by MW Cook
I finish my tea and go back to my house. We eat fried flat breads with last night’s chickpeas. A bit of yogurt and raw onion to make the taste dance. More chai. I adjust my pathan cap and sindhi ajrak and gently carry my bicycle down the narrow stairs. My wife follows in her burka, with our son.
My son sits on the bar in front of me. I screwed a little padded seat there for him. He grins as he clutches the handlebars. My wife pulls herself up on the rear rack while I hold the bike balanced. Then we’re off. What things can I see while we go through the streets of my town? The shop we buy our firewood from. The only honest yogurt vendor in town. A child defecating by his front door—the same time every day. I see goats tied to electric poles, red-mouthed paan vendors and little boys running to delivery steaming little tea pots and nearly clean cups. I see rich men in large cars blocking the roads while I slip easily by them on my three-person bike. I see yellow rickshaws crammed with schoolchildren and teachers. I see the natural world of humanity, busied and arbitrary. There is no difference between this place and the place I was born.