As I rested my head on the blue, lumpy pillow like a patch of sky, I forgot all the worldly injustices and violence. It completely felt as though my brain was saying farewell to this world. Horribly, that wasn’t the case. I had just fallen asleep.
In my dream, I entered the land stitched with echoes, the children’s eyes there asked questions. The scent of the kebab filled the air. What’s this? Am I in Afghanistan? I think so.
I started meandering, and the cat led me to a shop where some kind of music was playing. After the thunder of war, the music felt soothing, like a lullaby sung by the autumn breeze itself. It touched everyone’s ears, whether you were fond of music or not.
Zarifa approached me. “Look, kebabs!” she said.
Soon, the clouds gathered like prophets, lightning whispered the verses from secret scripture, the rain started pouring, and thick clouds seemed to guard the rage of God. Zarifa pulled me toward home, where kids were practising Arabic. It was the evening of Friday.
The explosion tore through the evening prayer, flinging me back into waking breath.
