CULTURE

Durrani One red autumn evening, she came to our village. ‘She is a wolf,’ men said, grabbing their shotguns, ‘She is a fox,’ women said, rushing toward their chicken-huts. Through the window, I could see the centuries-old graveyard, that night someone had left two candles lit. ‘The wolves have come to our village, we need to hurry,’ A hand pulled me away from the window. Everyone sat together, reciting  Surahs  from the Quran. I sat next to my mother, in anticipation. Mothers put their children to bed. Men sat with shotguns resting on their arm. I refused to sleep, watching from the window. Then a song came from between the watermelon grounds and the apricot trees, I hurried back to the window. There I saw a woman. Her wrinkled Chador had fallen off her shoulders, her face illuminated by the candle light. She walked toward me, close enough so I could see the motion of her feet beneath her dress. She sang and laughed. Then she disappeared. Years later, remembering that night, I...