Maybe he was honor-bound to lock us in, by some imagined duty? Perhaps this was an Islamic preparation to make us contended wives? Were these locks supposed to dampen useless dreams that sparked needless desires? Or, was he a mad man, sick and demented?

The orphanage taught their girls religious ritual to the Nth degree, and how to make their own clothes. Giti mended uniforms for the soldiers and even sold a few prayer rugs in the marketplace. Self-sufficiency they called it. Ha!

Eviction day at the orphanage loomed large over Giti--and I worried deeply for her. 'Allah will provide,' I whispered. But Giti rolled her eyes, unconvinced.

Since Mother's death, Father sees a sneeze as one step from pneumonia. I would rather die than confess a symptom. I don't like this new side of Father. This Father is weak, afraid, constantly worrying. I dare not encourage those fears. Instead, I nod or shake my head, keeping interchange sparse, waiting for a subject more suited to the dignified Father I remember. And I know he's in there.

I hope he invites me to walk with him, or at least share some local gossip. My heart is singing . . . but no duet. Duets and collaborations. All of nature longs for harmony. Girls are no different. Men need to realize, life is not a solo act. Unity is a potent force, but men don't always see the importance of unifying with a good woman. Find the right woman and watch a man's world transform into a modern-day Paradise. All I'm asking for is a little noticing and a chat or two.