The soft gray of a London morning crept in through the curtains. Washma stirred slightly on her thin mattress, laid out at the corner of Uncle Rehmat's bedroom. The floor was hard, her body sore from travel, and her mind still floating somewhere between Lahore and Heathrow.
Before she could even stretch fully, just then, a firm knock tapped on the bedroom door and creaked open slightly. Uncle Rehmat's wife, standing sharply dressed in a muted cardigan, looked down at Washma with unreadable eyes.
"You're up late," she said curtly, her voice tight and disapproving. "It's alright for today, I understand the flight was long. But tomorrow, please make sure you wake up on time. Breakfast isn't served after 8:00 a.m. in this house."
Washma sat up immediately, nodding, still trying to process the tone and words.
The aunty's eyes scanned the messy blanket on the floor and then shifted toward the corridor. "And one more thing — if you use the kitchen, make sure you clean up after yourself. No one here is free to do it for you."
She left without another word.
Washma stood there silently, lips pressed tight, the lump in her throat growing heavier. She walked into the kitchen cautiously. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that feels watched. The stove looked different. The cabinets were all too tall. She opened one, gently searching for tea bags, then another for a pan.
She could cook. A little. Enough to get by. She could boil eggs, make tea, even toss a basic omelette together. But back home, she never had to.
Not because she was spoiled — because Ammi never let her.
Flashback: Back home kitchen, a sunlit late morning
Washma sat cross-legged at the dining table, lazily yawning while scrolling through Instagram. The smell of ghee and chai filled the house. Her Ammi moved around the kitchen like it was her kingdom — warm, full of life, and completely hers.
"You could at least boil your own egg," Ammi said teasingly as she placed a hot paratha on the plate before Washma.
Washma gave her a sheepish grin. "You do it better anyway."
Ammi shook her head but her eyes softened. "Listen to me, Washma. You focus on your books and enjoy these years. You'll cook every day after marriage — breakfast, lunch, dinner — for the rest of your life. This time won't come back."
"You talk like you're going somewhere," Washma pouted. "I'm not letting you go anywhere — even after I get married, I'll live next door!"
Ammi laughed, her voice like a soft lullaby. "InshaAllah. But promise me you'll learn to take care of yourself."
"I'll try," Washma had whispered, never imagining this moment would come so soon.
a silent kitchen, and Washma's unsure hands trying to locate the basic things for breakfast. She moved hesitantly around the unfamiliar space — opening drawers, peeking into cabinets, unsure whether the salt was in a jar or a shaker.
She had just placed the pan on the stove when a soft but warm voice called out from behind her.
"Assalamualaikum, beta," Uncle Rehmat said as he entered the kitchen. His presence immediately softened the stiff air in the room. He was dressed in a simple sweater and trousers, glasses perched halfway down his nose, with a gentle smile resting on his face.
"How are you feeling now? Slept well?"
Washma turned quickly and smiled shyly. "Wa Alaikum Assalam, Uncle. Yes, thank you. I was really tired, but I'm better now."
Uncle Rehmat nodded, then glanced around and noticed the confusion on her face as she stood in front of the open cabinet with a spoon in one hand and a puzzled look.
"You seem a bit lost," he chuckled lightly. "Let me make you tea. That's the only thing I know how to make, but I do it well!"
Before Washma could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor. In walked Ali bhai, the elder son — friendly, tall, with a cheerful expression that reminded Washma so much of her brother Imran.
"Oh, you're up!" he said, walking straight to the kitchen counter. "Honestly, I thought you'd sleep till noon after that flight."
He glanced at Uncle Rehmat. "Abbu, Amna told me before she left for work that I should make breakfast for our guest when she wakes up."
Then turning to Washma, he grinned:
"So? What would you like to eat? Don't be shy — I'm a good cook, you know. I can make all types of omelettes."
Washma blinked in surprise, feeling both embarrassed and touched by the gesture. "It's okay, bhai... I can manage."
