Amna walked in, carrying a clay pot on her head. Curved at the bottom, its mouth was cylindrical, and it made gentle lapping sounds as her dark fingers placed it down on the ground. She sat down onto the electric orange, yellow and green hand-woven rug set in front of the hut’s entrance, just beside the pot full of water. A leg under the other, she leaned against the dusty walls, her tired mahogany eyes staring at the straw roof above. Lifting a thin hand, she brought her dark brown hair forward running her unkempt fingers through it. She parted it from the middle and tied a plait which reached till her newly formed hips. It was sandy at the edges, but she didn’t seem to care. Her verdant dupatta fell on her shoulders and she let it rest. She started picking at the rug with her fingers, thinking about what she had heard about the school in the next village. As she pulled coloured strings one by one, she wondered if she could sneak away to find out more. If she could even attend.
Sarah Dara is a writer, freelance journalist and creative writing instructor from Karachi. She holds an MA in Creative Writing and is published in the Herald, Himal Southasian, Literally Stories and more. She loves cats, deep conversations and travelling. She sometimes posts on http://dees-everysilverlining.blogspot.com/ or https://www.instagram.com/theoccasionalwhim/. On Twitter: @Sdara94.
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