The tale of the eggs florentine @lafolielab

Her ears cocked up every time her aunt spoke about Karachi, its people and its customs. Comically, every time she did that, she said to her, “Aunty, are you talking about bombay?” The resemblance between the two cities was uncanny. It was almost like her city had a long lost twin. And she was discovering it one word at a time, with every story that her aunt had to tell. Whether it was the chachaji across the road who believed in the religion of cricket. Or the pictures of the sweet little peas who went around their building, playing pranks and ringing doorbells for fun. Her heart yearned to see the land of Sindh, visiting their ancestral home and reconnecting with the past. But her mind said, no—until the day she met her aunt again. It was the perfect start to a Sunday morning. The fluffy egg whites and runny yolks kept them busy for the first few minutes. But little did she know that this time, she would dig the fork a little too deep into the past. She bent to pick up her fallen napkin and saw something on her aunt’s ankle. It was a tattoo that read ‘Sadaa Ilamar rahe’. A frown came upon her brow as she remembered, these were the last words of her great grand mother too. What does this mean? Sadaa ilamar rahe? She asked instantly. Her aunt looked at her, surprised at her question. And then replied, “In a time when everyone wanted to divide us with hate, a few of us decided to spread love—by showing the haters how similar we were. And that the dispute was a mere political agenda that we all had been subjected to. We created an organisation called Sadaa Ilamar Rahe. Ilamar was the joining of Ram and Ali and we hoped we would make it amar one day. But we failed. It’s too late. Love is gone. And it’s propellers are dead. I’m the only one left.” But it’s never too late. She gobbled up the last roasted potato on her plate and strengthened her resolve. She decided to listen to her heart and visit her past. And this time, her mind said—yes.

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