And what did Mehran miss about Karachi in those years after he left, when he hardly ever thought about it? Did he miss his father’s English-speaking relatives, with their Cambridge degrees and garrulous ways? They all lived separate lives, in different, distant parts of town, the relatives in Clifton, Bath Island and Defence, Mehran and his family in Shah Abdul Latif Road. Apart from those family Sundays, the two big Eids were the major occasions for the extended clan to get together. That was when Mehran saw the relatives referred to as The Sindhi Cousins, who were gaudier, bawdier, and far more loving then the Karachi clan, with a gift for feasting and a love of music which meant that they invited some renowned singer to perform at every festivity. In Karachi, worship seemed tied to the cycles of the day and the calendar: you prayed when you saw the new moon, which announced the coming of Ramadan and of Eid, as the rising of the light announced the time to commit yourself to the day’s fast, and the setting of the sun announced the time to break it with another prayer. So there was, in Mehran’s mind at least, a connection between the sky and the seasons and God, who remained an exterior and primordial being. Mehran remembered only one Eid in Indore, which, apart from a visit to the mosque for the men, and special sweets, was as quiet as any other day. His grandmother prayed, without any ceremony, five times a day, as did most of his mother’s family. Looking back, Mehran came to see that prayer there had ceased to be a ritual, to become, instead, reflection: an intense and private duty which brought your Maker closer to you than your jugular vein. Now, in London, Mehran often reads from a little book of prayers in a sunlit room where leaves press against the glass.