The forest witnessed a lightsabre dance. Here were her attendants, a female force, the fiercest in the galaxy. Together they practised their moves and she was the leader. They matched her steps and copied her manoeuvres. There was no need for words, her costume spoke for her. The Hoopoe watched and hovered as if he was the director of this scene. Enemies too were part of the drill. They loomed through the trees, monstrous shapes with grunts and clubs, with brutish strength but limited intelligence, masterminded by a force of supreme evil. Iman and her soldiers could defeat them all, one by one. She was not even frightened. In no time at all, she was done, alert and breathing heavily in case there were other challenges yet to come. When she was sure of her victory, she put her lightsabre away.

It was getting late. The sky was pretending to go dark. It would never completely darken, but still, a sunset was a sunset and it was time for Iman to head back to the cottage. Salma and Moni would wonder where she’d been. Ever since the episode with the dog, they had been extra solicitous, or at least Salma had been. All Moni did was stop asking favours or chores from Iman.

She heard them arguing as soon as she walked into the cottage. As soon as Salma saw Iman, she shouted, ‘What happened to your hair?’ As soon as Moni saw Iman she said, ‘Doesn’t Salma’s phone stink?’

Coming in from the fresh air, Iman caught the sour, uric smell. ‘That can’t be coming from her phone!’

‘There,’ said Salma to Moni. ‘This has nothing to do with my phone.’ She turned away, ‘Iman, who cut your hair for you? Is that why you’ve been gone so long?’

Moni did not allow herself to get distracted. ‘If it’s not your phone, then what is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Salma. ‘I can’t smell anything. If you two can smell something, then look for it yourselves. Don’t accuse my phone. Phones are phones. They don’t stink. Besides, it’s practically brand new.’

‘Give it to me,’ said Iman.

Salma handed her the phone. Instead of smelling it, Iman went over to the dressing table, picked up Moni’s Obsession and sprayed it all over the phone’s surface. Picking up a tissue, she wiped away the excess liquid. ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘All sorted.’

Moni winced at the use of her perfume as camouflage. Now the bad smell was a mix. Whatever it was, urine or worse, drenched in an overdose of Obsession. From now on Moni would never feel the same again about her favourite scent. She would not be able to smell Obsession without smelling what it had tried valiantly to obscure. The audacity of Iman! She could have at least asked her permission.