In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.
I have grown up listening to my grandparents_ stories about __he other side_ of the border. But, as a child, this other side didn__ quite register as Pakistan, or not-India, but rather as some mythic land devoid of geographic borders, ethnicity and nationality. In fact, through their stories, I imagined it as a land with mango orchards, joint families, village settlements, endless lengths of ancestral fields extending into the horizon, and quaint local bazaars teeming with excitement on festive days. As a result, the history of my grandparents_ early lives in what became Pakistan essentially came across as a very idyllic, somewhat rural, version of happiness.
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I have grown up listening to my grandparents_ stories about __he other side_ of the border. But, as a child, this other side didn__ quite register as Pakistan, or not-India, but rather as some mythic land devoid of geographic borders, ethnicity and nationality. In fact, through their stories, I imagined it as a land with mango orchards, joint families, village settlements, endless lengths of ancestral fields extending into the horizon, and quaint local bazaars teeming with excitement on festive days. As a result, the history of my grandparents_ early lives in what became Pakistan essentially came across as a very idyllic, somewhat rural, version of happiness.
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