At times, I would like to be a fiction writer. If I were able to make up fictitious characters, depict scenarios, sketch psychologies, I would write about a woman who buys a yellow burqa.
I did not know a yellow burqa existed until I saw one in Chicken Street in Kabul the other day.
Yellow: bright, bold, provocative.
One of those burqas that is shorter on the front and reveals the bottom of the dress underneath unless the woman who wears it holds the edges and crosses her hands on her belly.
Who is the woman who wears a yellow burqa? I wish I could imagine her, follow her while she moves around the streets, observe her when she takes the burqa, feels the fabric, checks the size.
What does she think when she decides to buy a yellow burqa?
I see her smiling, a smile for herself, a smile no one can see.
I would like to imagine her when she goes home and shows the yellow burqa to her newlywed husband.
A seduction game?
An act of impudence?
A small, wonderful subversive gesture.