Gunshot wounds. The crass colours of what some mistook for freedom. Empty condemnation. Dust was raised on the streets. Not just there but in little alleys and nooks and crannies, all full to bursting with anger and suspicion. But most of all hunger. For a while-but what is a while? A minute? A day? A year?

No. A moment in time.

So for a moment in time certain names were a curse. Certain labels just that. Ahmedi. Mussalman. Pakistani. Whatever you may.

For perhaps a longer moment in time, fingers were pointed directly at a country many miles way. More dust was raised. Tyres were burnt. Prayers were prayed for three strangers. Three brothers. They could have been Ahmedi. It didn't matter. Perhaps the word 'flotilla' was looked up in the midst of all the confusion and chaos. Screaming and tears. And yet more dust.

And for a short moment in time - a while? a millisecond? Half of a lifetime?- waves became terrifying. They prayed again. And some stood closer, laughing. Not oblivious. Embracing a moment in time within yet another.

And in some insignificant house in a part of the city where dust was never raised, a phone rang. A girl answered. A heart was broken for a moment in time that was both fleeting and lasting.

Karachi.