Mrs Tarar – who was known to have been a grateful child, then a dutiful wife, and now a contented mother – found herself one October morning unable to stand up from the chair at her dressing table. She had donned a freshly pressed shalwar kameez, wriggled on the sapphire rings Tarar Sahib had gifted her at the births of their two sons, and clasped on the generations-old lapis lazuli and gold bead necklace handed down to her with much ceremony by her mother-in-law. Then, after some consideration, she slid on a new platinum bracelet her older son Asim had sent all the way from New Haven.

Mrs Tarar hoped the bracelet might provide a tolerable topic of conversation with which to break the silence with her husband. They had parted in an unfortunate manner at tea the previous day. For the first time in their marriage, she had been the one to walk away. The light of day sparkling through her pristine windowpanes made her think she might have acted petty. She was anxious about the embarrassment she had caused her husband in front of the household staff – and in front of his mother.

Though she hated to upset the cook’s plans, she determined to look into the breakfast preparations and request Tarar Sahib’s favorite fenugreek potatoes. As head of the staff, the cook would have myriad outlets to express his frustration in some clandestine way later that day, but so be it.

As she pushed down on the brocade chair to get up, she discovered that her lower body was lead.

“Pari!” she yelled out to her personal maid. “Pari?”

Several footsteps thumped down the corridors toward Mrs Tarar’s bedroom. Parveen flew in. The cook and the laundry girl halted in the doorway.

Parveen panted. “What…happened…Iram Baji? Sorry…Missitea?”

“Get me out of this cursed chair, Pari.” Mrs Tarar bristled at the idea that she sounded helpless. At forty-five, she felt as fine as she had at thirty-five. She’d just seen her younger son, Yasir, off to college and felt as if she could raise another. She was assiduous about her health regimen, with long walks and plenty of greens, lemon, and turmeric in her diet, so she wouldn’t flesh out like her mother or turn arthritic like her mother-in-law.

Parveen grasped Mrs Tarar’s arm and pulled – to no avail. She grabbed both arms and yanked, but only managed to fall backwards. “What a day for you to be stricken like this,” she moaned from the floor.

The laundry girl shuffled, then blurted, “Didn’t I tell you all? This new foreign name is a bad omen. First Sahib ji and now –”

The cook glowered at her. “Watch your mouth. Can’t you see Madam – Missitea – is in distress?”

Mrs Tarar smacked the arm of her chair. “I didn’t ask any of you to call me that!”

“Sahib ji’s orders, no?” the laundry girl quipped, then ducked under the cook’s raised hand and dashed down the hall.

*

Two months ago, as Mrs Tarar returned from Lahore airport after seeing Yasir off on his flight to Houston, she had looked forward to curling up in her quilt in the silent darkness of her room with her own thoughts. There had not been a day in the last twenty-five years that she had neither son at home. As the chauffeur drove them back, she kept her gaze on the streets, unable to engage with Tarar Sahib’s chatter.

As they pulled up at home, an assembly of familiar cars blocked access to their carport. Tarar Sahib laughed. “You see, I knew you would need distraction today, so I’ve asked all our dear friends over for dinner.” At Mrs Tarar’s distraught look, he added, “Cook and Parveen have this under control. You don’t have a thing to worry about.” He watched her face until she attempted a smile and then, satisfied, exited the car to embrace his best friend, Dr Rafiq, who had also just arrived.

As dinner led into dessert, Tarar Sahib, settling in with his cup of chai, polled the gathered company for their opinions on how his wife might deal with her inevitable doldrums. “It will be a few years yet before she can expect the blessing of grandchildren to occupy her. It seems our elder one, Asim, is busy with all that, but in no hurry to settle down. You know how it is in America.”

The men chuckled. The women, several of whom were already satisfied grandmothers, eyed Mrs Tarar with sympathy. She averted her eyes from them and got up to make sure that the elder Begum Tarar, her mother-in-law, got her chai the way she liked it – half-a-cupful with extra milk and one stevia tablet. Begum Tarar was hard of hearing, so her son rarely bothered to ask her opinion, though in Mrs Tarar’s experience, she had plenty to say. She particularly enjoyed ordering Parveen about, despite having the laundry girl at her disposal in the months that she stayed with them. Tarar Sahib had instructed the entire household to attend to his mother’s every need.

