By Novid Shaid, 2011
Wa kulla shayin hammana yahuna bismika Ya Azeem
Red light, in a traffic jam. A swirling, rich, lollipopish red. Good enough to bite a chunk out of, not red like blood, but sweet red. The red light shone in front of him, in a tiny revolving ball, which seemed to be growing at a gradual pace. First the size of a pea, now grown to a draught piece, spinning and circling before him, as he sat, twiddling his thumbs under the steering wheel, in this sweltering day, with no end to the relentless congestion and blistering heat.