Inside a mud house with two small rooms, a young girl—who could not be more than twelve or thirteen—was pounding grain vigorously. You could hear the steady tim-tim sound from the pestle hitting the mortar. On the other side, a woman was blowing air into the firewood stove, fanning the flames as black smoke rose into her eyes, making them red and irritated. Another small girl came running with a fan in her hand.
“Ammi, use this to blow the fire…,” the girl said.
The woman, kneeling by the stove, lifted her head and smiled at her.
“Good… thank you, Binto,” she said as she took the fan from the child.
From the appearance of both the woman and the house, you could tell immediately that they were extremely poor. Everything in the house was worn out to the last degree. The girl pounding the grain wiped sweat from her forehead, looked at the woman they called Ammi, and said:
“Honestly, Ammi, let’s take it to the machine tomorrow… I’m tired of pounding. My hands are all swollen. I’m just tired,” she said, pouting as she looked at her palms, swollen from constant pounding.
Ammi glanced at her, then returned her focus to the stove.
“If not for your stubbornness, Dije, you know this pounding is how we get the feed for those goats… if we take it to the machine, they won’t give us the bran,” she said while blowing the fire.
Dije pouted again.
“Ammi, must we keep those goats? Let’s sell them off…” she said carelessly.
Ammi looked at her and sucked her teeth.
“You don’t know anything… hurry up before Saude and the others leave you again today,” she said.
Dije pouted again.
“I’m tired… Binto!” she called her younger sister.
“Yes?” the little girl responded.
“Come and help me…” Dije said, leaving the pestle in the mortar.
Ammi stared at her.
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