“Maybe Yasir will keep an eye on Asim,” Dr Rafiq said. He slurped his tea.

Tarar Sahib popped an entire rasgulla into his mouth. “That younger boy of mine doesn’t know his pen from his…” The rest of his words were lost behind the napkin he used to wipe the syrup from his mouth. “I’d hoped his cousin, Zeeshan, might show him the ropes, but my wife here won’t let him live with my sister. She’s not wrong though. The boy needs to develop some independence.”

The men talked over each other boisterously, sharing jokes about their own ignorant youths, and some who’d known others since their schooldays brought up unsavory memories, then cut each other off with, “Come on yaar, the ladies, think of the ladies.”

Mrs Tarar did not like the way Tarar Sahib had spoken about her studious Yasir, the way Asim might have about his younger brother. She felt an unfamiliar urge to leave her husband’s side. For over a quarter of a century of marriage to Tarar Sahib, who was ten years her senior, she’d preserved her sense of dignity by acting with honor. Too many eyes, including the present company, had waited to see an inexperienced girl slip, undermine her husband who already had a significant social standing in the community, thanks to his inheritance, and a savvy ruthlessness.

At his invitation, Tarar Sahib’s guests pondered Mrs Tarar’s options, bandying possibilities back and forth like a shuttlecock in a game of badminton. They cheered Dr Rafiq’s shot.

Dr Rafiq, on the slightest encouragement, would bring up how his wife, as the long-time principal of a private elementary school, had raised the school’s rank to the number one spot among the elite families of Lahore. “No one can escape her sharp eye or her iron fist – not the students, not the teachers, not even the parents.”

Not even her husband, Mrs Tarar thought he might as well add.

Mrs Rafiq neither opposed, nor confirmed her husband’s reportage of her success. Mrs Tarar understood how she saw no point in interfering with her husband’s joy. Of all of Tarar Sahib’s friends’ wives, Mrs Rafiq had been the most cordial after her wedding, advising her on how to interview help, and who to mix with. However, Mrs Tarar had been too young, and Mrs Rafiq too busy raising three children, for them to nurture a friendship.

“Theoretically,” Dr Rafiq explained to the group, “she can create a new administrative post at the school to offer our sister.”

Mrs Rafiq maintained a blank expression, so Mrs Tarar knew that Dr Rafiq’s enthusiasm would remain in the realm of theory.

Begum Tarar clanked her teacup down on its saucer. “Respectable,” she exclaimed. “The house of Tarar has always been respectable.”

Mrs Tarar got up to clear away the teacup. No telling how much her mother-in-law had heard. Her outburst could be perceived as a rebuttal to Dr Rafiq, but, just as likely, it could have been a demand to remove the dirty cup from her sight. Or, she might have objected to the men’s earlier banter. Begum Tarar’s proclamations were often delayed.

However, Tarar Sahib’s face assumed a concerned expression. “Now, Rafiq, not any position will do.”

Dr Rafiq patted his comrade’s knee and turned to his wife. “We understand, don’t we?”

Mrs Tarar knew that a positive reaction was expected from Mrs Rafiq, so she gave her an excuse. She made eye contact with her and smiled broadly. Mrs Rafiq smiled back. The room was gratified. Mr Tarar moved on to ask his friends’ opinion on how he might handle a troublesome constituency in a provincial district he’d held for over twenty-five years. Pleasant camaraderie over the lamentable state of national politics carried the rest of the evening.

As Mrs Tarar had predicted, Dr Rafiq overestimated his wife’s ability to create an administrative post at will. Several weeks after the party, the best Mrs Rafiq managed was to bring to their attention an opening for a kindergarten teacher. Still, Mrs Tarar found herself intrigued by the prospect.

In the weeks since Yasir’s departure, she’d felt lighter not having to worry about his needs hour to hour. But she carried some guilt about this; missed talking with him. Asim had grown distant as soon as he hit puberty, but Yasir would do his homework by her even through high school, chat about the novels from his literature class – many that she read for the first time along with him, amazed that only a decade ago, she had been teaching him to read. She imagined reading stories with young children again.

