“Alright, daughter Bushra. Forget the remaining money. Tell your parents to send me broken household items. People like us can’t afford new things, so we make do by repairing the old.”

“Uncle! My mother is no more. And, my father walks the streets selling essential goods; sometimes for cash; sometimes on credit… and I go to school.”

“Oh… you’re Talib the peddler’s daughter, aren’t you?” Hafiz asked, deriving link from the girl’s talk.

“Yes, yes. But please don’t tell my father about the damage and fixing of my doll. I must go now. The times are very bad.” The girl said, leaving.

Then, Hafiz went inside. But he came out again, hearing the sound of a motorcycle. Outside, he only saw the fading exhausted smoke. The times are really bad, Hafiz thought, sitting in his chair. Since, his workshop was in the last lane of the neighbourhood, right next to an empty plot cordoned off by a boundary wall. Although, the foundations were laid, but either the owner had died or moved away. Even, no heir ever came to claim it.

And, the place was now a heaven for thieves, gamblers, and drunkards who assembled there at night under the light of a government-installed bulb. As, fights often broke out, and though the local police were present, but they never let things escalate too far. Sometimes, the noise would wake Hafiz, but he would think, what was it to him? Because, every neighbourhood has such desolate, silent spots. Hafiz would lay down on his cot again, thinking these assorted things.

But, the sound of a motorcycle, heard in his sleep, kept waking him, though nothing of the sort was happening now. He didn’t know why that sound had lodged itself in his brain.