Kulsum slept on a thin mattress with a torn blanket. In the corner of her bare cell was a steel bucket and brown sponge which she used to wipe her body and the grey walls. Above her, from the corrugated steel roof hung a bulb which she’d never seen on. The thin river of light that ever entered her cell was through the iron bars of the small, internal window which overlooked the passageway lined with other cells. These were shared by five or six women. Kulsum had her own room. Once a day, before the women were marched outside by the warden into the garden, they sat together on low stools in the passageway, eating pulao and curry. Kulsum ate alone. 

“Oi,” she shouted, “can you hear me?” 

“What is it this time, churail?” The warden stood outside the door to Kulsum’s cell and rolled up the sleeves of her khaki sweater.

“I’m not a churail.”

“In here, you are. You’re a crazy bitch.” 

“Do you see them? Do you see the cockroaches in here?” She clutched the barbed wire in the window. “Vermin everywhere.”

“Stop complaining.” The warden pushed a battered copy of the Quran between the bars. “Read this.”   

Kulsum did not take the book. “You think God will help me?” 

“Allah forgives everyone, even a kaffir like you.”

“I’m not a sinner.”

“It’s one and the same, you’re a Christian chura.” The warden tapped her forehead with her finger. “Also, some of your screws are loose.”

“I’m not mad — I’m the same as you.”

The warden adjusted the brass buckle on her thick belt. “You’re not like me. I say my prayers five times a day. I’ve never seen you on your knees. God knows everything; you get what you deserve.”

“I keep telling you, there’s been a mistake.”

“I know what I’ve been told, and why they’ve put you here, in solitary confinement. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up. Here are your supplies.” Six boiled sweets, a box of Nice biscuits and a packet of menstrual pads landed on the floor.  

“What’s this?” Kulsum picked up the pads. “Clin & Cleer. Made in China. The Chinese don’t even know how to spell. What we need in Pakistan is for everything to be Clean and Clear.”

“Churail, you talk too much.”  

At the end of the corridor images flashed on the television encased in a steel cage fixed on the wall.  

“Turn that blasted screen this way,” she said. “I need to know what’s going on outside.”

“Bus karo, churail, bahot ho gaya. You’ve said enough. This isn’t your husband’s house.”