Inaya’s parents had met while attending the same college in New York. Inaya knew that Daadi had never really been happy about her parents’ marriage, although she always said that she was absolutely fine with it, using ‘that voice’. So, Inaya knew everything was not fine with Daada’s sleepwalking either.

Much as Inaya wanted to, she didn’t broach the subject with Daada, as Daadi had specifically asked her not to. Besides, he seemed to be going about his work as usual—visiting art galleries where his pieces were being exhibited and giving lectures at colleges for the arts.

Inaya might have pressed further but she was preoccupied as well. It had been a whole week since Selection Day and there had still been no news. Inaya had reconciled herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to be selected. Some of the other girls had been practising for far longer than she had. Still, the effort had been worth it, even if only to meet Nabeel Said.

‘Bunch of buffoons!’ boomed her grandfather’s voice, out of the blue.

Inaya turned to see that Daada had woken up from his power nap and was now deeply engrossed with the latest political bulletins, adding his expletive-laden commentary to the general chaos on the television screen.

Moments later, Mudassar came in with the tea trolley. Humaira liked to have her tea poured out of her silver teapot through her silver strainer into her little porcelain teacup with a spot of milk from her silver creamer. On the other hand, her husband preferred to have his tea ready-mixed, which he slurped rather noisily from a large terracotta kullar, to Humaira’s supercilious disdain. The trolley accordingly reflected this disparity, as if half of it had been set for some visiting royalty and the other half had been assembled in a railway station’s tea stall. Also, on the trolley were a cup of hot chocolate for Inaya and a plate of steaming hot samosas for the entire family.

‘Ah, thank you, Mudassar,’ said Habib, sitting up and reaching for his modest cup. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up a letter that was lying on the tray.

‘It came in the evening post, huzoor,’ said Mudassar.

‘It’s addressed to you, Inaya,’ said Habib, handing her the letter.

Inaya glanced at the envelope. It was from the Tapeball4All League. She could hardly get herself to open the letter, let alone read what it said. She thrust it towards her grandfather.

‘You open it and tell me what it says, Daada, please.’

‘I don’t open young ladies’ mail,’ teased her grandfather. ‘God alone knows which admirer of yours has written this—penned in blood, perhaps?’

‘Oh please, Daada. I really have to know.’

Habib sighed and put down his cup of tea. He picked up the letter and using his letter opener, neatly slit open the envelope. He peered at the letter, reading it carefully. He then looked enigmatically at Inaya.

‘It’s from the organizers of the Tapeball4All League, Inaya. They say that you were very good, but they regret to tell you . . . ’