Hani is sitting under the caves gouged into mountains that give her village its name, wrapped head to toe in twilight grey, red and green and yellow. At first sight, when you spot her strolling in Balushi dress through the labyrinth of streets that snake their way through the neighbourhood, you’re not quite sure if you’ve been caught in a time warp.
But Hani has been living in the minute two-room two-storey house that her grandmother left her a half century ago and says that the village hasn’t changed in all this time, and never will. Except for the electricity wires, of course, the little television set that sits in a corner of her square room, the ‘Bumper Harvest’ brand Chinese-made plastic tray kept upstairs.
Her three daughters have been married off, the only son died of a heart attack and the husband passed away, so Hani roams these streets alone, getting by easily with her 120 rial pension and a friend in every doorway.
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The picture speaks a thousand words. But just a few words have captured an entire lifetime…