My grandmother’s sisters would leave pieces of last night’s leftover roti out in the front courtyard for him. Sometimes they’d leave some seeds or fruit. He’d come every evening at the same time and pick at the food. But that’s not why he came.

He came for her.

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The emerald-green curve of her wings, the turquoise-blue ribbon of her tail feathers, the orange-red coral of her beak. It’s like she was made of jewels and gems. And her sweet voice - it was the wine that intoxicated him day after day, calling him back to that same place.

Every day, he came to sit on her white metal cage. He’d wheedle and whistle through the bars, calling her, singing to her, loving her. He’d ruffle his feathers, spread out his green wings to show her how handsome and strong he was, what a worthy husband he’d make. And in response, she’d sing for him too, with that wine-like voice.

They’d click beaks, him reaching down into her cage, her stretching up through the bars. He’d fly away and come back again the next evening, day after day.

One day, she got sick. In a few days, she died. They buried her in the garden. But he came back, every evening at the same time, whistling at her empty cage, hoping she’d come back, hoping she was just hiding.

He was a bird of freedom, living in the wild, flying at will from tree to tree. She was a pampered housepet, a thing of beauty to be enjoyed. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. But they still loved…with songs and flutters, caged kisses and dreams.

Eventually he stopped coming when his heart finally realized his raani wasn’t coming back.

True story about the totaa who came to visit my grandmothers’ sisters’ totee every day.

Totaa - a male parrot. this kind is found wild in the Indian subcontinent and are caught and sold as pets.
Totee - a female parrot
Raani - Queen

I don’t know his name. We’ve always just called him Mochi Saab. He’s a simple, honorable man who sets up his cobbler shop at the end of the street my late grandfather’s house is on. Mochi Saab sits half-squatting on a little wooden stool, surrounded by his tools. He repairs and polishes shoes, mends ripped bags and purses, and sells the leather shoes he’s made himself, the ones that are hanging on racks that he’s hammered into the concrete wall behind him. It never costs much, and he always throws in some smiles and political commentary for free.

But the best part is, he remembers us — no — expects us. The first time my dad and I stop by after we arrive in Pakistan, his tanned, wrinkled but still youthful face erupts into a smile that shines up to his bright eyes.

It’s summer now, he says. I knew you would come soon.

His speech is lyrical and beautiful. He speaks in Urdu, but it’s heavily accented by his Pashtun tongue. It’s like music and I love it. I go just to hear him talk. He always smiles sweetly at me, saying “Salaam baji, how are you?” But Mochi Saab never looks up into my eyes, following the old chivalrous traditions of politeness to women.

For half the year, the hot months, Mochi Saab manages the shop. Then he changes shifts with his brother and goes back home to his village. He’s always happy to go home. The journey ahead is long, but worth it. First he goes by bus, then by a public wagon he can just jump onto. Then he hires a horse cart to take him as close as possible to his village. When the horse cart can go no further, he has to walk the rest of the way home.

There’s only one problem. Darkness has fallen. He’s got another few miles to go on foot. And he’s carrying six months of profit in his pocket.

Aren’t you scared, Mochi Saab, my dad asks. Aren’t there a lot of dakoo?

Of course I’m scared of getting robbed! That place is notorious! Mochi Saab replies.

So what do you do?

Easy! I light up a charss cigarette! Then I feel like there’s ten more men walking with me and I’m not scared at all!

True story.

Mochi - a cobbler and leatherworker
Dakoo - Robber
Charss - Opium. Causes hallucinations

had she ever encountered a scout, her life would have been very different. her high cheekbones and cat eyes would have graced the covers of Vogue and Glamour. Her lean figure and long legs would have dominated every catwalk in Europe. but here, she lived in a swish-swishing world of dust. day after day, she crouched her perfect legs like a toad. her green ember eyes had grown accustomed to her life.

the dust made her nose stuffy, her throat dry, and her eyes water, she told herself that night. especially with the sand-winds of the hot pakistani summers. she turned to her side, pulling her dupatta closer (it doubled as a blanket at night). it was just the dust, she thought as she wiped a trail from the corner of her eye. just the dust. just the dust.

she dreamt of rivers and rain

i might be blogging a series of vignettes inspired by where i am right now (pakistan). a jamadarni is a woman who is hired to clean your house in pakistan. most people have one; it’s not a status symbol. they sweep the dust off of the floors, collect trash, clean the bathroom, etc. all of them are beautiful.