From behind him, Humaira winked at Inaya. ‘That’s true. There’s tennis. In fact, Ammi played very good tennis, isn’t that right, Habib?’ she asked her husband, who smiled at the fond memory of his mother.

‘Oh yes. Ammi had a legendary backhand,’ said Habib.

‘But my point is that . . . ’ Irfan began, unhappy with the turn of this conversation.

‘Your point, Irfan,’ interjected Habib, ‘is that we shouldn’t falsely blame somebody else for our own doing, isn’t it?’

‘No . . . Well, yes . . . What I mean to say is—’ started Irfan, but then he just shook his head. He had a conference call with New York in ten minutes and he didn’t have time for this.

‘Let’s not blame poor Zain for our mess, right Inaya?’ said Habib, turning to his granddaughter. ‘Now go and help Mudassar find another picture frame for my dear mother’s photograph.’

As Inaya scampered out, Irfan threw up his hands in exasperation, ‘You’re both too soft on her,’ he said. ‘All she does is play cricket all day with that Zain and the other boys in the neighbourhood. Schoolwork is never a priority for her.’

‘I don’t remember doing much schoolwork myself,’ said Habib. ‘All I did was doodle and draw.’

‘Yes, but your art gained acceptance, Abba. Inaya doesn’t belong in that world of tape-ball cricket . . . It’s a sheer waste of time.’

‘Don’t forget, she’s been through a lot, Irfan,’ said Humaira. ‘The loss of her mother—that’s something that hasn’t been easy for any of us. Cricket is a wonderful outlet for her—let her play, beta.’

Irfan unconsciously winced at the mention of his wife Benaifer’s death; a wound that was still raw although it was now eight years since the school, at which she had taught, had been ravaged by a bomb blast. Irfan’s way of dealing with it had been to immerse himself entirely in his work since then, leaving little room for anyone or anything else.

‘But where’s Ammi? Why isn’t she coming home?’ Inaya had repeatedly asked Irfan. Consumed by his own grief, Irfan had no answers for his daughter.

Seeing this, his mother had stepped in. ‘Your Ammi is watching over you from a star high above, my kishmish,’ Humaira told Inaya.

With the innocence that only a child’s heart possesses, Inaya had considered this explanation in puzzlement, which finally gave way to acceptance.

‘I’ll sleep on this side of the bed then,’ she said, taking her pillow to the side that faced the window. ‘Ammi says she likes to see my face when I sleep.’

Inaya curled herself into a little ball and squeezed her eyes shut. But she couldn’t sleep. Not without the familiar touch of her mother’s hand on her forehead, tenderly brushing away her curls. She lay awake, looking out.

Dark clouds flitted by her window. And from behind them peeped out a distant star.

‘Ammi?’ whispered Inaya.

Poster Girl

Rawalpindi, Pakistan

Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six.