This chandelier was just what I was looking for at our lake house cabin. It is made incredibly well and is great for an area that you want ambience rather than bright lighting. And it is made the USA which makes it even better!!
How is the beginning of my story?
The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already. Why Amirah, the eldest daughter of a business elite wanted to marry in a bungalow situated in muggy Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara. She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow’s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow’s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor. But none of this was hers. Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling Wrought iron chandelier candle it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home. But beside all this, Zara’s father was happy with what he and his family had, “Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah” He’d say often, “He gave us the Shamsi’s,” Zara’s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed’s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, “That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,” He’d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow. “Our family has served the Shamsi’s for as long as I can remember,” When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi’s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed. “I never wanted to work for the Shamsi’s,” Zara’s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. “I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn’t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn’t be here today,” Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she’d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach her two daughters the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would return after a long day of chores at the Shamsi’s, Farida would be sitting inside the shed, the light bulb glowing directly over her head, she would pat the spot next to her and Zara would skid down next to her mother. After watching her mother’s hands working through the fabric, the shiny silver of the needle poking back and forth, she too would hold the needle in her hand, and she too would make a stitch here, a stitch there. “Who taught you to sew, mama?” said Zara, impressed by how fluently her mother’s hands worked. If her mother was an expert in anything, it had to be sewing. She smiled, “Just like you have a Farida in your life, I had one too,” “Nani jaan taught you? She must’ve been very good,” “She was,” Farida sighed, “There’s not much a woman can do here,” Zara nodded in agreement. “Especially women like us, the best we can do is to find something one of us already knows, and then pass it along, hoping to keep the chain going, I’m only doing my job,” “You’re doing a very good job mama, did you see that new blouse I made?” Zara asked. Farida beamed, patting Zara on the head, “I did, and it was beautiful,” She had smiled so hard that it made her beady black eyes look even smaller than usual, “one day you can open your very own boutique…make clothes of your own…name it after someone special…” “I’d like that very much,” “Like what?” Zara’s father had just appeared after a long, tiring day at Bata shoes. “Your daughter would like to own a boutique one day,” said Farida. Azim frowned. “There will be no such thing,” “And why not? You want her to rot like the rest of us?” Her voice rose, bouncing off the shed’s thin walls. “Don’t you dare say such things, you evil, ungrateful w
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The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already. Why Amirah, the eldest daughter of a business elite wanted to marry in a bungalow situated in muggy Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara. She did not understand Amirah. She was so ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. The bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; it had a majestic entrance consisting of a tall, wrought iron gate. A towering wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a towering staircase, twisting up to the second floor, each bedroom roomier than the next. Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening, with a single giant palm tree swaying in front of the bungalow’s wide terrace. She loved the way the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea, the smaller members of the family giggling and running over the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi. The way Danya, the bungalow’s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny tiled floor. But none of this was hers. Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling Wrought iron chandelier candle it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents and her younger sister, Zoya. Unlike the glittering, three-layered chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside her home. But beside all this, Zara’s father was happy with what he and his family had, “Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah” He’d say often, “He gave us the Shamsi’s,” Zara’s father was a simple man clearly leading a simple life. He would sleep on the shed’s floor on a pillow stuffed with leaves that left marks on his wrinkled cheeks, “That is the way the Prophet Muhammad slept,” He’d beam. Besides his servitude to God, he held servitude to Abdul Shamsi, the owner of the bungalow. “Our family has served the Shamsi’s for as long as I can remember,” When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsi’s bungalow and tend to the garden, do chores, and had been nothing more than a servant, until Abdul Shamsi himself had found him a wife and given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy shed. “I never wanted to work for the Shamsi’s,” Zara’s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. “I wanted to do something on my own, all my life and I knew I was capable of it. If I hadn’t been forced by my father to marry him, I wouldn’t be here today,” Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she’d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach her two daughters the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would return after a long day of chores at the Shamsi’s, Farida would be sitting inside the shed, the light bulb glowing directly over her head, she would pat the spot next to her and Zara would skid down next to her mother. After watching her mother’s hands working through the fabric, the shiny silver of the needle poking back and forth, she too would hold the needle in her hand, and she too would make a stitch here, a stitch there. “Who taught you to sew, mama?” said Zara, impressed by how fluently her mother’s hands worked. If her mother was an expert in anything, it had to be sewing. She smiled, “Just like you have a Farida in your life, I had one too,” “Nani jaan taught you? She must’ve been very good,” “She was,” Farida sighed, “There’s not much a woman can do here,” Zara nodded in agreement. “Especially women like us, the best we can do is to find something one of us already knows, and then pass it along, hoping to keep the chain going, I’m only doing my job,” “You’re doing a very good job mama, did you see that new blouse I made?” Zara asked. Farida beamed, patting Zara on the head, “I did, and it was beautiful,” She had smiled so hard that it made her beady black eyes look even smaller than usual, “one day you can open your very own boutique…make clothes of your own…name it after someone special…” “I’d like that very much,” “Like what?” Zara’s father had just appeared after a long, tiring day at Bata shoes. “Your daughter would like to own a boutique one day,” said Farida. Azim frowned. “There will be no such thing,” “And why not? You want her to rot like the rest of us?” Her voice rose, bouncing off the shed’s thin walls. “Don’t you dare say such things, you evil, ungrateful w
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Wrought iron chandelier candle
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