All well and good, Mr. C, but it seems to me that wherever I go, I take my heart with me, only to leave bits of it behind. A piece of it is in Karachi, in the house I grew up in, in the room with the black ceiling and the silver fan. A part of it is in Lahore. In a certain part of the LUMS campus with steps that looked up on a starlit sky. A piece is in Manhattan, on a windowsill where it looks out onto the river, the park and the Church behind it. And on the Low Library steps, in Columbia. Some of it will always be in a graveyard in Karachi sitting next to a tombstone made of Ziarat white marble. And in an office complex next to the Korang river in Barakaho. And still, whatever remains is here, in a little apartment in F-11, Islamabad, and I'm sure - after I'm gone - a bit of it will stay here too.
The question, Confucius-ji is this: how many pieces can the heart be broken into before one wakes up and realizes that I'm quite-quite heartless now?