Mirza, my poodle. His bisigamt murderer father, I might add. I clutch my heart and whisper, How do you know that's my ex-husband? I've seen that photo you keep in your bookshelf- the one you hide in your Lonely Planet Guide'. I must say, I envy him for his piercings. And that Nepalese tattoo on his forehead. And that Guatemalan tattoo on his I hear the âClangâ of a vessel fall and Iâm falling too, as in a bad dream, spinning into oblivion. Iâm falling down thirteen floors, Iâm dying ******I wake up in a private room at the Bellevue Hospital Centre. My nurse tries to convince me that I fainted in my kitchen from low blood pressure although Iâm sure I fell out of the window. I argue vehemently. Iâm awake for two hours before Safi walks in. Five years in jail havenât done him much harm. He retains not only the pink scar on his wrist but also those cosy shoulders, biceps covered in tattoos, and his iron chest, which is hidden under a peach bush-shirt. Wild hair has grown over his lips and on his chin like bristles.He takes hesitant steps towards my bed. Wordlessly, he unbuttons his shirt and reveals the biggest tattoo on his chest- the outline of a red heart with black script: Aisha.I close my eyes and against my will, a tear rolls down.I want to hiss, âWhy are you back?â Instead, I say, âMirza can talk.ââWho is Mirza, my sweet?ââZamil's poodle!â âAisha,â he sighs, âI heard about your road accident in Tokyo. Post-trauma hallucinations are normal âI donât hear the rest of his speech. My mind reels back to 1995, when I first met Safi. Iâm the daughter of Jamal al Din, a real estate mogul in Upper East Side. Our family also owned a mid-sized travel agency. I started out as a tour guide and rose to managing director. Ours was not a conservative family and I never wore a burka. I spent my twenties in gusto rushing from Amazon to Alps. Until Abba discovered my secret marriage to a tattoo artist. After five years, he forgave me and funded for our apartment but then Safi got implicated in a lengthy court battle and was convicted for killing his lover, Rosa. I returned to Abba and Ammi with Zamil, my ten-month old son. I swore that Zamil should never meet Safi.âWhy meet Zamil at Barnes and Noble?â I ask. âI introduced him to Mirza Ghalib. I want Zamil to be well read. I donât want him to repeat his fatherâs mistakes.â I can feel the moisture in his eyes. âZamil is very lonely, Aisha. You donât understand how much he âI want to listen but all I can think is- Am I going mad? Why did I hear Mirza talking? Was it a hangover, a hallucination or psychosis?
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