And that was the last thing she remembered before she fell.

Mid-way through Habib’s speech, a sudden flurry of activity broke out at the far end of the gallery.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Habib, turning to Julia.

‘One of the guests fainted. She’s better now. We’re just making sure she’s okay. Please carry on with your talk,’ she said sotto voce, smiling reassuringly at the bewildered guests.

As soon as his speech was done, Habib hurried over to the back of the room to collect his things, relieved that the ordeal was over. He spotted Toshi, sitting there, looking deathly pale.

‘Ah, you’re still here? Is everything all right?’

Toshi looked up at him. ‘Yes, yes. I’m . . . just waiting for my family to collect me,’ she said.

‘There’s no rush to run away. Please take your time. Actually, I’m waiting for my family too—they’ve gone to the airport to fetch my son, you see. He’s coming in from Rawalpindi today. He has finally managed to get himself some leave from work. He’s a very successful banker.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Toshi absently.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘Yes, I am—I’m sure. I’m fine.’

Habib looked away, unconvinced. Toshi fiddled with the tassels on her shawl, then she turned to Habib.

‘So, your painting . . . ’ said Toshi, struggling to find the right words to phrase her question. ‘How come it’s called “Toshi”? Was she your sister? I mean . . . it isn’t a very Muslim name, is it?’

‘Oh no, she wasn’t. That’s just artistic license. I knew someone—he had a sister called Toshi—and my PR team thought I should give the story a spin.’

‘Ah.’ There was a pregnant pause before Toshi spoke again. ‘And this person you knew . . . Where is he now?’ Toshi was holding her breath, as if even exhaling would extinguish her feeble flicker of hope.

‘He died a long time ago,’ said Habib, shrugging matter-of-factly.

‘I see,’ said Toshi. A door slammed shut inside her and left hope out in the cold.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just that I’m called Toshi too, and I had a little brother and we would play pithoo together in the gully, my brother Loki and I—and he would always hide one stone, the last one . . . ’

Toshi’s voice broke off.

‘I bet your brother always beat you at pithoo?’ said Habib, looking at her strangely. She looked up, smiling at the memory, and was about to say something, but Habib continued. ‘But the only reason he won was because he had three thumbs, right?’

He held up his left hand. Toshi just stared at it, speechless.

‘Tar . . . Tarlok . . . ? Loki?’ she whispered, almost fearful to even give voice to the hope welling inside her.

Habib nodded, tears streaming down his face. He reached into his pocket and took out an oval, olive-coloured pebble that resembled a bulbul’s egg.