Watching the crowd encircle his father-in-law, clapping and singing and making merry, he felt time fold back on itself. It brought with it pieces of his past…the scent of his new bride’s skin, the henna on her hands, the light as it poured in through the blinds the morning after their wedding night, and the sound of her singing in the bathroom. He was hit by an ocean of longing for old times, followed by a wave of hatred for the man who had taken it from him. Akbar Khan hadn’t aged a day and watching him now, acting as if his life had lost none of its vigour, anger began to rise inside Elyas. He wanted to march over and wrap his hands around the old man’s neck and squeeze and squeeze until the life ran out of him.

‘Drink, sir?’ a voice said, snapping Elyas out of his thoughts. He knew now he should not have come. He turned to leave, but stopped. A woman was waving at him from the other side of the marquee. She began walking towards him, pulling the edge of her pink sari tight around her shoulders, the lace of her blouse delicately framing her slender neck, and he felt that old pull in his stomach return. He watched as she effortlessly crossed the crowded marquee and the years of missed opportunities and unsaid words. She stopped before him, and he realised he was holding his breath. He realised, again, that this was a mistake. He realised he hadn’t really got over her.

‘Elyas,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Jia Khan,’ he said, and then nothing. They stood in awkward silence, watching as others who hadn’t met since the last family event embraced, laughed and posed for photographs. The oft-imagined overcooked words saved up for meeting one’s past love fell away as Elyas shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his new shoes cutting into him. He was grateful when she finally broke the silence. ‘You’ve started wearing glasses,’ she said.

The ordinariness of the conversation managed both to annoy him and put him at ease. ‘I’m getting old,’ he said, as he touched the bridge of the solid black spectacles, pushing them into place.

‘They suit you. You look clever.’

Where the hell were you? Why am I here? And what the fuck is going on? – all words he wanted to say, but didn’t. Experience had taught him the consequences of rash actions, and he understood better than most the power of words. Maybe being tongue-tied in front of an old flame was where small talk originated, he thought wryly.

‘You didn’t think I looked clever before?’ he batted back.

‘You look good. And you still haven’t learnt to take a compliment.’

‘No, you’re right, I haven’t. You would know that if you’d answered any of my letters.’