A short story I wrote about a family, torn by a painful past and an uncertain future…
To Abul Ahmed Firdauz, Varun was just a young boy who did not need to know the past. At seventeen, Varun needed to know nothing but his responsibilities as a son. There was a field to plough, an exam to pass and a mother to care for. The last thing he needed was to foster childish obsessions.
But it was tiring these days. Their arguments were longer and louder. It isn’t very easy when you are fifty five years old, poor and suffering from arthritis. The pain is unbearable sometimes. So, he pulled a chair outside to their front yard and sat down to rest after a long day. Smoking his hand rolled cigarette, he looked up to the sky and sighed heavily.
Insha Allah, this will pass soon enough.
He liked sitting outside every evening, blowing out little rings of white smoke into the dusk that turned to…
View original post 2,015 more words