My Summer Moment
This is a collaborative piece
Text : Aisha Awan
Videos : Passerby
There is a moment sandwiched between the last breath of electricity and the first hum of the generators. That moment is mine. The city stands still. It freezes. In that moment.
And then a second comes to completion, clocks tick, fans start turning, candles start melting.
That moment when reality hits, when air conditioners stop and the prospect of heat seeping inside closed doors starts haunting others, I look at Lahore and smile. That's the only honest moment the city gives me. But God! That moment occurs every other hour much to his dismay.
He hates summer, he hates the load shedding it brings along, and I love him.
I love the way he twitches his eyes to keep beads of sweat from sliding down his eyelids.
I love that his only defense against the heat are his sleeves cuffs that he rolls all the way up to his elbows, revealing his scantly haired wrists. I love his wrists, his bare wrists, the span of his hand, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel.
This Punjabi has my heart and his belongs to the warm cans of beer we are about to score.
Afterwards, when we'd stagger onto my rooftop and the lights will go out, his hand will find mine in the darkness.
That moment is mine, that very moment just before the generators would start, before he'd curse the heat under his breath, before life would resume. That moment is ours.