Tomorrow

At 5:20 a.m, an obnoxiously loud alarm blares next to Leila Durrani’s head. In the universal language of teenagers across the world, she hits snooze and burrows back into her slumber but soon admits defeat, crawls out of bed, and skulks to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she has finished fajr prayers and leaves the comfortable temperature of her bedroom, the cold from her air conditioner still trapped within. A month ago, she found her mother out here on the terrace of their apartment, still in her scarf, whispering prayers. Since then, the two of them have stood together on the terrace waiting for the sun to inch up from behind the apartment building across from them, a towering, brown monstrosity that almost mirrors their own. There is a part of her tempted to slip her phone through the bars that divide the view and take a picture but she is afraid this tranquil bubble of time neither of them brings up later will disappear if she disturbs it. From the corner of her eye she glances at Asha, her face soft, not yet tightened by tension or worry or concentration. Once the sun forces its way above the innumerable buildings in its path, Asha blows softly on the glass of water she holds in her hands, arms resting on the bars partitioning the world outside. Parawa pani, she calls this. Blessed water. 

It is 5:44 a.m. The sun establishes itself in the sky and Leila takes a sip of the water, careful not to spill any. Sunrises are showmen. They lead you on, build up the suspense, but only the enraptured, the determined, those that don’t look away ever see the real trick. It takes a heartbeat to go from sunrise to morning. Blink and you miss it. Karachi sunrises are not elegant, breathtaking spectacles of blended pinks and oranges and blues. The sun, smothered by smog, trudges along like a schoolchild with an overweight backpack and no will to learn. But still, it fights its way through, a pollutant pugilist, and with a dull orange escort, emerges from behind endless buildings. There are days where, for a moment, the sky looks like fire. Wordlessly, Asha and Leila return inside. 

Across the street, on the balcony of the apartment directly opposite the Durrani’s, Pari Ahuja watches this scene. From a distance, the two women are interchangeable – same height, hair, coloring, mannerisms. It is difficult to make out more. Her own daughters and husband are fast asleep, but these early morning hours are all she gets before the city transforms, becoming overwhelming and impossible, an entity unto itself. For weeks now, she has seen this duo. Often, she has thought about waving. But though she has not faced the vicious discrimination some of her Hindu friends and family have, she has enough experience to be wary of strangers. As they turn, her resolve hardens. Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow. 

It is 9:27 a.m. Across the classroom, Abbas Afzal looks at Leila Durrani. She stands next to the window arguing vehemently with a frowning boy across from her. She draws herself up to her full height and stares him in the eyes, her unnerving brown ones boring into his. It would have been almost intimidating had she reached anywhere beyond the 5’1” mark at fifteen. The intensity of her dark eyes, the unmistakable challenge in them withers his resolve. As her opponent drops his gaze, she shifts her head almost imperceptibly and Abbas drops his eyes too. Not for the first time, he considers asking her out. Mr. Hussain, forty years old and fraying at the seams, glances from the clock to his unruly class and dismisses them with a wave of his chalky hand. The ensuing chaos wrenches Abbas out of his head and into the classroom where chairs scrape backward, freeing their occupants while others are settled in by a fresh batch of students. He sighs, grabbing his own backpack and ducks into the melee. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow.

At 12:27 p.m., 15.3 kilometers away, an unusual assortment of powders covers Asha Durrani’s honey-almond skin ranging from haldi (from making lunch) and cocoa powder (not from making lunch). A timer dings on the fridge but the oven is already open with Asha reaching into it and emerging with a circular pan, the smell of comfort and of cake following behind. The cake is perfectly done and releases the sides of its metal container easily. Carrying it to the kitchen island, she places it on a cooling rack and sits in front of it. She is perfectly poised, almost regal. And then she smiles. It is a thing of complete, unfettered joy, almost childlike in its glee, the kind of smile that makes her easy to love. It has been a long time since she smiled like that. It has been a long time since she baked like that, too. Leila will be so happy when she sees it. Asha’s smile grows impossibly wider and her heart swells. She will not have time to ice her cake after it cools and finish lunch before her daughter returns home. Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow.

