“Slowly, bheta,” she says, smiling.

“I’m so hungry!” He feels as if he hasn’t eaten in days.

They start with the paya. Layla scoops the goats-feet curry into a serving bowl and warms it in the microwave. When it’s ready, they sit down. They devour the meat, sucking out the marrow. Orange sauce drips down Ashif’s chin. When they finish the paya, they dig into the vegetable pilau, then the ondwoh, scooping out the savoury cake with their fingers, then the cardamom-nut rice pudding. They continue like this, moving from dish to dish, eating and eating, until they finally sit back in their chairs, their wrists resting on the edge of their plates.

“It’s all so good,” he says, really meaning it, as if he’s tasting his mother’s food for the first time.

He’s never said the words before, but now they come out unexpectedly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says then lets out a burp.

They both laugh. Then, they sit in silence.

“Are you still hungry?” he finally asks.

“Yes!”

“Me, too,” he says and reaches for the serving spoon.

They empty the pot of siro, devouring every grain of sweetness.

When they clean up, Ashif notices the samosas. “You made chicken samosas?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes, why not? Let everyone enjoy,” she says, certain that the Imam, in his great benevolence, will stay by her side. Ashif’s, too. With or without a vow. His love for his spiritual children was unconditional. Like her love for her children.

There’s a knock at the front door. Shamma and Almas. They’ve come to help her fry the samosas, then take them to the wake for her. They had recently purchased an old pink Cadillac, which they had painted with the words THE PINK COMB, A SHIVJI SISTERS ENTERPRISE. A business writeoff, Almas explained, though they planned to use it mostly for weekend excursions and summer holidays. The back was already rigged, like a motor home, with a gas hook-up and a hotel-sized fridge. Layla was invited, they told her, to join them anytime she wanted.

“Go lie down on your bed, Layla,” Shamma insists. “We will finish it.”

Almas and Ashif agree. They know she didn’t sleep much last night and she’d stayed up the night before on Lailatul Qadr. She refuses to go to her bedroom, but agrees to rest on the couch. “This way I can supervise you two,” she says, and everyone laughs.

Ashif wanders into the living room where his mother is asleep on the couch. He picks up the wool blanket that’s on the floor and covers her. He walks to his father’s desk in the far corner of the living room. It’s perfectly organized. The pens, the files, the magazines. In the middle of the desk—two copies of his father’s business plan. One is labelled AMV. The other, MGV. He picks up his copy and sets it on a reading chair.

He slips on his winter coat and steps outside. The tiny backyard is a mound of snow. The air is crisp but the prairie sky is a boundless blue. A small bird flies down from the sky and lands on a leafless tree. Her body is brilliant blue; her crown golden. The branch vibrates like the string of an instrument and she begins to sing. Ashif takes a deep breath. Lets out a cough. It’s rough and dry, like sandpaper on wood. As if his lungs aren’t used to air, as if this is his first breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.