She would sit in front of the glass window for hours on end. Her breath misting the double-glazed panels. What else was there to do but watch passers-by? The husband would go for work early and would be away all day leaving her alone in this quiet house in a cold country far away from home.
She loved looking at the women on the road. Strutting purposefully in their pointed high-heels. She admired their grace, their confidence and their impossibly beautiful nails. Long and painted to match their clothes.
“How do they peel onions? Or scrub the burnt pans? Or rub oil on their hair?”, she asked him one day. “Oh, they never cook. They just buy something from the supermarket, heat it and eat. And have you seen their hair? Dry and dirty, I’m sure. They’re not cultured like our Indian women, you know”, he replied. She nodded in silence.