Ali bhai waved her off with a mock frown. "Excuse me? Refusing a chef's service is rude!" He opened the fridge and took out eggs, butter, and milk. "I think I'll make you my special scrambled eggs — my most famous recipe. You're going to love it."
Washma couldn't help but smile, the corners of her lips turning up despite the tension of the morning. The kitchen suddenly felt a little warmer, a little more like home.
As Uncle Rehmat handed her a steaming cup of tea and Ali bhai chopped onions and cracked eggs into a bowl, Washma sat on a stool in the corner — grateful. The loneliness still lingered in the background, but in this moment, kindness was louder.
The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of eggs and toast as the three sat down together around the modest breakfast table — Uncle Rehmat with his favourite chipped mug of tea, Ali bhai still in his hoodie and pyjama trousers, and Washma, still feeling a little misplaced, but more at ease than before.
"So Washma," Uncle Rehmat asked, adjusting his glasses, "when are your classes starting?"
Washma sipped her tea carefully before replying, "In four days, Uncle. I received the welcome email from the university. I'll need to figure out the bus and train routes before that."
Ali bhai leaned back slightly in his chair and nodded, looking thoughtful.
"Then we've got time. Before your university begins, I'll take you around. You should know how to travel around the city — I'll show you which buses to take, how to use the Oyster card, and maybe we can even visit central London. You'll feel more settled inshaAllah."
Washma smiled, a flicker of relief flashing through her eyes.
"That would be really helpful, bhai. Thank you."
Uncle Rehmat nodded approvingly, then looked at his son.
"Ali, we also need to sort out her mobile. She needs to stay in touch with home, and I don't want her worrying about it."
Washma looked down. "My phone broke during transit. I couldn't even call Ammi properly when I landed."
Without a word, Ali bhai stood up and disappeared into his room. Within a minute, he returned with a mobile phone in hand — slightly old, but clean and well-kept.
"Here you go," he said, handing it to her. "It's not the best phone, just Amna bhabhi's old one. But it works fine. And it's on a contract, so the SIM's inside — UK number, minutes, internet, all sorted. You don't need to worry about payments; it's already linked to my account."
Washma hesitated for a moment, caught between gratitude and guilt.
"Ali bhai, I don't want to be a burden…"
He waved her off with a brotherly scoff. "Burden? You're like my sister. Imran isn't here, so I'll look after you the same way. Just focus on your studies and settling in. We've got the rest covered."
Tears nearly pricked the corners of her eyes — not out of sadness, but that aching kind of thankfulness that made her miss home even more.
She clutched the warm cup of tea in her hands and looked out the small kitchen window. The sky outside was pale grey, a soft drizzle misting the air. But inside, between the scent of scrambled eggs and the kindness of strangers-now-family, there was a hint of comfort.
Just as Washma was starting to feel a little settled, sipping her second cup of tea and chatting softly with Uncle Rehmat and Ali bhai, the room's tone shifted.
A door creaked open, and Aunty strode in — poised and well-dressed, her dupatta elegantly pinned, light makeup in place. Without so much as a glance toward the dining table, she tied on her apron and made a beeline for the stove.
"Adeel is late again," she muttered under her breath, switching on the stove with practiced speed.
Within moments, the aroma of sizzling oil filled the air as she began frying an egg, buttering toast with quick, sharp movements.
The front door opened again and in walked Adeel, his hoodie halfway on, car keys twirling in one hand. His eyes swept across the room and landed on Washma with a cold, disinterested glance.
"Mom, hurry up!" he snapped, not even acknowledging the others. "I'm running late. I've to pick up my friends."
"Just wait, Adeel," Aunty replied briskly, cracking another egg. "It's almost done. Don't leave without eating, you always get migraines if you skip meals."
Within minutes, she served him a plate of fried eggs, toast, and a tall cup of coffee, placing it carefully on the centre table in front of the sofa where he flopped down, scrolling his phone.
