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Asad Yasmin sat comfortably in his apartment in North Kolkata. After finishing a small prayer to the Almighty, he had ceremoniously folded his mat, taken off his taqiyah and had proceeded to have his already prepared evening snacks that lay on his dining table. He ate unhurriedly and calmly wiped the crumbs off his face. He could still hear the gunshots, deep somewhere in his brain were some memory cells that would never let him forget the terrors of Afghanistan, the constant firing and hiding and a game of minds so deadly that it had destroyed the sanity of millions. And yet Asad had gotten out of the hell-hole alive. And never had a day passed since then when he had not thanked Allah for giving him a new purpose in life. A purpose which had brought him to India. He had adapted slowly,
- Writer
