It was Covid time. The world was quiet and empty. But amid fear and horror of life and death. She gave her heart to someone unknown yet so kind, who wanted to know her equally. They confessed their love, thinking the world would end with them, wrapped in the truest of truth and purest of pure love. But the world recovered from Covid. Life went back to normal. He got serious about her, and she remained crazy about him. He introduced her to his Catholic family in Milan city, somewhere near the Alps, where snow and mist dance. She was from Kabul and a Muslim. Recently, she had lost a country and wanted to belong somewhere, where her heart felt at home.
The time had come. Her displaced family moved to America. Joyously yet hesitantly, she reclaimed her sense of home. She tried to take the charge in her own hand and introduced him to her family. Words over words felt like mountains of unmoved rocks. Her father asked about his name. Her mother wanted to know his religion. Brother was keen about his intentions. Sister wanted to be her bridesmaid. The world felt black and white, thin and thick, raw and cooked. Father insisted on changing his name. Mother wanted to hide his religion. Brother started singing wedding songs. Sister already bought her dress. But all that she remained with was a strange feeling: exoquilt in the totality of love. A little excitement, a little quitting, a little guilt, in the universe of her love.