He had almost reached the door, when one of the insurgents also entered the lane and spotted Abrar. Seeing Abrar stealthily step into a home with a prominent tulsi plant in its courtyard, he mistook Abrar to be a Hindu. ‘Look, a kaafir!’ he cried, beckoning to the rest of the mob.

‘I’m not Hindu; I’m Muslim, believe me!’ Abrar pleaded. But the rioters were in no mood to listen. The man who had spotted Abrar brought his axe sharply down on Abrar’s skull. The crack resonated through the air. Abrar collapsed in a bloody heap. One rioter doused him in kerosene while another set him alight.

‘Allahu Akbar!’ their triumphant cries rang out while Abrar Ansari burned.

It was several months before Rahmat Bibi came to know about the death of her brother. She kept expecting Abrar to drop in on her unannounced as he so often did, bringing gulab jamuns or jalebis, but as time passed, she gave up hope that his familiar footsteps would ever approach her door. She continued to wake up every morning with the first call of the muezzin, but, had it not been for the little boy whom Allah had left in her care, she might not have had the will to get out of bed. Three months had passed, and there was no news about Tarlok’s parents either. Rahmat Bibi had made very discreet inquiries about the whereabouts of the Sahnis, but nobody seemed to know where they were. Rahmat Bibi was seriously worried. How much longer would she be able to conceal this little boy in her home? She was getting on in years herself. As she sat for her evening namaz, her only dua to Allah was: Please look after this boy and keep him safe.

As if in answer to those prayers, Rahmat Bibi had a visit from her closest friend, Suraiya, who informed her of a certain Haider family who had migrated into Rawalpindi from New Delhi, during the wrench of the Partition.

‘Poor Rukhsana Haider,’ said Suraiya. ‘Apparently, she lost her baby in the riots,’ Then lowering her voice, she continued, ‘I’ve heard that she can never conceive a child now.’

Rahmat Bibi looked at the lonely little boy sitting by the window and looking out at the street.

‘God works in mysterious ways,’ she said. ‘There is sometimes a bigger plan that we are not aware of. Perhaps she may yet have a child—who knows?’

Later that evening, Rahmat Bibi took Tarlok on her knee. ‘Beta, you don’t need to hide here anymore. Allah has sent new parents for you. And from today, your name will be Habib. Do you know what that means?’

Tarlok shook his head. ‘It means “beloved”. You are going to be their very beloved son,’ said Rahmat Bibi, kissing his forehead. ‘But before that, there’s something I need to do to you. It will hurt a little, but this pain will be worth it.’