Moth Smoke

17 nine

In the cell a man moves and I watch him, his shadow in the shadows, as he looks past the bars at the light, itself so pale the hot yellow of its filament fails to fill evenly the glass of the bulb. An ember unable to catch fire.

The envelope glows in my hands. It reminds me of things I’d rather not remember, a smell like burning flesh, a hazy world seen through smoke. Mumtaz’s face, the faces of many boys blurred together. A ringing sound. Places I will not let my mind go.

I want to tear it up. But I can’t. So I pull my knees to my chest and open it. Across the top of the page, Mumtaz has written, ‘The Trial, by Zulfikar Manto.’

It is the story of my innocence.

A half-story.

I read it over and over again, until I notice the paper getting wet, the ink blurring into little flowers.