Yawm al-Qiyāmah

He just hoped that someone would decipher his mess. He knew he couldn’t turn back now. Not now, not ever. Riyaya was waiting at the train station. He could see car headlights splash on him, through the rain and through the windows of the tiny phone booth, every now and then. His wet fingers were fidling with his jacket pockets. He could not afford to waste another second. He stacked the coins on top of the telephone. The cramped booth was making him nauseous, but this call had to go through, at any cost.

“Sab khairiyat?”

“Ji janaab.”

“Gaadi aayi nahi?”

“Saat ghante late hai, janaab.”

“Jald hi mulaqaat hogi. Inshallah! Mujhe tum par fakr hai.”

Riyaya looked down. Only she could hear the soft ticks under her burkha. It was judgement day.

Written on January 18, 2018