One day I’ll tell you the story of how we came to name our baby Naseem.
It is the story of India. Of its partition into India and Pakistan. Of being uprooted, massacred, looted, raped and killed. Of love that survives. Of love songs and poetry.
Mosques demolished by young men, a baby cut out of his mother’s womb and dangled on the tip of a sword in broad daylight.
Of love. Love that survives. That builds, rebuilds. A story of poets and activists.
Of humanity. Not one that is invincible, no. But humanity that will not die.
Naseem ~fresh breeze of morning