Rustom grinned.

‘Sure. Forget going to Lobo. If there’s anything that makes everything right for you, it’s the canteen’s bread pakoras.’

Talking in Riddles

Rawalpindi, Pakistan

As always, during Ramzan, the Haider family’s alarm clocks went off before sunrise, in a symphony of wake-up calls. Bleary-eyed, Inaya sleepily groped in the dark for the snooze button on her new radio-shaped clock.

Just then, Humaira bustled in and switched on the lamp. ‘Get up, my little kishmish, and eat your sehri,’ she said, leaving a plate of steaming scrambled eggs, parathas, shammi kebabs, khajla and a cup of tea by her bedside. ‘The sun will be up soon.’

Inaya sluggishly sat up, her eyes still shut. She reached for the teacup. Years of practice helped her find it without having to turn her head to look. She took a sip. And then she remembered something that sent her heartbeat racing. Today was the first day of her practice for the trials. She was going to need all the energy she could get.

She opened her eyes and took a big, eager bite of the kebabs and the khajla.

Inaya’s school day stretched and yawned, but her mind was where the action was, miles away from her classroom. She pictured a packed cricket stadium resonating with applause as she hit a sixer that sailed over the heads of the fielders. She could hear the lilt in the commentator’s voice: ‘That is a fabulous, copybook shot from Inaya Haider . . . ’

‘ . . . Inaya Haider! What do you think?’

Inaya was jolted back to reality by the jarring nasal drone of her history teacher, Mr Baig.

‘About what, sir?’ stuttered Inaya.

‘About whether unicorns exist,’ said Mr Baig, ‘Obviously.’ He looked around smugly, evidently pleased with himself. A few of Inaya’s classmates sniggered at her confusion.

‘He asked if we think history is important,’ whispered Zain, from behind Inaya.

‘We await your views with bated breath, Inaya,’ said Mr Baig, tapping his foot.

Inaya looked around her and took a deep breath.

‘Well, sir, I think that rather depends on the situation. I mean, learning about dead kings is not really my thing—but I like knowing who won which cricket match, right from the time cricket was invented . . . ’

Inaya’s words trailed off as she saw Mr Baig’s expression go from incredulity to fury. The whole class was tittering by now.

‘See me after class, Inaya. I think detention with extra history homework after school might help you change your mind about “dead kings”.’

‘Not today—please, sir,’ said Inaya, almost in tears at the thought of missing cricket practice.

‘Well, I’m letting you off this time, Inaya,’ said Mr Baig, mistaking Inaya’s tears for those of remorse. ‘But I won’t tolerate your inattentiveness in class next time. History is . . . ’

Mr Baig may have waxed eloquent about the virtues of learning history at this juncture had he not been rudely interrupted by the school bell, much to Inaya’s relief. She hurriedly stuffed her books into her bag and got ready to leave.