Habib was quiet for a few moments. Then he drew a slow, grateful breath.

‘Thank you, Humaira,’ he said.

Highway Robbers

New Delhi, India

The kitchen table in the Puri household was very full. The Haider family had arrived the day before and they were all sitting around the table, sipping tea while Toshi plied them with savoury and sweet snacks that she just wouldn’t stop preparing. It was a heart-warming sight, all of them together. Habib was busy showing the Puris photographs of his adopted family.

‘And that is my mother, Rukhsana, and my father, Javed—and that, is my grandmother, Arjumand,’ he said, pointing them out.

‘Oh, she’s gorgeous! And what stunning jewellery she’s wearing. Wait—hold on,’ said Arathi, as Habib was about to turn the page in the album, ‘That looks familiar doesn’t it, Ma?’

She pointed to an ornament on Arjumand’s forehead. Toshi came over and squinted at the photograph. Her breathing quickened.

‘It cannot be,’ she said softly.

‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ said Rajan, leaning in to have a closer look as well. ‘That would be such a bizarre coincidence.’

‘Well, let’s find out,’ said Arathi.

And as the Haiders watched in confusion, Arathi retrieved the paasa jhoomar and the diary. She carefully laid out the paasa jhoomar next to the photograph. It was an exact match.

‘I believe this might have belonged to your grandmother,’ said Arathi, looking at Habib.

‘What! This is crazy. How do you have my great-great-grandmother’s jewellery?’ asked Inaya.

‘We’re highway robbers,’ said Jai, with a straight face. ‘We’ve got a stash of jewellery hidden behind our kitchen walls. Though some of it has been taken away by the mice that live there, for their children’s weddings.’

‘Oh, I had forgotten about the mice!’ laughed Toshi.

‘Are they always like this?’ muttered Humaira to Habib. ‘I thought you were bad enough, but your “real” family seems even crazier than your adopted one.’

Toshi came over to sit beside Humaira and handed her the piece of jewellery and the diary.

‘This is rightfully yours,’ she said. ‘We found them both in a hidden alcove in our kitchen. And look, it says here that the diary belongs to Arjumand.’

Humaira stared at the diary in disbelief. She passed it to Habib, who slowly flipped through its yellowed pages and then read from it softly:

‘17 August 1947. It is relentless, this madness that continues to possess us all. Javed tells me that we must leave our home, our country and go. “Pack your things, Ammi,” he said. What do I take? What do I leave behind? I will return to Musaafir Khaana, of that I am sure. That is what I told Ghanshyam when I left my things in his care. He says he will keep everything ready for Eid when the family arrives. Until then, may Allah keep my family safe . . . ’

Habib looked up from the diary, stunned.

‘So, is . . . is this Musaafir Khaana?’ he asked. ‘My Daadi couldn’t stop talking about it right up until the very end.’