Her son, Javed, seemed restless—more so than usual, today.

‘There’s been more trouble, Ammi. Even in Aligarh. Bhaijaan also thinks it’s better for us to leave. Apparently, Junaid Khan—that news reporter for the Dawn—has been hacked to death. Bhaijaan says Muslim families everywhere are being targeted and butchered. Even the children aren’t spared.’

His mother looked up from her embroidery and shook her head. ‘Javed, these are all just the vile schemes of people who want to disrupt our country’s unity. It will pass. Did you not hear about how the Mahatma was cheered when he visited Lucknow?’

Javed sighed. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more, Ammi. Your sister and family are talking of leaving for Karachi. Now Bhaijaan also wants to go. And Rukhsana is due to have the baby next month. I’d rather our baby is born in—’

His mother looked up sharply. ‘Say it!’ she snapped, ‘You’d rather that the baby is born far away from the place where generations of our family have lived and died. I don’t know what this world is coming to, Javed. Do what you want. I will die here and be buried next to my husband.’ She stabbed at her embroidery angrily.

Just then, their elderly cook, Ghanshyam came running into the house. ‘Bibiji! A mob of rioters is approaching our streets. It is not safe for you here any more. You should leave immediately. They say the rioters are headed towards Azad Nagar. Please come with me. My home is humble, Bibiji, but you can hide there safely until you get a chance to leave.’

Arjumand looked up from her embroidery, ready to launch into another tirade, but something in Ghanshyam’s eyes told her that this was not the time. She shifted her gaze to Javed, whose forehead was lined with worry.

‘Ghanshyam is right, Ammi,’ he said, coming to her side. ‘We need to leave. Immediately. Rukhsana!’ His decibel level rose with the tide of his panic, ‘Where is she?’

‘It’s Sunday. She’s at the orphanage, as usual,’ his mother replied.

‘I’ll go and get her. Ammi—please pack your things. We’ll leave as soon as I bring Rukhsana home.’ Javed rushed out of the house.

Arjumand gathered up her embroidery and walked to her room in a troubled reverie. The events of the past few months seemed absolutely senseless to her. It was as if the whole world had lost its mind. She opened her cupboard and gazed at the vast array of saris and shawls hanging there. Row upon row of silks—Kanchipurams and Banarasis, chiffons and handwoven cottons, not to mention the exquisite pashmina and shahtoosh. In a corner of the cupboard, wrapped in muslin, lay her emerald green wedding gharara, its beautiful silver zari as resplendent as it was on the day she had been wed.

Her eyes fell on her dresser, with the many photographs of her family arranged on it. Her husband as a little boy, standing with his parents, against the imposing backdrop of Musaafir Khaana. Arjumand herself, in her bridal finery with her handsome husband. The two of them dressed in Kashmiri phirans on their honeymoon in Gulmarg, chaperoned by a clutch of aunts as was the tradition, all dutifully smiling for the camera. Her parents with five-year-old Javed and all his cousins on their first-ever horse ride on the ridge in Simla. Sepia memories of little moments that had defined her world.