Tag books
At nine seventeen on a Thursday night, every mobile phone in House 47 made the same sound. Not a ringtone. Not a message. A thin, mechanical alarm that seemed to come from somewhere beneath the floor. For three seconds nobody moved. Then all four phones on the dining table lit up together. EMERGENCY ADVISORY. REMAIN … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
At 11:47 on a Tuesday morning, Karachi had already become unbearable. The September sun lay across Shahrah-e-Faisal like a punishment. Cars crawled beneath flyovers, motorcyclists found impossible spaces between them, and somewhere beyond the tinted windows of the twenty-third floor, the city continued with the indifference of a city that had seen ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
A contemporary story . Lahore, Islamabad, and the stations in between 1. The Earrings The earrings disappeared on a Tuesday. Not a particularly remarkable Tuesday. Lahore was warm, the electricity had gone twice before breakfast, and someone in the neighbouring house was practising a ghazal with considerably more enthusiasm than accuracy. Meher sto... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
A Sufi’s understanding of a woman who was simply feeling beautiful. The saree had been lying in her wardrobe for quite some time. A pale green silk with little golden leaves scattered across it, and a red border that caught the light rather beautifully. She had bought it because she liked it. There had been … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
A story of Istanbul, quiet love, beautiful silences, and the extraordinary pleasure of simply being alive. There were twenty-three unread messages on Zara Mirza’s phone when she opened her eyes. Six were from London. Four from Dubai. Three from her office in Singapore. One was from an international architecture magazine asking whether she would con... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
A story of Hukam Rajāī — and the strange mercy of what did not happen The morning Meher was supposed to get married, her father polished his shoes twice. Nobody noticed. There were fifty-three people in the house, three caterers arguing in the courtyard, cousins carrying trays of jasmine from one room to another, a … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The House Where Nobody Left Hungry In Tehran, there was an old woman who set the table for seven people every Thursday night. She lived alone. Nobody in the neighbourhood knew why there were seven plates. They knew almost everything else about her. Her name was Pari Farrokhzad. She was seventy-two, wore lipstick even when going … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By the third day of Ganesh Chaturthi, Mumbai had forgotten how to speak softly. Dhols rolled through the lanes. Children ran downstairs carrying modaks in steel plates. Women leaned over old balconies calling instructions nobody downstairs intended to follow. Marigold garlands appeared on doors that had spent the rest of the year looking tired. And... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The Man Who Refused to Become Serious There are two kinds of people in Lahore. Those who have suffered. And those who have suffered but have good upholstery. The Mirza family belonged firmly to the second category. Their house in Gulberg had twelve bedrooms, fourteen air-conditioners, three drawing rooms nobody was allowed to sit in, … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The first voice note arrived at 2:13 in the morning. It was seventeen seconds long. There was jazz somewhere in the background, the soft clink of glass, and a man laughing far away. Then Faris said: “If I die before you, please don’t come to my funeral. You look terrible in white.” Maira Kazmi listened to … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
There were one hundred and seventeen clocks in the old man’s shop. Not one of them made a sound. This was the first thing Mehr noticed. The second was that the old man seemed entirely unconcerned that a woman in a cream silk shirt, ruined Italian shoes and a temper sharpened by forty-three unanswered messages … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
At 2:17 in the morning, Zara Mirza discovered that her husband was having an affair. At 2:18, she discovered something stranger. She had stopped breathing. Not medically. Nothing dramatic happened. No blue lips. No collapse. No ambulance cutting through the sleeping streets of Lahore. She was simply sitting on the bathroom floor of their house R... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By nine-thirty that evening, there wasn’t an ordinary person left in the ballroom. Or so everybody thought. The hotel had closed its largest ballroom for three days to prepare for the concert. Four thousand white tuberoses had been flown in that morning. Brass lamps stood between arrangements of ivory roses. Hundreds of candles floated in ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
