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We're celebrating one year of Tasavvur. Join us as we look at the past, present, and future of Tasavvur.
Editorial
Mutual shared silence is quite like a conversation. Stolen gazes are conversations. These are enough to carry on days when words are scarce.
As they continue walking, She looks around. They were told that today was an auspicious day, so to be prepared that there would be a significant number of people for today’s birth date alone. She watches groups like theirs, meandering about the different patches. Patches filled with cabbage like plants, people on their tiptoes trying to peek into the closest plants that haven’t opened up yet.
Daughter, this is what a soul is: a ship. A ferry from this life to the next. Waiting for your present to beach itself on shore so the ship can carry you to the future.
A secret: I don’t know if you have a soul, daughter. I never knew how to check. If your other mothers were still here, they could have figured it out. They’re not.
In another world, death happened and the stars kept shining, the sun rose and set, the rain fell at the designated time, and dried soon after. Anything out of the ordinary was just that, an aberration that must be shoved under the carpet. But my mother’s death was different; the world had cracked open with us.
While many stories, especially those of the fantastical had perhaps been told in some way or the other, they had yet to be told in a Pakistani context at the scale with which we perhaps think of them in an American one.