In a short time, by Western standards, the guests have all finished and have adjourned to the courtyard where servants hold brass urns of warm water, soap and towels. Stooping over a brass ewer, our guest washes his hand with the soap as the servant pours the warm water over it, rises, and wipes it dry on a towel held out by another. He learns later that no stigma. Food is almost sacred in a land of scarcity, and none is wasted. When the household has been fed, what is left is carefully given to the poor.
Conversation is slow.
The memory of the feast is almost visibly present. Coffee is served, and tea, and coffee, as before. After this, the guest notices an air of expectancy, a half-felt stir. The host calls something to the servant standing just outside the majlis door, and the cry is repeated across the courtyard. Almost immediately, two men come in, one with a bottle of perfume, which he hands to his master, who shakes a few drops into his own hands and then passes on to his neighbor.