After spending a few months in the refugee camps near Rawalpindi, the Haiders were allocated a house that had been abandoned by a Hindu family. It was a very basic home, nowhere near as grand as Musaafir Khaana, the home they had left behind, but they were grateful for a roof over their heads.

Rahmat Bibi was filled with trepidation as she approached the Haiders’ new home. What if she was found out? What if the Haiders discovered that this child was not born to Muslim parents? She had arranged for his circumcision to be carried out by her nephew who was a doctor, swearing him to secrecy, but what if the truth was somehow exposed?

She knocked timidly on the door, but as she waited, she lost her nerve and turned to leave. Just then, Javed Haider opened the door.

‘Yes, can I help you?’ he said, rather surprised to see old Rahmat Bibi on the doorstep, holding a little child by the hand.

‘Is Rukhsana Bibi home? I’m Rahmat Azam, an old friend of her family.’

Javed looked perplexed, never having heard the name earlier, but he invited her in all the same.

‘Do have a seat. I’ll let Rukhsana know you’re here.’

As she waited for Rukhsana, Rahmat Bibi’s fears resurfaced. But when Rukhsana entered the drawing room, one look at her gentle face set Rahmat Bibi’s apprehensions at rest. She knew she was doing the right thing. There was a kindness in Rukhsana’s eyes—the tenderness with which she looked at Tarlok filled Rahmat Bibi with hope.

‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, uninvited . . . ’ she began.

‘Not at all,’ said Rukhsana. ‘In fact, all of you are the ones who have taken us in, uninvited, into a new city, a new country . . . ’ She broke off as her voice faltered.

Rahmat Bibi took Tarlok by the hand and drew him into her lap.

‘Rukhsana Bibi, I hear that you have a loving heart—and this child here, Habib, needs compassion more than anybody else. He lost his parents in the riots—had I been younger, I would have gladly reared him as my own . . . ’

Rukhsana knelt by the sofa, with arms outstretched, ‘Come to me, Habib. Come, my child.’

Tarlok clutched Rahmat Bibi’s shalwar and sat glued to her lap.

‘Come to me, Habib,’ Rukhsana repeated.

‘My name is not Habib, it’s Tarlok,’ said the little boy.

Rahmat Bibi’s face went pale. Flustered, she rose and made to leave the room. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you . . . We’ll take our leave.’

‘One moment,’ Rukhsana’s voice stayed them when Rahmat Bibi was almost at the door, Tarlok’s little hand in hers. ‘You’ve visited our home for the first time—please don’t leave empty-handed.’

Rukhsana picked up a handful of nuts from a salver on the teapoy and approached Tarlok. She knelt and offered these to him.