A girl of, say, ten rides on a motorbike with her Father, waiting for the signal to allow passage.
She sits with her legs split on either side, her gaze fixated on the dazzle of her sandals. A glimpse of a smile crosses her pursed lips. Her hair hanging loosely catches wind.
How do you measure wind? The thrush with which it plunders shanty homes of the many? How it withers away a tree one leaf a blow? Making the girl’s frock dance by the light of the moon for the gazes to grow claws? The Father fixes his hair, and the girl her dress.
Frost-white colored, with a spatter of yellow flowers on the light fabric. She tucks it down, folding the edges under her legs. They don’t hold. Frantically, she turns a frenzied glance around, surrounded by mounted men.
She slips a little over the edge, struggling to keep her balance with an untamed frock. Settling back, her spine bends from the weary load of gazes centering on her, as she presses against the back of the Father, clutching at his waist tighter. He whistles a tune.
Inclining on his back, forehead creased, she forces her eyes shut and disappears behind traffic lights.
For a brief while, that is.
Mandir Gali | مندر گلی 