Your two daughters pose, showing off their hair. You immediately recognize each daughter’s handiwork: Seema’s shoulder-length hair much harder to braid, but precisely done, and you can picture Tahera’s fingers moving with the same sureness and concentration of years ago; Tahera’s hair longer, done looser, with escaping strands, especially toward the tip, showing definite signs of her sister losing patience. You can almost hear Seema complaining, as in the past, “But Tahera, your hair takes too much time, it’s so long, ask Ammi to do your hair today.”

The memory makes you momentarily forget your pain, and the hasty step you take toward your daughters causes you to wince. But what is a little pain today amid all this happiness! You’d gladly accept more of it if this evening’s flush were to last forever. How young your daughters look in their twin plaits, and how playful they are together, holding the tips of their braids crossed at their upper lips to form a twirled mustache and beard, as though they’ve assumed their childhood selves.

They insist on doing your hair too, and though you’re reluctant—your hair is so wispy now—you submit to their wheedling, and join in their glee, as they shape what remains into some semblance of plaits.

How does the evening go? There’s sweet chai and sitting by the window and watching the rain as it lets up. Then clouds begin to disperse, and fleeting golden rays of the setting sun pour through the window.

“Will there be a rainbow?” Tahera asks.

The eastern sky cannot be seen from the apartment, and Seema suggests Tahera check from the rooftop.

There’s no rainbow, Tahera finds. “But, Seema, your rooftop’s very pretty, with great views. And there’s a full moon tonight. Why don’t we have dinner up there, like we used to in Chennai?”

Tahera brushes aside every one of your objections: The cooking is simple, and won’t take her very long. She will bring the food up to the rooftop herself. There are tables and chairs already there. They can use shawls if the evening turns cold.

Her only concern is that the three flights of stairs may be too much for you, Grandmother, but you let yourself be carried away by her enthusiasm, and you claim you can handle them.

A whirlwind of activity follows. Tahera flies around the apartment, straightening objects and furniture, returning everything to its proper place, as though any excursion for pleasure must wait on tidiness. And then the maghrib namaz. This is the quickest you’ve seen Tahera pray, like in the black-and-white film clips from your youth—Gandhi and the freedom fighters at the salt march all scurrying like insects! Up she goes, down she goes, now she bends, now she rises, first she turns her head to one side, then to the other, and there—she’s done.

“That was very quick,” you say.