He doesn’t answer her but doesn’t appear fazed by her questioning either. Instead he says, “I’ll tell you why you covered your head.”

“Why?”

“Because you saw people looking at us. You were afraid of what they’d think.”

“Why should I be afraid? Why should I care what people think of me?”

He looks at her with a sly grin. “No, you were afraid of what people would think of Amina and me. You don’t like us covering our heads.” He pulls his cap off his head and twirls it around on his fingers. “People are scared of us. They think we’ll become terrorists.”

Seema looks at them, Arshad fiddling with his cap, Amina adjusting her hijab. They are waiting for something from her: some acknowledgment perhaps, some reassurance?

She can’t trust herself to speak. She’s angry: at Tahera and Ismail, for their pigheaded choice of a lifestyle that made outcasts of their children. But also: at Amina and Arshad, as if she blames them for accepting unquestioningly the life their parents imposed on them. But aren’t they more to be pitied than blamed? Growing up, she hadn’t much choice either, not until she left home.

“People are just stupid,” she says. “It’s easier to control them if they’re scared. And it’s easier to make them scared of those who are different.”

“You shouldn’t call anyone stupid,” Amina says.

“What do you call a Muslim who prays five times a day and offers zakat to the poor?” Arshad asks.

Seema shakes her head. “What?”

“A problem. What do you call a Muslim who prays five times a day, offers zakat to the poor, and grows a beard and wears a cap?”

“I don’t know.”

“A big problem. What do you call a Muslim who uses swear words and drinks wine and eats pork and chases after women?”

She’s startled by how fluent he is, how self-possessed. She detects no rancor in him, only wry amusement. And he doesn’t seem to care that there are people milling around them.

“A problem solved!” Arshad chortles. “What, Seema Aunty! Surely believing in Allah is not the worst thing one can do.”

He throws his cap into the air. As it reaches the zenith and starts to fall, a gust of wind picks it up and carries it over the edge of the railings.

“Bhaiya, your cap!” Amina cries.

She runs to the railings but Arshad stops her. The cap billows as it is lifted, catches the sunlight as it leaves the shadow of the tower, and glows like a lightbulb.

“It doesn’t matter,” he scoffs. “It’s just a cap.”

“What will you tell Ammi?” Amina whispers.

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” Arshad says, this time less surely. He gives Seema a quick smile. “Look how lovely it is. Everything is by Allah’s grace.”