A mild winter morning in Karachi; smoky fog, smog. It makes Wasif's eyes water a little and his nostrils prickle. Irfan meets him on the broken footpath, dressed, as Wasif is, in school uniform – a white shirt, greying at the cuffs and collar, and badly ironed trousers in a drab brown colour. Both of them wear backpacks.
With a flourish, Wasif takes out the cigarette packet stashed in his trouser pocket. He runs his fingers through his hair and lights a precious, forbidden cigarette. He takes a long drag and feels manly. Then, with a munificent air, he hands Irfan the cigarette.
There is an unspoken understanding between them: they will not go to school. They stand together, smoking in turn, wrapped in smog and brotherhood.
Hunger stirs in Wasif's stomach. It yowls and sharpens its claws, waiting to be fed. There wasn't much to eat in the morning. Ammah left without having breakfast, for the school where she teaches Islamiat, though she left a small paratha for him and a mug of tea. He wanted to make another paratha and he looked in the tin where Ammah keeps flour. But it gaped back at him emptily.