This is Jahannam, she thinks, this is how it feels to burn in hell. Jahannam is the fire of grief, Jahannam is the fire of guilt and remorse. And above her the sky blares its reds and oranges. The sky is a warning screamed at her.

How long does she stand there looking at—but not seeing—the city as it slowly turns to cinders? Here’s what she sees when the fire has finally burned itself out:

Up the street, two figures, hand in hand. The way one of them waddles instantly identifies her, even from this distance. At the apartment entrance, precisely below her, they turn toward each other and kiss. It’s a long lingering kiss, meant to satiate some deep hunger. Then they part and, amid laughter, disappear into the building.

29

Evening’s here, so come home please. I know no peace, there are no words for my heart’s longing.

Noor Jehan sings, and you, Grandmother, are struck yet again by the pathos she wrings from the words. You’ve listened to the song a few times since yesterday, but twilight is the perfect time for it—as the sky darkens against the windowpanes and the universe shrinks to the room you’re in, while promising to expand to the moon and stars.

“The resurfacing moon and stars revive your memory, pledges of your love,” Fiaz translates from the song with a sigh. “But that’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Eyes half-closed, you both listen to the song. It seems to you, Grandmother, that Fiaz too is no stranger to this long wait at dusk.

“Why do you thank me?” you say. “It’s I who am in your debt.”

“For introducing me to Noor Jehan,” Fiaz says. “I may never have listened to her otherwise.”

You’ve been waiting to express your gratitude since he arrived half an hour ago. But the words have been difficult to pin down: so weighty, yet they flit like wary dragonflies. He arrived with flowers—brilliantly colored gerbera daisies. He followed you into the kitchen praising the aroma of the biryani, peering into the dishes for dinner, lavishing you with fulsome compliments in high Urdu, which made you laugh. He then busied himself arranging the flowers in a vase and later prowled around the living room on the lookout for Seema, until the song cast its spell, and you both fell quiet in its enchantment.

“You are such a good friend to Seema,” you say. “You take such good care of her.”

“She’s like the sister I never had,” he says.

“Then you’re like the son I’ve never had.” You hesitate, then continue, “You’ll make someone a very good life partner one day.”

You stumble on the phrase life partner—how cumbersome it is. But that’s the only phrase you know and the only way you’re comfortable talking about what you think of as his condition. You can’t look at him as you speak, so you gaze out the window. You wonder if he’ll acknowledge your clumsy attempt at declaring your acceptance.