Don't Say the Jinn Word

ement outside, fading with each passing step Dad took. The fight had been explosive. Something about not making fresh food for dinner that ev

white chest of drawers behind it. Three. Two …One. My bedr

ppy now?” M

d for years. Nothing much changed in our house. We

am slaving away cleaning the

e little Asian lady burning a hole in my clothes-strewn carpet. My m

but you didn’t make any! If I am not at ho

the need to eat and spent the last two hours of my evening tucked in bed with a good book, engulfed in a world that existed several-hundred years ago. R

to the daughter I was today. Detached from family, detached from friends and detached from my daily environment. I couldn’t tell you exactly how this change came about. All I remember is walking home from the corner shop one night, on a m

headed to my room, the only safe haven in the chaos of the house. There I took out my phone and searched for far-off destinations

ached when I saw that she was upset. All her life, I had been there for her. I felt I was more a mother to her than our real mother was to us. At the tender age of 15, she s

ulprit here. I squeezed her shoulder and took my place beside her to prepare the

tion. He walked all the way to his b

erved dinner!” Uncle bellowe

d over my shoulder. Comparing his fam

accompany it?” He tutted his disapproval and proceeded to lecture

dy eaten Uncle ji?” Amaara,

round her head. Mama’s slap p

ng brave or stupid. Amaara shot a sidelong glance at m

hispered agai

alt to Uncle’s tea instead of sugar. Uncle choked on his tea for ages and Mama scampered around fetching water

my opinion. Our area was called Seven-Kings. It was a mid-sized town in East London, filled to

e work. Both in the house and out. Our women worked in the corner shops, factories or as dinner ladies in the local schools. My mum prided herself on catering for the local primary school down the road,

did everything I was told to do and at the age of 16 had become a world-class Pakistani cook. Sha

nough to put me off my dinner and I sat sullenly pushing the rice around on my plate. I was aching to return to my room. The book that lay flat open on my bed was beckoning me back

the sounds of Uncle’s content sighing. He had beached himself in Dad’s

d travel around the world like all the insta-stars did. These influence

0pm when Amaara and I managed to escape to our rooms. This was my favourite part of the day. I locked the door behind me and grabbed my book off the bed, delving into the scene where I had left off. The tomb-raider had a sacred jewel in his poc