Tauheed Fatima does not remember how she got ready that morning. She does not remember the details of how she rushed to the site of her new home—one she was meant to move into in a few days, and where her father had poured his life’s earnings with unwavering love for his youngest daughter. She does not remember what words she spoke or what cries left her mouth. What she does remember, what she cannot forget, is the sound of bulldozers, the voices of men shouting, and the helplessness that swallowed her whole. She had not lived in that house yet. But it had already begun to live within her. She had imagined the placement of every mat. When she traveled to Delhi, she wandered through markets, carefully picking out home décor, lamps, and curtains; looking for the right lighting, the perfect shades of warmth. She had wanted to move…

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