Gunnar had said she could eat and went inside his bedroom. When he came out there was no trace of her or her food except for the faint smell of exotic spices and garlic. She had also started to pick up after him in the living room, which was now devoid of stained cups of coffee, dirty plates, and crumpled and soiled paper towels.
In the kitchen, the dishes that had been lying in the sink for days, well, since Peter had last come and cleaned up, had also been taken care of. She had stacked everything neatly in the dishwasher and had even started it.
He was pleased because it wasn't easy to live in a mess when you had lived most of your life with the ultra-neat Anna. But he was too lazy to clean. And this was quite a perk for having that Afghan girl here, he thought. Maybe she could clean the bedroom and bathroom as well, he would be happy to pay her.
It wasn't because he was grateful to her for keeping the kitchen, living room, and now dining room clean that he decided to spend some time teaching her how to lay foundation wax on the frames. He did it because he was bored and drinking another cup of coffee could, he feared, erode the last of his stomach lining. He knew he had to do something, so that morning, when Raihana knocked, he told her they'd melt wax today.
Having the Afghan girl around had certainly changed a few things for Gunnar. She always seemed happy. Content. Far removed from Gunnar's mourning.
Gunnar wondered if Christina had told him the truth about this girl losing her husband in Afghanistan. She didn't look like someone who had lost a spouse. She was just a girl, about twenty-two, twenty-three? How long could they have been married? Two or three years? Not like him and Anna. Maybe when you were married a short time the impact of a loss was not as great. She grinned at his suggestion that they work together on the frames, decidedly one of the most boring parts of beekeeping.
Gunnar started the motor of the electrodes and placed them on the wires that ran through the wooden frames. Raihana laid a sheet of foundation wax, which smelled sharply of honey. It was made of the wax from the hives when they were full of honey. These were commercially bought sheets, Gunnar told her, showing her the label on top of the plastic bag that held the sheets.
Raihana had held a sheet of foundation wax and smelled it eagerly. The sheet was segmented evenly into cells. It had amazed her to read in that black notebook that the bees built their cells exactly on top of the cells on the foundation sheet.
“Is it going to be melting full?” Raihana asked in distress as the electrodes heated the wires that melted the foundation wax so that it stuck to the wires and became part of the frame. She worried the wax would melt away from the wires and onto the table.
“It doesn't melt that much,” Gunnar said, a little irritated. Couldn't she wait to see what happened instead of jumping in? She was just like Anna, interrupting instead of waiting and seeing what happened.
“How do bees know where cells are to building their honey on top?” she asked.
“They just know,” Gunnar said.
The Afghan girl looked at him, confused. He
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