She hesitates but thinks better of it. With the continued increase in orders, she can afford a new dress. When she started her business, most of her customers ordered only for big occasions like Eid or when relatives were coming, but now more and more families were on a daily schedule—mostly the youths, who nowadays hired people do everything in their house: cooking, cleaning, mowing, shovelling, fixing-bixing. Just like back home. But who knew that one day she would be the servant?

“Yes, why not?” she says. She hasn’t gone shopping for such a long time and she wants to look nice for Ashif.

“Good-good. See you in the morning, Bai.”

In the pantry, Layla pulls out a tiffin box tucked in with her spices. A makeshift cash register she uses for her business. One compartment has cash, the other, expense receipts, and the last, her tithe. She submits the first two to Mansoor each week when he does the accounts. The third is her secret. “Charity begins at home, Layla,” she can hear him say if he ever found out. But dasond isn’t charity. It is her duty as a momin. She counts out fifty dollars from the customer compartment and tucks it into her apron pocket. What you give always comes back tenfold. This is barakat. The secret of life.

Chapter 6

WHEN ASHIF COMES HOME from work, he finds Caity waiting for him in the lobby of his condo building. She’s in yoga gear and her long blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail. He met her at his gym and they’ve been dating for a couple of months. Though he made it clear to her right from the beginning that he’s not interested in a relationship. He didn’t say it, but he doesn’t want to be tied down. Even thinking about it makes him feel claustrophobic. Caity agreed. That’s all she wants, too. But after last weekend, he’s not so sure. She needed a date to a wedding, and he reluctantly agreed to go.

During the dinner reception, the table toasted Caity’s recent call to the bar and she told them about Ashif’s possible promotion—how he was pegged as the guy to nail it. Everyone then raised their glasses for him. A woman added that they made a beautiful couple. Another guest told Caity she’d look stunning in a wedding sari. Her husband agreed and joked that they wanted an invitation to their wedding. They’d never been to an Indian wedding before and had heard how lavish they were. Caity played along and so did he, but what bothered him was how much she seemed to enjoy it. It also bothered him that people assumed that he was Indian. Not that he said anything. He never does. It’s just easier. Like an olive branch that saves him from explaining his roots.