“You understand you are the surrogate repentant, Layla Bai?” he asked and Layla nodded. “Please, come forward a little, Layla Bai,” Mukhi said. He stood on the opposite side of the bed.

Layla pressed her palms together and leaned over Mansoor’s body. “Dear Imam, on behalf of my husband, I beg you to please forgive his sins, known and unknown.” Her legs trembled against the bed, her voice shook.

Mukhi dipped his fingers into the bowl. “He is forgiven,” he said, spraying Layla’s face with the holy water. Then, he sprayed Mansoor’s face. He repeated the ablution: Layla’s face, Mansoor’s face. Layla. Mansoor.

“Dear Imam, on behalf of my husband, I beg you to please forgive all his sins, known and unknown.” Layla’s eyes filled with tears.

Mukhi dipped his fingers into the water. “He is forgiven.” Layla’s face, Mansoor’s face. Layla. Mansoor. Layla, Mansoor.

“Dear Imam, on behalf of my husband, I beg you to please forgive his sins, known and unknown.”

“He is forgiven. He is forgiven. He is forgiven.” Layla. Mansoor. Layla, Mansoor. LaylaMansoor.

Mukhi reached over the bed and held a crystal rock of sugar at her mouth. She wiped her palms over her wet face, and let the sweetness fill her mouth.

“Should I start, Aunty?” Arzeen asked.

Layla nodded.

Arzeen pushed some buttons, turned some knobs, and unhooked the tubes. The machines beeped and flashed. Mansoor’s body convulsed. His eyes popped open, locked onto Layla’s. Layla lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “Rest in peace, my husband. You are forgiven.” Mansoor took his final breath, then closed his eyes.

Layla dusts the kitchen counter with a little more flour. She spreads a square of dough on top and gently presses her rolling pin over it. Slow-slow-quick-quick-slow. Until the pur is paper-thin. Then she scoops a spoonful of spiced minced chicken from a massive steel bowl and massages it into the middle of the square. She dips a finger into a jar of melted ghee, lifts one corner of the delicate pastry, and folds it, like a flap of an envelope, over the mound of meat. She continues like this, gently pulling and tugging at each corner, until she is satisfied with the shape. She flips the perfect triangle over in her palms and pats it with a little more ghee, before setting it on the growing pyramid of samosas. She wants enough to feed everyone at the wake.

She is also cooking Mansoor’s favourite dishes—a tradition many don’t follow anymore. She will take the platters to jamatkhana tonight, where they will be auctioned off at naandi, the nightly offering of food. She knows her husband’s tastes well, as if they are her own. A pinch more salt in the dhar lentils, a little less chili in the masala fish, one-quarter finger of cumin in the cauliflower curry, medium-thick consistency for the beef curry, a handful and a bit of coriander for the meat pies, two-and-a-half fingers of mashed potatoes for the Indian shepherd’s pie. Recipes she has tailored over thirty years of marriage, memorized by heart. She thinks of all the meals she and Mansoor have had together. Hundreds. Thousands. More. Her heart aches. She asks the Imam to please deliver this food to Mansoor, to help make this, his final journey, as easy and comfortable as possible. Amen.