by MW Cook
I slip down the dark narrow stairs onto the bright dusty street. There’s a lot going on. Our corner of the intersection is the electrician’s part of town. The shop right by our door is owned by the guy who put in our line to the communal backup generator. The shop around the corner is owned by the guy who fixed it when it exploded a day later. The line, not the generator.
I cross the intersection, lazily dodging a motorbike weaving around a milkman’s donkey cart. The milkman is bringing milk to the chai khana. The chai walla smiles and raises his hand to me. I shake his and sit on the bench, huddled in my chadar against the surprising chill. Akbar and Faisal are there. Akbar tells me a story about his village. I hardly understand a word because he’s spoken Dhadki to me ever since he found out my wife was from a related tribe. Faisal makes fun of him for it in Sindhi. The chai walla smiles and hands me my chai on a clean saucer.