One of the earliest memories I have as a child is when I was approximately three or four years old. I remember watching my mother work in the kitchen. She was cutting onions for the salad and I could see tears in her eyes.
On top of a three-hundred-foot hill was a quaint old temple. A hunched, old man performed puja here. Enshrined in the centre of the temple was a beautiful idol. Usha and Lalita, two good friends, enjoyed talking to the kindly temple priest and watching him adorn the beautiful idol with multicoloured flowers.
Bashir was leaving home. No one in the family understood him anyway. And he was sure no one would miss him. Not his Ammi or Abbu, nor his bhaijaan Khalid. Only his dog Chand would think of him, so to save him the pain, Bashir was taking Chand along with him.
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