Then she turned toward the dining area where Washma, Uncle, and Ali bhai sat. Her tone sharpened slightly, wrapped in a forced smile.
"Ali, if you can make breakfast for Washma," she said, loud enough for the entire room to hear, "then just remember Adeel is your real brother. Don't forget your priorities."
Ali bhai remained silent, his jaw tightening slightly as he sipped his tea.
Then she turned her gaze to Washma, her eyes scanning her from head to toe.
"And Washma," she said pointedly, "I hope at least you can manage to clean the dishes. I assume that's not beyond your abilities?"
Washma's throat tightened. Her fingers stiffened around her cup. She nodded quickly, trying to hide her discomfort.
"Yes Aunty… I will clean them."
Without waiting for a response, Aunty picked up her handbag and adjusted her shawl. "I'm going out for lunch with my friends," she announced to the room. "Make sure the kitchen and dining area are tidy when I return. I don't want to see a mess."
And just like that, she walked out — her heels clicking against the floor, the sound disappearing with the shutting of the door.
There was a brief, awkward silence.
Ali bhai looked over at Washma and gave her a half-smile.
"Don't worry. We'll manage the dishes together."
Uncle Rehmat sighed and stood up slowly, patting Washma gently on the shoulder.
"Beta, just stay patient. Every home is different… it takes time."
Washma nodded, her lips pressed tightly.
But inside, she felt a quiet ache returning — the sharp contrast of the warmth of her home in Lahore and this cold politeness disguised as hospitality. She held back her tears and reminded herself: This was just the beginning.
---
An Evening Light
As evening cast its soft blue hue through the windows, the house seemed quieter, mellowed after the busy day. Washma sat cross-legged on the living room rug, gently braiding little Hania's hair — Ali bhai's youngest daughter. They were giggling at something silly the child had said, and for a moment, Washma felt a small sense of ease.
Just then, the main door clicked open. Amna bhabhi stepped in, holding a satchel in one hand, her keys in the other. She wore a light blue long coat over her modest attire, her elegant headscarf neatly pinned. A gentle smile spread across her face, revealing a dimple on one cheek — warm and welcoming, even after what must have been a long workday.
She disappeared into her room briefly and returned a few minutes later, changed into comfortable home clothes, her scarf still neatly in place. Without delay, she walked into the kitchen and started preparing dinner — the clatter of pots, the soft rhythm of rolling dough, and the gentle sizzle of a hot tawa soon filled the space.
Washma peeked into the kitchen shyly, still a little hesitant in this unfamiliar house.
"Salaam, Washma," Amna bhabhi called warmly, turning around with flour on her hands. "Did you get some rest today?"
"Wa alaikum Assalam, bhabhi," Washma replied politely. "Yes, thank you."
Amna smiled again, flipping a chapatti.
"Dinner won't take long — I'm just making roti for the kids and Ali. You'll eat with us, of course."
Washma nodded.
"I'm Amna," bhabhi said, casually chatting as she worked. "I work full-time with the council. It's a bit hectic — I leave around 6 in the morning and usually get back by now. That's why you'll find Ali at home during the day. He runs his online business, so his hours are flexible."
She placed a puffed roti in the basket and turned toward Washma with a kind look.
"If you ever need help with anything — bus routes, groceries, or just company — don't hesitate. Ali's there, and I'm here too. You're not alone. You are part of this house now, and your comfort is our responsibility."
Washma's heart softened at her words. Something about the sincerity in bhabhi's voice reminded her faintly of her own Ammi's gentleness — not identical but comforting in its own way. She managed a smile.
"Thank you, bhabhi. I really appreciate that."
"Good," Amna said, her dimples deepening as she smiled again. "Now go freshen up. Dinner will be on the table in ten minutes. And don't worry about the dishes tonight — you've had enough adjusting for one day."
Washma returned to her seat, her heart feeling a little lighter. The day had started with sharp words and anxiety, but as the sun set, warmth returned — even if only in small moments.
And sometimes, small kindnesses are what hold you together in a strange world.
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