Back home my small garden in Peshawar resembles an arid place. Most plants have disappeared. The potted plants have dwindled. My bonsai tree (which I had made from a seed), and had been with me for the last twenty years wasn’t there where I last saw it. Most plants were missing along with their pots.

I tried not to feel it — the dismay, the hurt more strongly. It wasn’t any use. Even my lawn mower had been left to the weather’s vagaries. Rust covered it’s parts. My tenants had asked me to leave it with them, and promised they would look after it, but who keep promises? I expect very few.



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