I was born in an earthen hut, amidst the smell of the soil, amidst the fragrance of mango wood and smoke, wrote Abbu. And she is being born in a dirty clinic, amidst the smell of disinfectants and medicine. I was born in May, when sheaves of grain from the banks of Arial Lake were spilling out of the house and into our front yard, which was caked with cow dung set out to dry. And she is arriving in the middle of a hartal in August.
