The distant Azaan was dying along with the afternoon sun, while Ammi folded her prayer mat, humming a Bollywood song. The evening was still young, when I sneaked into her room and smiled at my sister's photo. Ammi called it a sonogram report, and I barely could pronounce that word.

 

Abbu was a man of love. A beautiful road woven with yellow carpet of flowers, which stayed silent, stretching it's edges to winter sun awaited Abbu's return from the gore of war and so did my tiny heart. And as the days progressed, every dawn would break to see a growing baby in my mother's womb and a stream of tears cleaning the window pane, which slipped from my Ammi's gentle cheeks.

 

There's a old Wenge table placed somewhere in my hall with a photo of Abbu and Ammi standing in front of Taj Mahal. Ammi says I was inside of her, when it was clicked. Abbu's lips are stretched to an extent, which has carved a well in his black mole situated on left cheek. Dadi once told me, they're called dimples. I smiled at her.

 

Abbu, a man of respect in the village, left his family to serve his nation during Kargil war. The day is still imprinted  on my mind. Ammi, her unborn child and I stood at the veranda and saw him go away from us with an orange bag dangling down his back. Since then, every month we would wait for his letter. The night of the day of letter, Ammi would prepare Harira and Chawal.

 

Weeks after, when my little sister  was trying to make her way out of Ammi to finally meet me, Abbu's monthly letter arrives. I opened it, it spat anger and disgust. I wept my eyes out, knowing that my tiny heart and the yellow carpet of flowers will never again see Abbu.

 

I immediately run to Ammi, she lays unconscious on her bed. And my sister smiles at me, there's a well carved on her left cheek over a black mole. Just like Abbu's.