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A million years ago — as they sat by their little campfire — a father pointed out the constellations to his son. And the infinite night sky didn’t seem as intimidating anymore.
It’s the stories we grow up with that whisper the loudest within our hearts; they are the framework for our dreams; they pulse with the rhythm of our short, bright lives.
Thank you for giving me the stories that have made me who I am today. (Here is one of them.) Stories of social justice and dignity and equality. Stories of a divine love that is greater than the stars. And stories of who I was, who I am, and who I will be.
They are stories that will last a lifetime and I shall never tire of telling them.
Love you, forever and always.
For Prof. Dr. M. N. Shabbir, F.R.C.S.(Ed.)
A small clinic by the sea. Fans whir
lazily against the hot Karachi summer.
Most of the fishermen are here out of
curiosity. One day, yes, they will build
me a model ship with the lights and the
little toy soldiers holding their little
green flags just as they once did for
my father. The sun sets, then, and we
close up for the day and lay down our
two red steths. We sit on the roof, yes,
with our warm cups of doodh-patti and
talk of Attar and his thirty birds. And
it is like being alive twice. Meanwhile,
yes, the old, old stars rise over the old,