‘Oh, stop it!’ exclaimed Adeela, instinctively turning to Humaira, in a throwback to their mealtime tiffs from their childhood.

‘Stop what?’ asked Humaira, icily.

Adeela immediately realized that the pea had come from Inaya’s plate, but Adeela wasn’t going to admit that to her sister, of course. She clenched her jaw. ‘Stop questioning my loyalty to my country,’ she snapped, deciding to use this opportunity to air her resentment.

‘I was merely observing that you have perhaps forgotten the land of your birth,’ said Humaira.

‘In that case, you should be embracing those Indians whom you hate so much—because if I am not mistaken you were born in India, Humaira Aapa,’ countered Adeela.

An uncomfortable silence ensued, until Inaya cleared her throat and said, ‘Tomorrow is my first match.’ No one responded to this sally, preoccupied as they were with the rather tense slanging match between the siblings.

‘Does anyone want any more asparagus?’ asked Inaya, in a further attempt at steering the conversation to safer ground.

‘I’ll have some please, Inaya,’ said Adeela, a tinge of smugness in her voice.

Grateful that at least someone other than her was speaking again, Inaya passed the dish of asparagus to Adeela, wrinkling her nose as it passed beneath it. If there was anything she considered worse than these arguments and the uncomfortable silences that followed, it was Adeela Khaala’s cooking.

‘Mangoes are in season,’ announced Adeela, slicing through the silence. ‘Inaya, will you go to the kitchen and get some for us please?’

Inaya rose quickly, grateful for this heaven-sent respite from all the awkwardness that had descended into the proceedings.

‘Should I help?’ offered Habib, just as keen to make his escape from the war zone.

‘They’re mangoes not mountains, Habib,’ snapped Humaira. ‘I think she will manage without your help.’

Inaya returned with half a dozen luscious mangoes.

‘D’you know, when we were growing up, Inaya,’ said Adeela, as she cut them and handed them around, ‘Our father would get these mangoes for us, all the way from Bombay—’

Humaira, who was halfway through biting into a slice, spat it out. ‘Are these Alphonso mangoes? What’s wrong with you, Adeela? Why couldn’t you buy our own Pakistani chaunsa mangoes?’

Adeela shook her head wistfully, ‘You’d fight me over these mangoes when we were little, Humaira Aapa. What has happened to you? Just listen to yourself—do trees and fruit also have to be Indian or Pakistani?’

Humaira pushed her chair back and flounced out of the room in a huff. Adeela looked at Habib and Inaya quizzically. ‘You can leave these mangoes too, if you like,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy the chaunsa for you tomorrow.’

‘It’s against my religion to say no to any mango,’ said Habib, taking a big, slurping bite. Inaya grinned and followed suit.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Inaya decided to sneak downstairs for a slice of the chocolate cake that Habib had secretly bought for them. She knew it wasn’t a good idea to eat cake in the middle of the night before a match, but eating only vegan food was taking its toll on Inaya. She felt like a car running on an empty fuel tank, with a sadly sputtering engine.