There are all kinds of stories in the world. Some are about me. Actually, one was, or at least I think it was, but it was written by a young man, aquiline from head to toe. When he was in the company of those he know well but didn’t see, he cleaned out his nose with fingers that he washed intermittently so as to retain the smell of coffee and hashish.

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What I remember is sitting on his lap in the verandah of our house and him sitting on my grandmother’s cane chair, the same one she used to sit on and read her Urdu newspaper, Sahara, as she kept an eye on who entered and left through the main gate.

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The one who told us had green eyes, translucent skin, boy cut with full breasts. “No way,” we said. “Yeah, this is what happens,” she said, not matter-of-factly at all but amazed like the rest of us, as if it wasn’t her but someone else who had broken the news

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