“True, sir, more than plenty.”

“Enough is enough!” Govindji called Jocelyn and the maid, Nelly, forward. “As I told you…” he said to them in Swahili.

The women flanked Gulzar, each one grabbing her by the wrist.

“What are you doing?” Gulzar said, trying to wriggle out of their grip.

They pulled her to the middle of the kitchen where Badur had already started laying newspaper on the floor.

Govindji lifted a kitchen chair and arched it over the air to Gulzar. He placed it behind her knees, then forced her down by her shoulders.

The women dropped down to the floor, one on each side of the chair. They pulled on Gulzar’s wrists and buckled her down.

“Okay, Badur Bhai. You can start.”

Badur plucked Gulzar’s scarf from her head and handed it to Nelly. He pulled her bun down. Bobby pins flew out like startled cockroaches and skittered over the floor. Gulzar’s thick black hair unravelled over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall.

Badur removed the scissors from his shirt pocket.

Gulzar flip-flopped in the chair like a fish out of water.

“If you resist,” Govindji said, “how will Badur Bhai do his job, hanh? You’ll be scarred. And there’s no point in scarring such a beautiful face,” he said, running the back of his fingers over her cheek.

“Why are you doing this? Please, don’t,” Gulzar begged.

“It is your own fault, can’t you see? Who asked you to be so stubborn? You are the one who wants to go back to India. So who am I to stop you? I will grant you your wish.”

“Send me back? But what will they say?” Gulzar began to cry.

“Aye-ya-ya. No need to cry. I am doing this for your own good.” Govindji then turned to his accountant. “Begin, Badur Bhai.”

Mansoor cupped his hands over his face. “Mamma,” he whispered into his palms, rocking back and forth. “Mamma.”

The sound of scissors clipping in a frenzy filled the kitchen.

“Excellent work, Badur Bhai,” Govindji said when the sound stopped.

Mansoor opened his eyes to see his father standing by the chair, the accountant wiping the scissors clean with a towel. A carpet of hair surrounded the chair. Jocelyn brushed hair off her cheek. Nelly wiped the back of her wrist across her lips.

“Now they will believe you,” Govindji tapped Gulzar’s head, her hair shorn to the scalp in the custom of widows. “I’ve done you a favour, can’t you see? You can tell them I am dead. You are a widow and that is the reason you are back.”

“Anything else, sir?” Badur asked.

“Just the papers.”

“Right-right, sir.”

“Please, can I hold my son?” Gulzar asked, her hands folded in a lap of hair.

“Yes, of course.” Govindji turned to Mansoor. “Go to your mother.”

“Come to me, babu,” Gulzar said, her arms outstretched, her voice breaking.

But Mansoor did not recognize the person in the chair. Where was his mother? He scanned the room frantically, his eyes darting from face to face, looking for her. She had vanished. In her place: a man in his mother’s dress. The image terrified him.