There was a crumpled piece of paper on the floor of the café. Nobody noticed it. Not the young man arguing softly into his phone.Not the woman taking photographs of her untouched coffee.Not the waiter who had walked over it perhaps six times. And certainly not Amaan. He had other things to notice. At thirty-eight, … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
At 8:17 on a Monday morning, a boy on a motorcycle scratched the left door of Faraz Ahmed’s car. By 8:19, twelve people had gathered to watch. By 8:21, Faraz had become the worst version of himself. The irritating part was that he was completely right. His car had been stationary. The boy had tried … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Ken Ohyama macht Fotos von schnuckeligen japanischen Wohn- und Geschäftshäusern und stellt sie anschliessend für seine Bilder frei. So entsteht irgendwie ein interessanter Puppenhaus-Effekt, der sehr sweet ist. Das Ganze erscheint jetzt als Buch. 03.09.26 Würd ich mir sofort auf den Kaffeetisch legen, vermutlich aber nicht so leicht außerhalb Japan... mehr auf zwentner.com
At 2:17 in the morning, Mahnoor received a voice note from her mother. Her mother had been dead for forty days. The message was only eleven seconds long. “Mahnoor,” the familiar voice said, soft but faintly impatient, “stop standing outside closed doors. Some doors remain closed because there is nothing behind them.” Then came the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Author’s Note: Eighteen years ago, my husband Joe unexpectedly passed away while in rehab. When this was announced as our book club pick, I was hesitant to read it not knowing how much grief would resurface. It was on sale for about $4 on Kindle so I took a chance. The first night, I ended… ... mehr auf joyreturns.com
The first time Zarar was kind to her, nobody noticed. Not even Hania. It happened at 11:47 on a Tuesday morning, in a glass meeting room on the eighth floor of an office in Lahore where everybody spoke English when angry and Urdu when afraid. Hania was presenting the quarterly numbers. She was good at … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Nobody knew who started it. This was important because by 11:42 a.m., everybody knew. At 9:17 that morning, the CEO had walked into the office with a man nobody recognised. At 9:19, Reception thought he was a client. At 9:26, Accounts decided he was an auditor. At 9:41, somebody from Sales had established—with absolutely no … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The Girl Who Looked Away The first time Shahmeer Qureshi saw her, she was arguing with a goat. Not metaphorically. There was an actual goat standing in the middle of a narrow Lahore street, wearing a red ribbon around its neck and chewing one corner of what appeared to be somebody’s electricity bill. “Bas, Bano. … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The city had believed it was becoming invincible. It had towers that recognised faces, homes that obeyed voices, cars that could find their own way, and giant screens that promised a more beautiful future every thirty seconds. From the eighteenth floor of his apartment, Faris Ahmed could see cranes lifting steel into the sky and … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In Lahore, there was a man called Raza who had become very good at saying Alhamdulillah when people asked how life was going. Alhamdulillah, kaam acha hai.Alhamdulillah, ghar mein sab khairiyat.Alhamdulillah, bas Allah ka karam hai. None of it was exactly a lie. That was the trouble. His job really was good. His apartment on the seventh floor overl... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The story of a modern dervish in Jaffna The train entered Jaffna as if it had been travelling towards an old memory. Beyond the window, the earth had turned red. Palmyra palms rose from it like thin, stubborn witnesses. Bicycles moved along narrow roads. Temple towers appeared briefly between houses and vanished again. The afternoon … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In Istanbul, people knew two kinds of men. Men who carried guns. And men for whom guns were carried. Kemal Arslan belonged to the second kind. At forty-seven, he owned three restaurants along the Bosphorus, a shipping company that appeared impeccably legitimate on paper, two warehouses nobody asked questions about, and enough secrets to make …... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The first time Zara saw the dead man, he was ordering coffee in Florence. She did not scream. That would have been easier. She simply stood across the street, one hand around a paper bag of peaches, and watched him argue with a waiter about whether an espresso could be ruined by serving it in … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
