Tag Archives: Hiba Heba

The wind is genderless. The patriarchs of my land call nature a mother. A mother is a kaleidoscopic mural, uncontrollable like the frequency of a broken radio. I sit in my Daewoo Racer and deep-throat Cookies ‘n’ Cream, soft linens … Continue reading →

Inhabitants are television extras, their mouths sour with lupine, earthworms inch through curdled vistas; en route to a place where boughs quaver in water, the aqua-blue shutters of vacant shops, museums springing from hardened mush, where do all the sunsets … Continue reading →

Bread expired yesterday, so papa gave it to the kuray-wali* aunty. He cannot feed expired food to his kids, and the garbage collector, wiping sweat with her dupatta, looked at the bread as an early morning victory, smiled; gratitude in … Continue reading →

Spatula clutched in my hand and under the sizzling pancakes. I think of the end of the day; the last minute before nightfall. The cakes are henna-coloured now. There are some distant onomatopoeic sounds in the twigs of sanober trees. … Continue reading →