As soon as they reach Seema’s apartment, Tahera insists her first priority is prayer, her maghrib namaz. It’s a refuge she can count on. The ritual of wadu begins to calm her down, the sensation of water on her wrists and elbows, her fingers skimming her hair and down the neck and under the ears. She feels a little more at ease each time she repeats the movements, each gesture small and precise and contained, and completely in her control. After wadu, she spreads her janamaz in one corner of Seema’s living room. Facing the sage walls, the maroon of the janamaz under her feet, she is cloistered in her own private sanctuary. She focuses on her rakaat, the raising of the arms, the clasping of the palms, the bending down to the knees, the prostration, the whispered verses, till everything falls away. Only when she’s kneeling in sajda, after her final rakaah, her forehead and nose to the floor, does she let the sounds of the apartment seep back into her consciousness. Seema and Nafeesa are laying the table for dinner. She sits back on her knees, and breathes out her apprehensions to the right and left, before she gets up to join them, some degree of equanimity restored. She folds the janamaz carefully, precisely, smoothing down the wrinkles, and places it squarely in the corner, claiming the territory as her own.

3

In the kitchen, Seema helps Nafeesa reheat the dishes for dinner. There’s the pulao, and the chicken, neither of which Seema made. Seema rarely cooks Indian food, or any other cuisine for that matter. The spices and provisions in her well-stocked cabinets are a concession to her mother’s visit, purchased at the Indian store the week of Nafeesa’s arrival. Everything she can remember from her mother’s kitchen: rice and dal; chili, coriander, cumin, turmeric; cardamom, clove, cinnamon; tamarind. Yet, over the week, she’s had to add to them daily under Nafeesa’s instructions. Her mother has been cooking every dish she can remember Seema liking.

“Ammi, you should not be spending so much time in the kitchen,” Seema has protested, but only half-heartedly. The mulish set of her mother’s jaw does not invite discussion. Then, too, Nafeesa’s eyes frequently tear up, and Seema knows what her mother leaves unsaid: This is to make up for fifteen years of not mothering you. This is the only chance I will have.

Also, Seema cannot deny herself a taste of everything she missed those motherless years, including the mothering.

But tonight’s chicken is from the supermarket. Nafeesa insisted on cooking Tahera’s favorite dish for dinner. Seema meant to find chicken from a halal store earlier that day, but it slipped her mind, and Nafeesa used the chicken in the fridge, waving aside Seema’s concerns. “Tahera won’t mind this one time, because I made it.”