A little miracle happened.

Dadi just called me to show me some stuff from storage to ask if I would find any of it useful or if she should get rid of all of it.

Stuff in question? Belongings of dada's sister who lived in Karachi decades ago, and now lives in India.

Belongings themselves? Literally a whole carton of books. And I mean books books.

Translated Russian literature. And French literature. English classics. Works of Lenin and Marx. Books on philosophy and ethics.

Dadi looks at me.

And before I say yes, I make sure we are on the same page.

"All of this is hers?" I ask.

It must be. She had her name and date penned on the front page of all of them. All these books neatly covered in newspapers.

Dadi nods.

"And she does not want it back?" I ask, just to be sure.

"Nope. I asked her what to do with all the stuff when she came back a couple of years back, and she says it'll be impossible to take a carton full of books to India now, so utilize them how we see best."

So now I have a whole carton of classic global literature and non-fiction to go through. Dusty and yellow paged. Each book covered in newspaper, which means every book I open is a surprise. Sometimes it's a picture of Lenin, other times the name of a translator.

But what is more, I imagine Karachi of the 60s. And my dada's sister in this house. Collecting these books. Reading Lenin and Marx and world literature. Covering them in the newspaper to protect them. Writing her name on them with the date.

It's all a bit magical.

Thankyou Miss Farhat Yasmin Naqui for doing this for me decades ago.

(We call her Farhat Aunty. Say a prayer for her.)

(ignore grammatical errors in this thread i am VERY excited.)