“Do you think we should consider it?” she asked Tarar Sahib over breakfast. She looked at her toast, and not directly at him, because she did not often make requests that involved only her interest.

At first, Tarar Sahib dismissed the idea altogether. He told her he’d learned that the opportunity had already been placed in the papers. “I can’t have my wife competing with riffraff.”

After Tarar Sahib left for a tour of one of his pharmaceutical factories, Mrs Tarar gathered her courage and called Mrs Rafiq at the school. On hearing Tarar Sahib’s objection, Mrs Rafiq offered to Mrs Tarar that, if she chose to apply, she would be the first interviewee on the list.

At home that night, Tarar Sahib reconsidered the suggestion, given the development. “I’ll have a talk with Rafiq,” he said. He ate his dinner in uncustomary silence. “It’s an absurd little job, wouldn’t you agree? How much can they pay you?” He scooped the last of the kofta curry from his plate with a piece of naan and chewed thoughtfully. “Not that you need the money.”

“It’s not the pay.” Mrs Tarar had hardly touched her naan as she awaited further objections from Tarar Sahib. “I thought it might be interesting.”

Tarar Sahib laughed. “Do I bore you? You’d rather keep the company of children.”

“You’re not always home –”

“I can be, you know.” He took the hem of her dupatta and rolled it between his fingers. Mrs Tarar glanced around for the servants, embarrassed.

“It’s different,” she tried, then in her hurry to change the subject, brought up money again even as she regretted it. “Even if the paycheck is small, it would be fun to earn something for once. I’ll give it away in charity if you like.”

“What I like is for you to be there when I’m home.” He observed her untouched food. “I had worried that I’d lose you to depression. But now it seems your mind might be elsewhere.”

Mrs Tarar took a few bites of food to set her husband at ease as she considered her next move. “Would we be disappointing Dr Rafiq – after everything?”

Tarar Sahib sighed. “Fine. I need to call him anyway. There was an issue at the factory today with his last order. ”

The morning after her interview, Mrs Tarar received a phone call from Mrs Rafiq. Given that the school year had already begun when the previous teacher had resigned, the school board decided that despite Mrs Tarar’s lack of experience, because she spoke well, had raised two boys successfully, and could start immediately, they would offer her the position. Before she hung up, Mrs Rafiq mentioned, as an aside, that several board members were pleased at the prospect of listing Mr and Mrs Tarar’s name on the school’s promotional materials.

That night Mrs Tarar tossed in bed chafing about Mrs Rafiq’s last words. As dawn broke, she determined to pour her heart into the work and prove herself worthy of her position.

After her first week of teaching, Mrs Tarar returned home exhausted but glowing. Never had so many persons clamored for her attention and appreciated the effort she put in all day. And how they loved to hear a story! She set up her class day to begin with story time and end with a reading too.

Friday was a half-day, so, as soon as she arrived home, she hurried to her room to freshen up for a quick tea with her husband, and then to head out with the chauffeur to acquire supplies to convert the reading nook in her room into a workspace.

But when she entered her bedroom that adjoined Tarar Sahib’s, she spotted on her dresser an unfamiliar box amidst the usual jumble of mismatched candles. She preferred to think of the candles as Tarar Sahib’s. He liked to make love by candlelight. She had become known among their friends for her passion for collecting candles. People gifted her artisan candles made by destitute women in far-flung villages. They remembered her when they vacationed in foreign countries. She accepted their gifts grudgingly. Tarar Sahib would visit her through a low interior door between their bedrooms, choose a candle, make love to her in the shadows it threw, and then blow it out as he left her bed. Receiving these candles embarrassed her. It felt as if the whole world were complicit in the rhythms of Tarar Sahib’s visits to her room.

The box that lay by the candles that afternoon was a matte-black cube. At first, she thought it might be another gift of jewelry from Tarar Sahib. If they ever had a disagreement, he made up for it with a gift. But they had not seen each other enough this week to have disagreed on anything. In fact, today would be the first time all week that they’d be having afternoon tea together. She smiled at the possibility that he might have missed her. But then she shook the thought from her head. Years of missed teas had gone by without note as he stayed out on factory tours and political engagements.

