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From the gentle screech of its hinges, Gandhi knew that someone was pushing open the door to his room. Then he heard the shuffling of feet moving closer with each careful step. The Mahatma closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. It had to be Dhaniklal – an old
Jashn-e-Azadi came around soon after she concluded the census. Six decades on, the wonder of Independence remained fresh, a miracle that by rights ought never to have happened in the first place. National songs blared constantly on the radio: ‘Ay watan, pyare watan’, ‘Main bhi Pakistan hoon’, ‘Jeevay, jeevay Pakistan’.
‘We are not man and wife. We are divorced.’ This statement took me by surprise as the speaker was an ordinary middle-aged man, looking exactly like the college professor that he actually was. The prim, neatly attired woman sitting by his side looked what the headmistress of a high school
The gangway was lowered in silence as the harbour launch that brought the collector, the DSP, his fellow officers, me and the tehsildar from the port to the large cargo ship at anchor some distance away bobbed around in the high swells. […] As we climbed up the narrow gangway
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My bladder is pretty heavy by this point, but I am not sure if I should ask his permission to use the washroom. In fact, I am not sure of anything right now. I am not sure if I should lift that cup of tea placed in front of me, lest it rattles in
It was chand raat, everyone in the Basti—as in the rest of Pakistan—straining their eyes to detect the new moon, which would herald the first day of fasting. It happened to be a cloudless evening. The women were excited, having stocked provisions for the month—atta, chawal, daal and cheeni—in double