To maintain balance, Moni had to sit alone on one side. She watched the green banks drift past. She was searching for him. The little boy who had played ball with her, the one she gave the cupcakes to. He was the real meaning of this place. Every minute with him counted. She smiled when she thought of him, when she remembered the things she said to him. He never spoke, only smiled and nodded, his face animated, his eyes understanding. It was all her monologue and she liked how she spoke to him, how she found things to say. She liked how she sounded, too, kind and entertaining, pointing out things, explaining, making connections. Next time she met him, she would tell him about this boat ride. She must make a conscious effort to remember what she was seeing, to enumerate the details, not everything – that would be boring – but only the things that would interest a little boy, like the ducks swimming alongside the boat. Maybe she could take him out on the boat. Maybe she could row like Salma. It was certainly something to aspire to.

Iman looked down at the water. There was so much in there. Pebbles and creatures that could sing. Fish that knew her. Plants that were stretching up to the light. She breathed in the smell of the water and saw the shadow of wings, the Hoopoe following her, his crown reflected in the water, his black and white feathers a shimmer. She pointed him out to Salma. Salma said that he was one of the animals of Paradise, one of the animals mentioned in the Qur’an. ‘He was King Solomon’s special messenger, carrying important royal letters in his beak.’

Iman started to say, ‘My Hoopoe is modern and I’m not afraid to tease him,’ but then she stopped. Moni was waving to someone on the bank. Iman turned to see a boy picking up a ball that had rolled away from him towards the water.

‘He looks like Adam,’ said Iman.

Moni’s skin prickled. Typical of Iman: blunt and casual. But all the more reason to trust in her sincerity. Moni felt that she had been given a gift. The last of her negative feelings towards Iman evaporated. Iman would not make this up. It must be true. He did look like Adam. Past the disability, there was a resemblance, and yet most people couldn’t see past the disability. It was too big, too glaring. And here was Iman, in her usual deadpan voice, matter-of-fact, just like that. Delight and greed made Moni turn to Salma. Made her ask, ‘What do you think, Salma? Does he look like Adam?’ She wanted Salma’s endorsement too, to seal the likeness, to make it official. But Salma had not seen the little boy and now it was too late, he had already stepped back from the shore, out of sight, and their boat trailed on.

Never mind, thought Moni. Another time, another day. One could not be disagreeable within this tranquillity. She brushed away at the wasps that circled Iman’s head but didn’t circle hers.