The box on the dresser was of a sleek, more modern style, heftier, colder, than the ones Tarar Sahib chose. She opened the magnetic flap of the lid and peered in. A wide platinum cuff bracelet caught the light in its fine hexagonal mesh carving. She lifted the beehive of a bracelet with one finger and marveled at its weight. Mrs Tarar noticed tucked inside the box a paper note. She unfolded it cautiously, worried it might be a receipt forgotten inside by the careless gift-giver. It took her a moment to recognize Asim’s handwriting. He had made the effort to use a fountain pen.

Darling Mama, I got this for you from my first paycheck. I want you to know that your son is now in the proud position of being able to take care of you forever.

Her heart plummeted even though Asim had probably expected it to leap. Her own paycheck was not enough to sustain her lifestyle, but it had felt like a portal. She would never speak of it, but she had even looked into what kind of housing she might be able to rent with it. Just as a joke, not a practical curiosity. Asim’s words felt like she had been found out, like a pinprick in some childish balloon. She reread his last words and let the note drop. She retreated from the room without stopping to change.

In the living room, Begum Tarar, already ensconced in her armchair with the antique lace doilies, said her rosary under her breath. Tarar Sahib waved Mrs Tarar to the sofa chair next to his. “Come, come. How lucky we are today to have the pleasure of your company.”

She recomposed herself and smiled. He could have been talking about himself and his mother, but Mrs Tarar knew that right then he was referring to himself in the old-fashioned collective first person. This meant either an occasion for displeasure or humor. She did not have the verve to deal with either. “And I, yours,” she mumbled.

“The school must be keeping you terribly distracted.” He wiggled his right eyebrow in the way he used to indicate he was only half-joking but was willing to accept the situation he had chosen to jest about. “Now tell us.” He settled back in his cushions with apparent relish. “What has been your favorite part of the week?”

“Well, the children have taken to calling me Mrs T.” She relaxed at the memory of how it began as they begged for one more story the other morning.

This set Tarar Sahib off into a belly laugh. “That’s all?” he asked.

In their time together, that laugh had been a consolation to Mrs Tarar that her husband, though much older than her in years, was not like those dour, under-confident young men her cousins had wedded. By the time of their marriage, Tarar Sahib had already established a reputation for big-heartedness toward those who moved in his circles. If Mrs Tarar ever scolded him gently for being overly zealous in his gifts, especially to his friends in government posts, he distracted her with a box of barfi from the best sweet shop in town, or if he had been objectionably extravagant, a sparkling jewel for her. Such had been the rhythms of their nominal disagreements because Mrs Tarar had learned quickly to not interfere in his domains. The children and household, he left to her, as long as his mother did not complain. The content Tarar Sahib never failed to announce at his annual get together with his old college mates that no man in this city (“not a single man,” they had begun to chant after him) had made a better match than he.

But when Mr Tarar laughed about the children’s nickname for her, Mrs Tarar suspected that perhaps he had laughed at her and not with her. Disturbed by Asim’s gift, and now, frustrated with her husband’s jocular manner when she should have found it pleasurable, her sense of confusion escalated.

Her frustration must have reflected on her face because Mr Tarar stopped mid-laugh and watched her for a few seconds. She did not make small talk to lighten the silence. He struggled out of the sofa (his knees had been troubling him of late), and went into his own bedroom where he rustled about for a few minutes. When he emerged, Mrs Tarar spied from where she sat that he was hiding something behind him. Instead of returning to the drawing room where tea would arrive shortly, he ambled down the hall toward the kitchen. His presence in the kitchen was such a rare event that Mrs Tarar anticipated the tumbling of pots and the skittering of maids that ensued. He then returned to the drawing room empty-handed and lowered himself into the sofa again.

Tea was brought in, not by one of the kitchen girls, but by the cook himself. After he had unloaded the serving tray, the cook composed himself and, with a flourish, reached for the tea cozy.

