This glass skin of mine shatters and distorts beneath the scrutinizing gaze of my audience. I sit there, frozen, uncomfortable and dissociated. They watch my every move, like a rat in a maze; every twitch of my eyes, every hesitant turn, observed and judged.
I groaned softly as I stretched after climbing down from the weathered jeep. The long drive up into the mountains from the airport in Islamabad had worked its way deep into my bones. For a moment I simply stood there at the outskirts of my village, listening to the wind move gently through the trees overhead.
“Harakah and Barakah, reporting for service!” Harakah announced. He snapped to attention as the Senior Angel passed by, then eased back over the welcome counter the moment he was gone.
The banquet hall Kanwal stood in was reminiscent of every desi wedding and fundraiser she had ever attended. Crisp white linen at right angles, expectant silver chafing dishes along a buffet table, winking LED crystal chandeliers.
Across the sea of luscious full trees, basked in the honey glow of the sun, animals tract in herds, prides, and flocks over the land. One boy swung lazily in a makeshift hammock with his eyes closed, soft snores sailing from his lips.
The sound of my heart thumping reverberates in my ears. All I can hear is the thud—banging against my ribs like a drum.
“Most mothers worry about their children being out too late partying,” Kanwal’s mother’s voice rang through her tiny apartment.
Kanwal contemplated who deserved a box of biryani to the face more; the tourists in front of her, or the seagulls above. Arms aching and out of breath, she tried to overtake the group of teenagers meandering between stalls of primrose, honey and cheese.
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