The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already. Why Amirah, the eldest daughter of a wealthy businessman wanted to marry in a bungalow in muggy Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was very ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and yet she chose it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Zara herself dreamed of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. No doubt, the bungalow was certainly a good place to live in; with its impressive pair of wrought iron gates, a tall, sturdy wall enveloping the building, with thick green vines clinging to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer led to a soaring staircase, twirling up to the second floor with each bedroom roomier than the next.
Zara loved the way the stuffy, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening. She loved the way a single giant palm tree swayed in front of the bungalow’s wide terrace, or how the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea. The younger ones of the family often giggled and ran around the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi, keeping the place alive and unaware of the time flying by. The way Danya, the bungalow’s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny stone floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a small, dingy shed she shared with her parents. Unlike the magnificent chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single, faded out light bulb dangled on a short piece of wire inside the shed.