“Stop,” Tarar Sahib said. The cook’s hand froze above the knitted bobble of the tea cozy. “Where are the others? Call them all in. Our task has grown.”

“Let him pour my tea first!” his mother chided.

Tarar Sahib said, “Ji, Ma,” but flicked his finger at the cook to do as he had asked.

The others Tarar Sahib summoned comprised the battalion of household help. They came in from their various stations around the house and grounds and formed a knot by the beaded curtain at the entrance. Once the gardener had thumped his four-year-old nephew to stop him from chewing on the beads and everyone was paying attention, Tarar Sahib nodded at the cook.

Mrs Tarar and Begum Tarar watched as the tea cozy was lifted to reveal a carved wooden box.

“What’s wrong with you?” Begum Tarar scolded the cook.

Mrs Tarar understood the box was meant for her, that it would be velvet-lined (Tarar Sahib never used cheap boxes), but she couldn’t guess what might be nestled in there. He was beaming with anticipation, so she obliged him by reaching for the box. She brought it to her lap, but as her fingers hovered over the lid, he said once more, “Stop.”

She stayed her hand and suppressed a sigh.

He turned to the company at the threshold and proclaimed, “The lady of the house would prefer to be called ‘Mrs T’ and we have gathered you here to let you know that we expect you to humor this wish from now on.”

The gardener’s nephew asked the laundry girl the meaning of “Missitea,” and was poked into silence by his uncle.

Mrs T waited until Tarar Sahib nod at her to proceed. As she unlatched the lid, a tight bundle of rupees that had been suffocating inside the box gasped out onto her lap. Tarar Sahib leaned back in his chair, pleased with the drama enacted by the bills. Mrs T regathered the money, including some that had spilled to the floor, and looked toward him with the blank face she reserved for those moments when she wasn’t sure what expression would best gratify him.

“Three years of teaching salary,” Tarar Sahib announced. Then he glanced around the room as if they were in an auditorium. “Now our Mrs T has her name,” he elevated his voice, “as well as the money she will have no need to toil for.”

Mrs T’s gut curled as tightly as the notes that had been tucked into the box. There had never been a need for expressions of gratitude between husband and wife. So when she got up from her chair without a word, Tarar Sahib did not lose his smile.

She walked over to the servants with the cash in her hand. They parted to let her pass. She stopped by the gardener’s nephew and told the boy to show her his hand.

“I swear, Missitea, I haven’t taken anything,” the boy said. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and instead scowled at his uncle, his hands clenched.

“Do what Madam…Missitea says,” the cook barked.

Mrs T waited for the boy to comply even as her head felt hazy. Her soul was determined on an act that her mind seemed powerless to resist. The gardener pried one of the boy’s grubby hands open. Mrs T placed the wad of rupees in the boy’s hand, closed his fingers over it amidst gasps from the other servants, and walked off to her own bedroom. Her mind wrestled with the act even after it was done, and finally retreated, boxing it up as charity.

Tarar Sahib had not called her back, or enquired after her at dinnertime. He had not entered her room at night through the little door. So she prepared to face him the next morning and endure whatever form his displeasure might descend in, most likely an extended absence to tour the family’s rural estates without her, or worse, late nights out with Dr Rafiq on what they called cultural shows – lewd dances, in Mrs Rafiq’s opinion, that defiled the history of the art form with suggestive lyrics and moves imported from cinema.

But the next morning, when she had steeled herself to leave her room, she had to first contend with the clutch of her chair.

Parveen made a third attempt to free her, this time grabbing her under the arms, but it was as if a boulder had been placed on Mrs T’s lap.

“Oh, what a day for this catastrophe,” Parveen whined again.

“I’m not doing this on purpose, Pari,” Mrs T snapped.

“But Missitea,” Parveen said, looking back and forth between her and the cook. “After you left, Sahib ji was holding his chest and wouldn’t let any of us near him, not even Begum sahiba. He sat there until dinner time but would not eat. Cook had to help him into bed.”

Mrs Tarar panicked on the inside but maintained her composure so as not to alarm the staff. “Has anyone checked on him this morning?”

“He won’t let us pull aside the curtains,” the cook said.

