"Zakaria!" his father shouted behind him, from their car. "Zakaria, hurry up! How long do you need to take a bloody leak?" Mortified, Zaki shouted back, "I’m just washing my hands, Baba," and looked contritely at the girl for the crude way in which she’d been alerted to his presence. However, she simply looked back over her shoulder and smiled and nodded at the young stranger, showing no sign of embarrassment. She nudged the children to nod politely, too.
"Asalaam alaikum," he said respectfully, as he walked swiftly to the river to dip his hands in the cool water; it was clearer close up than he had originally thought, the muddy colour was just the reflection of the earthy bed. The washerwoman nudged the children again, who chorused, "Walaikhum asalaam," indifferently, before carrying on with their washing game.