In the foothills of the Himalayas, when the fireflies danced and the moon rose over the sharp silhouettes of the world’s tallest peaks, I listened to my grandfather and father recite Urdu poetry: ghazals, nazms and shers—songs, poems and couplets reminiscing about life. Those are indeed my favorite childhood memories. Those were the long summer holidays before electronic media invaded our lives.
By Gail Vannelli
Long ago, a four-wheeler that started to swirl hit a car with a mother and four-year-old girl. And that girl, in a hospital, smelly and white, lay confused and alone, with her leg wrapped up tight in a cast in a sling pulled up high in the air, where it linked to all kinds of weird gadgets up there.