Parveen leaned in and whispered, “He’s been asking for you as he comes in and out of consciousness.”

“For me?” Mrs T whispered back, her eyes wide. He had never asked for her before. He never had need too; she had always, somehow, been there. She glanced at the private door between their rooms. Tarar Sahib used that door whenever he wished to visit her at night. She only ever had need to enter his room via the main door off the hallway to check on whether it had been tidied properly. Sometimes she brought him his paper if she hadn’t seen him in a day and wondered if he was home or had left on a last-minute trip without informing her.

Mrs T appreciated Parveen’s speaking discreetly of his request for her. If Tarar Sahib were in his full faculties, he would not have expressed a need for her in such a vulnerable manner. She must answer his call secretly; she would use the inner door to his room. Given his state, she decided that news of the bracelet from Asim would not be appropriate, so she removed it.

No sooner had she slid it off, then she felt as if her chair, too, had loosened its hold on her. She shifted and found that she could move again. She stood up, unsure what had just occurred, but was relieved to rise to her full height.

“It seems that I’m alright,” she told Parveen in a low voice. “Leave now – I’ll see for myself what he needs.”

Alone again, she approached the door between their rooms and considered it awhile. But she could not bring herself to proceed before investigating something more pressing in her own room. She turned back.

*

At a groan from the other side of the wall – her husband’s voice, yet strange to her ears – Mrs T hurried to the little door and nudged it to peek in. Tarar Sahib’s room was dark and dank. She maneuvered around his bedroom slippers and a newspaper that had slid off his bedside table. She squinted as she approached his slumped form. She dared not pull aside a curtain or turn on a lamp for fear of shocking his senses. Her foot landed in a damp patch of carpet. She jumped back at the thought that she might have stepped in urine. But a ceramic soup bowl lay on its side nearby. Begum Tarar must have ordered the bleary-eyed cook to brew a batch of chicken broth at the crack of dawn and tried to press it on Tarar Sahib. The broth was probably resentfully under-seasoned. The room smelled gamey.

Tarar Sahib turned to her, his face as pale and gray as the newspaper clippings that hung framed on the walls of his room – local news stories about his business conquests and political coups.

Surprised by a sensation of revulsion, Mrs T paused. She had expected to feel pity, not disdain. “What’s wrong, Abid?”

Her husband emitted a pained grunt.

“You need water.” She searched the room to see if anyone had thought to bring in a pitcher. “I’ll call Dr Rafiq.”

She picked up the soup bowl and opened the door to the hallway, but Tarar Sahib called her back. Reluctantly, she shut the door. He was struggling to sit up, so she helped him, tucked his hair back from his forehead and propped him up on his pillows.

“You don’t need us, Iram – we see.” He attempted a smile.

Mrs T sat at the edge of the bed and watched her husband of thirty years. But you have always needed us, she thought. She took his hand and put off the call to Dr Rafiq until his breathing settled and he fell into a peaceful sleep.

*

Dr Rafiq was unable to identify what ailed his friend. Mrs Rafiq proclaimed, in a rare voluble moment, that it looked for all the world like a broken heart, and how wonderful to know that Tarar Sahib had had a heart all along. She offered Mrs T as much leave as needed. Apparently, she had no shortage of substitutes.

In the two short weeks that followed, no one expressed surprise at the forbearance Mrs T exhibited as she saw Tarar Sahib through his pain management, and then his last rites. Hers was the shoulder everyone leaned on: Begum Tarar (despite accusing Mrs T of having given her son a heart attack, which she believed had been corroborated by Mrs Rafiq); their sons (Asim had flown back on emergency leave, but Mrs T had insisted Yasir not return so as not to jeopardize his student visa); even Tarar Sahib’s business colleagues (who needed a sign on whether to initiate certain deals that had been agreed upon and Mrs T instructed them to carry on in their best judgement, because one must).

Tarar Sahib’s sister called from Houston. “Will you be okay, Iram?”

They had been best friends before they were made sisters. The fluid ease of their girlhood relationship had not survived the strain of Iram’s earnest commitment to her role as a married woman. At the sound of Zeba’s voice, Iram almost buckled under a craving to be held by one who knew her. But she had trained herself out of that need for too many years now. Put oceans between that need and herself. She had mastered the art of distraction. She changed the subject to talk of their boys.

