‘Moni isn’t your real name, is it?’

‘Manahil is my real name.’ But to her family and friends she was Moni.

Iman walked around the kitchen, touching things, opening cupboards out of curiosity, peering into the fridge. She was absent-minded, not really watching what Moni was doing or even offering to help. ‘Do you think marriage is religiously sanctioned prostitution?’ she said it as if she was wondering out loud.

Moni glanced up but didn’t immediately reply. She tested the oil in the pan. If it wasn’t hot enough, the kofta fingers would disintegrate and make a mess. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, without protest and this surprised Iman. ‘If a woman doesn’t have her own means, it could feel that way. If she is passed from one husband to the next without choice, if there is no love or understanding, it could feel that way. But one is halal and the other haram. One is blessed, and the other isn’t; that should be a sufficient difference.’

Iman could not think of a reply or a further question. She opened the door to the back garden and stepped out, trying to act regal but not pulling it off.

Moni was going to say, you forgot your scarf, but the garden seemed sheltered enough. She watched Iman through the kitchen window. The Cleopatra dress was see-through, it fell to the grass but did not cover Iman’s arms. Iman’s long black hair fell over her shoulders. She swayed when she walked, dragged down by the long dress and the weight of the padded gold collar. Such a pleasing image, almost detached from time and space. Youth and beauty in a garden. The perfect ingredients, a hint of paradise with Iman as a houri. As Iman bent her head and fiddled with the sash around her waist, her hair cascaded over a bush. Midges haloed her upper body. The garden was rich with colours: the pink of Himalayan rose, mauve delphinium, flowers that were white, yellow and blue. There was the movement of birds and insects and now Iman enhancing and being enhanced.

Religion is the recognition of beauty. Moni had read this somewhere and, if it was true, then she possessed it now, looking through a windowpane. It was unusual for her to be visually moved, to notice, to see. And she could go out there too. She could be part of it. All that separated her was the kitchen door. Iman turned towards her. The usual slightly bored look was softened but her rounded shoulders, which earlier conveyed amiability, now spoke of pain. Another time, Moni thought. It was a shame about Ibrahim. Another trauma in addition to the civil war she had experienced. Poor girl.

In the garden, a bee buzzed in front of Iman’s face. The buzz spoke of anxiety for sweetness. It made Iman crave honey. Honey was a cure for burns. She remembered her mother using it when she scalded her hand while cooking. Village life, the clamour of children playing in the alleys, then the war changing everything. The war made her despise her elders. Suddenly, they who knew everything, they who had to be consulted and obeyed, were rendered stumbling and helpless. Frightened too. And when they became frightened, they became aggressive, lashing out at whoever was weaker and younger. Parents, uncles, teachers – sometimes they terrified her more than the planes and the bombs. When the war started, she was the wrong age: too young to assume responsibility and too old to receive the precious, precarious care reserved for children. She was in the way: unnecessary. Only her beauty was valuable. Hence the marrying off, hence the flight out of the country. If you were useful and necessary to your people, you would not leave all that and become a refugee. You would stay put.