Arathi came over and sat down beside her mother-in-law. ‘Ma, I’ve been thinking a great deal about this, but I can’t fathom . . . ’

Toshi looked at her with kindness, ‘It’s enough for me that you tried to see it my way, Arathi. We don’t always have to agree about everything.’

‘What I was going to say, Ma, is that I can’t fathom how you went through life carrying so much heartache, all alone. I feel sad that you didn’t think you could tell us about it. We might have helped lighten your burden of sorrow.’

Toshi smiled wistfully at her daughter-in-law, ‘That load is the only thing that reminded me that I could still feel pain. Leaving Tarlok all alone that day is the burden I carried every day of my life. It was my repentance. If I gave that away, I would have felt like I had failed him even further.’

You mustn’t think that way, Ma . . . ’ began Rajan.

‘I can’t imagine life without my sister,’ cut in Arathi. ‘If I don’t call her at least twice a week, I feel like something is drastically wrong.’

‘Twice a day is more like it,’ said Rajan.

Arathi ignored his comment and carried on. ‘Rajan, I think we should invite the Haiders to come and stay with us. One must spend quality time with one’s family. Nothing is more important.’

Rajan’s jaw dropped only a little more than Toshi’s did.

The Envelope

Rawalpindi, Pakistan

A month or so passed without any further mention of an India trip. Habib had not pressed the matter, not wanting to upset Humaira. Irfan had immersed himself in his work so completely that he was barely seen by his family. He left for work at the crack of dawn and returned home late at night, leaving little time for any real discussion of the matter.

Early one morning, Habib went into the kitchen as usual and found Humaira there before him, reading the newspaper and sipping tea. His tea was on the tray along with the sports section of the newspaper that Humaira usually set aside for him, since Habib always said that all the other news tended to depress him. Lying by his newspaper was an envelope.

Habib sat down and took a sip of his tea. He reached for the letter opener and slit through the envelope. Inside it, were flight tickets to India. Four tickets, to be precise. Habib turned to Humaira, dumbfounded.

‘I hope you’re free in November, Habib?’ said Humaira, casually looking up from her newspaper. ‘There’s an art gallery in Mumbai that is keen to exhibit your works. And I thought I may as well tag along, since you’re so prone to aches and pains—you’ll need someone to complain to. I’ve bought a ticket for Inaya as well because she seems rather desperate to meet this Jhulan Goswami. And as for Irfan, he needs to get out of that black hole of an office of his. Now it’s your headache to arrange the visas.’