Woke up to the call,
not of prayer,
but a crow
stealing bread off a boy’s cart.
Chai in a chipped cup,
Ginger, tea leaves, sugar, water more than milk,
too sweet,
too hot.
Carack.
A rickshaw coughed past
blaring Ostad Nusrat,
his voice cracked the dust open.
I followed it.
A woman sold bangles near the Shahi masjid.
Birds flew here in there restlessly,
through the smoke of lunchtime kebabs.
People with shawls,
Some with hearts,
Some with broken pieces.
Someone recited Faiz
to no one.
Or maybe to me.
Evening fell suddenly,
like a curtain.
It covered the whole city.
I kept walking.
-Tahera K.
Guest writer
Girl Museum