I still remember how we used to play cricket in our cramped little apartment in Karachi. We managed to make it quite entertaining even with a plastic ball, and Sajid always cheated to take my wicket. It became a sort of tradition. “Not fair, Sajid!” I would whine. “You’re cheating! You’re bowling too fast!” He ...
“لۆگ ابێتک اَت گُڑا من آییارا مئیسج کُرت: “ساجد! آیی مس یو “آییا هما دمانا جئواب دات: “گُڑا بیا نه منی کرّا، کوئیٹها -من همے بێگاها در آتکان په کوئیٹها. من وتی زندگیئے لهتێن وشترێن وهد همۆدا گوازێنت بله هما انت که ساجد چه سویڈنا گار اِنت و منی “مس یو” والا مئیسجان جئوابَ ندنت ...
Our home felt empty so I texted him: “Sajid, I miss you.” His reply was quick. “Come to Quetta and stay with me.” I left the very evening and spent some of my best time with him, the time I now cherish more since he’s not replying to my Miss Yous any more after disappearing ...
