Choti Khushiyan - a thread that hopes to cheer you up. I& #39;ll try and update it regularly.

1) Saddar Bazaar, Lahore.
A couple stands before me. The husband, tired looking, with, I kid you not, purple pouches underneath his eyes. So unhealthy. And he needs a shave. But nvm +
His wife, clad in a dupatta over her head, is wearing a white chaddar that wraps a decidedly pregnant belly. She& #39;s standing with her feet apart and swaying to and fro, trying to keep her balance.
I try to manoeuvre a pathan carrying a carpet so I can keep them in sight.
She& #39;s bargaining fiercely with a second hand shop that sells wares off the black. "Come farst srvad" reads its sign and I grin beneath my mask.
As they finally agree on a price for half a dozen ceramic bowls, she turns around to look for her husband. He& #39;s disappeared.
She groans and calls out for him. He comes running from a distance and pays the due money. As she turns around to reprimand him, he shyly takes out a brown paper package.
Her frown eases and eyes look at it inquiringly.
I witness a grown man blushing as he procures a set of +
bracelets.
After looking around surreptitiously, she extends her wrist and he puts them on. I can& #39;t see if she& #39;s smiling for she& #39;s wearing a mask, but her eyes are crinkling at the corners and that& #39;s the truest smile that exists, right?

Ah, halal love in the 21st century.
//After School//

We really don& #39;t know our neighbours anymore, do we? Someone new has moved in next door, I& #39;m assuming they have kids judging by the amount of screaming that ensues.
I& #39;m turning the car in my porch as I hear a kid squealing.
Fully prepared to have to witness an+
accident, I look sideways and laugh out loud.
Their dad (again an assumption) is revving the car up his slope gently while his son (presumably) is pushing up against it.
He& #39;s squealing in delight since obviously, his tiny pogo stick arms are nothing against the car
and he& #39;s being pushed up the slope despite his best physical efforts.
I take in the broken tooth, the jetsport stain on his LACAS shirt, the undone laces and suddenly, I feel so tired. But curiously happy.

Second hand joy, is that a word?
3) //I& #39;m prettier than you are//

She was. No doubt. Her hair hadn& #39;t been washed for a month and she stank like tennis socks but she possessed that innate beauty all females have, a glow within.
Standing next to her was the aforementioned contrast, her brother.
As a man passing on a bike handed them some change, she grabbed at the fifty rupee note and stuck her tongue out at her brother, who had recieved a measly twenty.

"Tujhe zyada kyu miley?" He asks sullenly.

"Kyunkeh me zyada pyari hun."
//Trust//

It isn& #39;t my baby. It& #39;s a stranger& #39;s. Wrapped snuggly in a heavy blanket with two tiny feet poking out, he& #39;s crying out loud. His mother, a harried looking woman, is waiting for her turn at the gynae OPD. She& #39;s probably expecting another child.
Meanwhile this one won& #39;t
+quieten. She& #39;s tried everything: milk, diaper change, hushing but the baby wails as if his life depends on it.
I& #39;m waiting to meet a friend. Something tells me to, so I cross over and ask for her child. She hands him over gladly, her tired eyes grateful for relief.
I loosen his sheets, press him to myself as I& #39;ve done with countless babies before and sing the lullaby my Ammi sang to me. His wails die down to a quiet, rhythmic breathing as he looks at me, a complete stranger, holding him in a tight embrace.
He grasps the front of my shirt+
+ and taking one last look at my face, falls asleep. The mother looks on in quiet wonder as her child trusts a strange embrace enough to fall asleep in it.
And I marvel at the intimacy of feeling the flutter of his delicate chest next to my heart. Synchronisation.
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