She wasn’t born on a bleak January
night and it wasn’t pouring either, but that’s how she liked to imagine it was
when she was born.
The sun had just set. A faint hint of
an orange tinge in the horizon showed that the sun was here a while back. The air
was heavy with moisture and everything seemed pregnant, the air pregnant with
moisture, the horizon pregnant with the on setting night and Zinnia pregnant
with her baby. Pregnant to the point that it all seemed ready to brim over any
minute. Partially it was Zinnia’s imagination and partially it all was true,
because that’s how monsoons in Lahore make one feel anyway, especially one who
is not accustomed to the uninvited guest that the weather like playing the role
of.
She poked
her finger into the ground, turning it by bending the lower bit into an L. she
seemed to be looking for something in there. She took out the finger that had
turned all muddy with the monsoon rain lazily pattered away as if it had all
the time in the world and whispered to her between the plip and the plop, “This
isn’t your land, this isn’t your story.”
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