Seema is uneasy. Tahera has, in fact, refused to eat non-halal meat before, during her visit to San Francisco earlier that year, in spring.

That was the first time Seema saw Tahera after a decade and a half, her only time meeting Tahera’s husband and two children. The day Seema spent showing her sister’s children around San Francisco was the happiest she’d been in some time. It awakened hopes she didn’t know she still harbored.

But there’s no misinterpreting what Tahera signaled by deliberately ignoring her at the airport: I’m here for Ammi, not for you.

In the kitchen, Seema is aware of the throaty whispers of Tahera’s prayers issuing forth from the living room. The whir of the microwave drowns her out, but when the microwave stops, Tahera’s voice in the kitchen sounds like the mutinous hum of a swarm of bees.

A clear warning: Keep away.

4

The pungent smell of fenugreek and roasted fennel from her favorite curry makes Tahera’s mouth water. Her mother has already served the food, and her plate is heaped with chicken curry and rice and raita. But what is the source of the chicken? In her new mood of conciliation post-namaz, Tahera decides she won’t make a fuss. She’ll leave the chicken alone, and hope Nafeesa won’t notice.

She takes her seat as Seema starts eating. Before taking a bite herself, Tahera murmurs self-consciously, head bowed, “Bismillah wa’ala barakatillah.”

Seema freezes, her hand halfway between plate and mouth. It’s clearly been ages since Seema uttered bismillah before eating.

“It just means in the name of Allah and with the blessings of Allah,” Tahera explains her addition to their childhood invocation. “We should be grateful to Allah whenever we receive anything. Especially a meal cooked by Ammi’s own hands after such a long time.”

“How did you know I didn’t cook?” Seema says.

Before Tahera can reply, Nafeesa steps in. “Yes, I cooked the chicken, specially for you. Eat.”

Tahera notes the quick look that passes between Nafeesa and Seema. Nafeesa shakes her head almost imperceptibly as if to warn Seema off.

“Smells delicious, Ammi,” Tahera says, conscious that something’s afoot. “I never can match that aroma, though I follow your recipe. You must cook it again while I’m here so I can figure out what I’m missing.” She tastes the gravy gingerly, and it is delicious.

But by now it’s too late to ask about the chicken. Nafeesa is watching her with anxious eyes. To distract her, Tahera starts talking about her children, how dutiful they are, and how well they’re doing at school. Nafeesa is diverted to inquiring about them. Amina likes writing and spends hours forming her letters with patience and concentration. Arshad likes science, but he’s as bad at mathematics as she once was, except he’s disciplined and works extra hard on it with his father.