
Ali Sethi - Chan Kithan
The late afternoon sun, a bruised orange, bled across the dusty courtyard of a crumbling haveli in Lahore. A woman, perhaps in her late fifties, sat on a low, intricately carved stool, meticulously sorting through a pile of faded photographs. Her fingers, gnarled with age and work, traced the outlines of faces – young men in crisp uniforms, laughing girls in shalwar kameez, a handsome boy with a mischievous grin holding a cricket bat. Each photo was handled with a reverence bordering on pain. ...








