Since she was only seven years old, weaving a carpet was considered too difficult for Zabi, so instead she’d spent the morning making two of the colours used in dyeing the fabric. Her nails were stained red from crushed pomegranate rinds. She sucked her fingertip, curious that a colour should have a particular taste: red tasted of sour fruit juice even more bitter and sharp than the foul chai-e-siay, the black tea her father drank every morning, stewed so strong it left a smudge around the glass rim. The second urn contained a brown dye, created by grinding walnut husks, more laborious to produce than red. She had to crack the husks, then crunch them to powder with a smooth stone, adding a little warm water, mixing the two together. She dabbed a spot on the end of her tongue. The brown husk paste had its own particular grainy texture but not much of a taste. She decided the colour brown was less of a taste, more of a texture, before deciding that this train of thought was proof that she was bored.

Her mother and her khaha khanda, her group of close female friends, were sitting in a tight circle, talking while they crafted their patterned carpets. Some were intended for personal use, most were to be sold. Zabi was supposed to watch and learn. Making dye had been fun for a while, but her arms ached from crushing the husks and her mother was nowhere near finished. They would be working at the carpets for the entire day and perhaps tomorrow too and even the day after that. A square of sunlight appeared on the floor. The clouds had cleared. She wanted to go outside, aware that if she asked she’d be refused permission. Nervous of being told off, she edged along the floor, towards the door, collecting the steel urn that she’d been using to mix the paste.

—I need some more water.

Without waiting for a reply she ran out, full of mischievous energy, bare feet fast across the smooth mud path, running past the houses and out of the village.

Her village was set among orchards that fanned out in every direction – the entire valley was green and lush, filled with trees planted so that there was always a new crop coming into season – almonds, walnuts, apricots, apples and black plums. Each orchard was watered by an irrigation system. A deep channel lined with concrete brought water from the mountains, gushing at speed before dividing into a smaller network that spread out across the orchards. According to her father, as a consequence of their ingenuity the village of Sokh Rot was one of the richest in the region, famous for its crops and a grand procession of mulberry trees that welcomed visitors when they travelled up the main road into the village centre.