Seven Years Ago –

The afternoon heat was merciless. It clung to the skin and settled deep in the bones like a guest who refused to leave. Inside the dim room behind Moti-Mahal-e-Darbaar the ceiling fan groaned with each slow turn making more sound than breeze. I lay stretched across the bed in a faded floral sharara kicking my legs in the air as if the movement could cool me or somehow convince Ameena Bibi Jaan to agree to what I wanted.