“Amina loves to sing,” Tahera affirms, still beaming. “Seema, how do you know?”

“The day I spent with them, she sang that song we used to like as children, the one about the runaway horse. Do you remember, Ammi?”

Of course, you do! The tape recorder blaring, the two girls rewinding and playing the song over and over again, singing along, clopping all over the house, or twirling in tight circles to it, their twin plaits and dupattas flying horizontally. You were afraid your daughters would hurt themselves by crashing into furniture as they collapsed from dizziness. When the tape caught in the spool, the house was quiet again until, giving in to their pestering, their father bought them another copy. You scolded him for spoiling his daughters, and he laughed at you, chucking your chin, saying, “Should I spoil you instead, my beautiful unsmiling wife?”

The phone rings and Seema answers it, and Grandmother, by her face you know this is him: your husband. You’ve been missing him all evening. Your husband has called, finally, and right when you were thinking about him. Perhaps the timing is a good omen, presaging a reconciliation.

My grandfather’s voice floats thinly into the room: “Nafeesa?”

Without saying a word, Seema holds out the phone, the liveliness from moments ago erased. You want to shake her: Say something to your father.

He’s querulous. “Why didn’t you call me? I was worried about you.”

He’s never called Seema’s number before; he’d vowed never to use it. What made him change his mind, when he could so easily have called Tahera on her cell phone? You want to scold him: Why call here if you’re not even going to address your daughter?

You’re not going to apologize for not calling, you’re not going to say anything unsolicited, even though fifteen minutes earlier you’d yearned to speak to him. Instead you answer to the point: you’re fine; you’re eating well, sleeping well; yes, you’re taking your tablets; yes, Tahera is here, she’s reading Keats.

Unsought, he volunteers information about himself: the monsoons have started, and he got drenched in a downpour; the street outside is flooded; the maidservant hasn’t come for the past two days, citing the rains as an excuse; your sister, Halima, has been bringing him food.

There’s a whiny quality to his voice. You’re aware of the others in the room listening to your conversation, and you keep your responses short and impassive.

Hesitantly, he asks when you are likely to return.

“I don’t know. Seema is due anytime.” You mention Seema’s name casually to him, something you wouldn’t have dared a week ago. His timidity bolsters your courage. “Do you want to speak to your daughter?”

Tahera rises to take the phone from you, and Seema has stiffened. You set a trap for him with that word—he has sworn many times he has only one daughter now—but he doesn’t fall for it. “Not now, I’m heading out. I’ll speak to Tahera later, it’s been years since we discussed Keats.”