It is 3:27 p.m and Marium is in the back of a silver 2015 Toyota Corolla on her way to pick up Leila Durrani from school. The AC is on the second setting, effectively conquering the unbearable heat that had nearly suffocated her minutes earlier, and she is looking out the window at the sweltering, sun-browned city. Wrapped safely in her hand is the 50 rupees Asha Baji, her employer, gave her to buy melons, a rarity in June unless you knew where to look. Marium knew where to look. As they approach the red traffic signal and slow to a stop, Marium begins to massage her slightly swollen leg. It has hurt her for months, but recently it seems the cancer is acting up more and more. Earlier, she refrained from asking Asha Baji for a Panadol but now she regrets it. Treatment, she discovered soon after the diagnosis, is expensive. Even free treatment is a risk she cannot afford to take; who will feed her family in the meantime? Her sons are too young to be without their mother and her husband still has not found work in the city. Her own mother died years ago. The signal changes, scattering her thoughts, and moments later the car pulls into the school parking lot. Leila emerges from the building, her backpack causing her to hunch downward. She is dressed in the same uniform colors as every other student, white and blue, but Marium picks her out immediately. When she thinks of Leila, this is how she sees her, in the uniform she has worn since she was a little girl, the uniform she has loved, then hated, then loved again. Leila smiles as she approaches the car and Marium smiles back through the ache in her leg. She will have to tell Leila eventually. Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow.

It is 3:37 p.m and an incredibly generic silver car stops near a fruit stall. Moiz watches it. He is an incredibly generic boy on the streets of Karachi – a background accessory to a city that has long since forgotten him. Moiz watches as a woman in a large black and white scarf emerges from the car. His shoulders sag. He will not get anything from her. Then he watches as she winces and grabs the car door with one hand and her leg with the other. He watches as an incredibly short girl in a blue and white school uniform gets out and helps the woman back inside. She takes something from the woman’s hand and speaks to her gently. Moiz does not dwell on this interaction. What he does care about is the phone in the pocket of her uniform and the bag on her shoulders. He watches as she approaches the stall and then, from the pocket of his worn kurta, he pulls out a gun. Moiz points it at her, his hand shaking imperceptibly as the girl, apparently more familiar with the customs of this situation than him, offers him her phone. He takes it. His hand is shaking. She is trembling now, but she doesn’t speak. People look away. His hand is shaking. The man behind the fruit stand says nothing, bowing his head and looking sick. Moiz waves the gun and yells at her and her brown eyes widen. His hand is shaking. He points to her bag and the girl, almost crying, begins to slip it off. His hand is shaking. His finger slips. 

Bang.

It is 3:37 p.m and Leila Durrani stands two and a half feet away from Moiz. A bullet from Moiz’s borrowed gun travels 600 times that distance in a second, in a heartbeat. Leila Durrani breathes in. She does not think of Abbas, the boy she just might maybe like. She does not think of sunrises or her mother, who had been strangely eager for her to leave this morning. She does not think of Marium forcing herself out of the car, barely seven feet away. She does not even think of the boy with the gun two and a half feet in front of her. She does not have the time. Leila Durrani does not breathe.

` It is 3:38 p.m.

Tomorrow

It is 5:44 a.m. Still, they are not there. The sunrise, her view of which is terribly stunted by the positioning of their balcony, has come and gone and neither has emerged. She remembers the coffin carrier bus outside the building yesterday evening, the swarm of white gathering around it. Her heart goes cold. Pari prays, the sleeping city her only audience. 

It is 9:27 a.m. and across the classroom, Abbas Afzal looks at Leila Durrani’s empty desk. He is both relieved and intensely disappointed that she is absent. He thinks of the card that he slipped in her backpack during their last period. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow.

It is 12:27 p.m., and 15.3 kilometers away. Asha Durrani sits at an empty table in front of a cake, perfect in every way, down to the last white rosette. She laughs at the masterpiece. It is not a pleasant sound. It is a thing of savage, unfettered grief, almost terrifying in its intensity, the kind of pain that makes it hard to look away. The chocolate-brown words iced neatly onto its surface are a mocking, morbid echo. Happy Birthday, Leila, they say. Happy Birthday, Leila.

It is 3:27 p.m and Marium is still at home, her first day missed in seven years. Looking out the window, she sees the dusty, dull brown city. Tears snake their way down her cheeks. They are quiet, mournful. She cannot bear to go to work and has no faith she will keep her job anyway. She doesn’t want to—doesn’t want that ugly, everyday reminder. It is impossible to tell if the agony on her face comes from her leg or her heart.

It is 3:37 p.m and Moiz has not slept for longer than an hour in the past 24. What is he afraid of? He does not exist, no ID card, no passport, no identifiable scars or unique name. He is one of thousands; it is doubtful he will be found. But when he closes his eyes, he sees hers. He has sold the phone and the wallet, but he keeps the bag. He has not slept. He has not thrown up since yesterday. Neither has his mother, with the new medicine, but he is sick for a different reason. He takes out a card, folded and unopened, from between her notebooks and stares at its contents, but Moiz cannot read the carefully printed words. Happy Birthday, Leila, it says. Happy Birthday, Leila.