I was seventeen when I first read Lihaaf (The Quilt). It was an old book. It was slightly tattered. I found it in my college library. It was tucked away between heavier volumes of Urdu literature. The librarian, an elderly man with silver-rimmed glasses, gave me a knowing smile as he stamped the book. “You’ll remember this one,” he said. I had no idea what he meant—until I turned the first page. I read it in one sitting. My hands gripped the edges of the book. It was as if I were holding onto something dangerous, something I wasn’t supposed to touch. I had read about love before. But never…