Over those days, Mrs Rafiq told Mrs T that it was in such trying times a woman discovers her might. For her own part, Mrs T found the obligation in that time no different from what she had done all these years. Just as she had fulfilled her duties as a wife to Tarar Sahib in life, so she did in his sickness and death.

But it was after the funeral that people were confounded to see no change in her manner. She did miss his cheer, found herself unmoored not having to anticipate his every need. But there was much to be taken care of. She had never been one to buckle to what was past, had a way of seizing the present.

Mrs Rafiq told her that she had tapped into a supernatural reserve of strength during her husband’s illness. She could use time to recover. She suggested that the substitute teacher might be offered a permanent position and Mrs T need not return to teach after her forty-day mourning period. Mrs T accepted. Both women knew that the House of Tarar needed her.

Mrs T sent Asim back to New Haven, surprising him with a gift of the sapphire she had worn in his name every day, telling him the ring would probably be of better use to a new generation. She considered keeping Yasir’s ring, but then, at the airport, sent it on to him in Asim’s care. She convinced her mother-in-law to return to Tarar Sahib’s younger brother’s home. There she would have grandchildren to fuss over. As she tucked Begum Tarar into the backseat of the car with a warm blanket, Mrs T handed her the lapis lazuli necklace, saying that it would be more appropriate worn by the wife of her living son. Begum Tarar could not argue with this, but her astute eyes lingered on the neckline of Mrs T’s newly tailored tunic. “The lace shows well against your complexion.”

After Begum Tarar had departed, Mrs T asked Parveen to accompany her to a jewelry store to replace the silver star of her nose stud with a diamond of her own choosing. On the way back, she stopped at her beauty parlor and asked the hairdresser to give her an appropriate look for the various business meetings that were pending on Tarar Sahib’s schedule. She knew that she would have to pretend to understand the finer points of the discussions until she developed a sense for them. But she would have to endure, because it would have deeply concerned Tarar Sahib to think that people who had expectations from him had been disappointed in any way. Their sons had no interest in the details of their father’s businesses, though they had inherited substantial gains from them. Mrs T thought she owed it to Tarar Sahib’s legacy to receive the people who still had business with him.

First, the creditors came, and when she had dispensed with their business, they stayed for tea. Word spread that House of Tarar was still welcoming guests, and the creditors were soon followed by the usual stream of beggars, both financial and social. When she took refuge in her brocade chair from all this coming and going, Mrs T realized that she was the only one who was not amazed by her fortitude.

*

However, she remembered with clarity her own moment of surprise.

After Parveen left her room on the morning of Tarar Sahib’s sickness, Mrs T had turned back from the door to her husband’s room because of a nagging thought. Back at the dressing table she picked up the platinum cuff bracelet from her son. She passed it from hand to hand, feeling its carvings, marveling at its weight. With a deep breath, she sat down on her chair and slipped it on again. The force that held her down again crept up from her legs into her gut. She felt it tug on the back of her neck, on every nerve now. She shook off the bracelet with such force that it clanged against her mirror, cracking it. And she found that she could stand again.

She reread the note in the box. The pang of dread she had felt on the discovery of the bracelet the previous evening returned. She crumpled the paper. Her next instinct was to tear it up, but the thought felt like a violation of maternal mores. So she gave in to the impulse in a controlled manner and tore off just a little corner. A brief sense of release pervaded her at the fulfillment of this act. Still, she could not bring herself to tear up the whole note. She placed the paper and its torn corner in the box. She set the bracelet on top of the note and chose a half-used candle from her bedside. She lit it and buried the note in a pool of translucent wax. The bracelet, too, was glued to the bottom of the box. This gave her such relief that she chose a heftier candle, wedged it in the middle of the bracelet and lit it. The candle dripped its wax slowly into the gift box as she headed for the door to Tarar Sahib’s room.

Mrs T returned to her room all day to ensure the flame in the box remained lit until the entire bracelet stood buried in wax.