A story from the night a country became two On the night of 14 August 1947, while a new border was being born somewhere on a map, Mehrunnisa lit eleven lamps in her kotha. Not ten. Not twelve. Eleven. Nobody knew why. Her oldest attendant, Banno, finally asked. “Begum, eleven kyun?” Mehrunnisa continued trimming a … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Die Story kann ich so gut nachvollziehen und es ist wirklich viel besser als "Geht so". Es ist die bitterböse Realität mit einem grandiosen Ende!... mehr auf blick-punkte.at
Ihr sucht nach einer Möglichkeit, eure Wartezeiten beim Pendeln, im Wartezimmer beim Arzt oder beim Laden eures E-Autos sinnvoll zu nutzen? Dann erhöht eure tägliche Lesezeit von unterwegs, in dem ihr in kleinen Wartepausen statt zum Smartphone zu eurem tolino vision color greift. In diesem Beitrag lest ihr über meine drei Gründe, wieso ich dies... mehr auf absolute-brightside.de
By the time the last qawwal had packed away his harmonium, the dargah had become quiet. Not silent. A dargah is rarely silent. Somewhere a woman was still whispering a dua into her dupatta. A child was asleep with his cheek pressed against his grandmother’s lap. The old caretaker was collecting rose petals that had … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
I am part of an online book club and this is the selection we will be discussing at our next meeting. It is my policy to not mention book club picks or post about them until after our meeting. However, I decided to go ahead and mention our current selection but will say very little… ... mehr auf joyreturns.com
The first thing Mrs. Sarmad noticed about the man was that everything he wore was black. Black kurta. Black trousers. Black shawl despite the mild Lahore morning. Even the leather string around his wrist was black. The second thing she noticed was that he had parked a very expensive Italian car outside her gate. These … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
"Unsere Welt ist von Männern für Männer gemacht und tendiert dazu, die
Hälfte der Bevölkerung zu ignorieren. Caroline Criado-Perez erklärt, wie
dieses System funktioniert" - mehr muss ich dazu nicht schreiben. Es sollten alle mal gelesen haben!... mehr auf blick-punkte.at
At thirty-four, Meher had three things that deeply worried her family. She was unmarried. She had recently resigned from a respectable job. And despite both these tragedies, she slept very well at night. Her mother, Shagufta Begum, considered the third problem the most alarming. “Insaan pareshaan ho toh kuch umeed bhi hoti hai,” she complained R... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In Karachi, there are families whose wealth is announced by gates, guards and German cars. And then there are families whose wealth has grown so old that it has learned not to introduce itself. The Mirzas belonged to the second kind. Their house stood on Khayaban-e-Shujaat behind an old sandstone wall covered with bougainvillea. It … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Every morning at 3:15, while the city still belonged to silence, a single light would appear in the old lane behind the gurudwara. It was not the streetlight. It was not the moon. It was the faint yellow glow from the kitchen window of House No. 17, where seventy-year-old Bhai Harjeet Singh would quietly wrap … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Some garments are stitched with thread. The rare ones are stitched with prayer. Every morning, before the city had completely awakened, Meher climbed to the old rooftop of her grandfather’s haveli. She never carried a sketchbook. Only a cup of cardamom tea. The pigeons knew her. The breeze greeted her. The rising sun painted the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Karachi had taught him one thing: every room already had an opinion before he entered it. The television studios wanted outrage. The party workers wanted certainty. Social media wanted a mistake. Journalists wanted a headline. His own supporters wanted him to speak before he had listened. He smiled, greeted everyone, and took his seat. “Sir,&... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
DER Roman über Tradwives.Lesenswert und mehr erzähle ich euch auch nicht.. sonst lest ihr es nicht mehr ;-) ... mehr auf blick-punkte.at
Sara Weber schreibt in dem Buch bzw. zeigt Lösungen auf, wie man die Arbeitswelt besser machen könnte... ... mehr auf blick-punkte.at
