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They just went in, one after another after another. Into that well. And what for? This country—Pakistan! What did this country give us? Refugee camps and then a war where they dropped a bomb—splat—on our house. Well, at least the poor girls are martyrs. Straight to Paradise.”
    “Why did they have to jump?” Ammi asked—the very question that had been in my mind.
    “The animals, Hindus and Sikhs, were kidnapping the women. Just picking them up and running off with them—just because the girls were Muslim!”
    “Did they come after you ?” Ammi asked.
    “Of course not. They didn’t want married women. They just wanted the virgins. They had standards—even as animals.”
    “Do you think maybe the girls were pulled out of the well? Maybe they’re still alive?”
    “I don’t know. Those were Muslim girls. If they were pulled out? God knows. I don’t know.”
    “Did anyone go back to find out what happened?”
    “Our men went. Before he died, may Allah bless him, my older brother-in-law went back to the old house. To find out about the girls. To see if the treasure was still there.”
    “What treasure?” Ammi asked, as perplexed as I was.
    “Our things! Jewelry belonging to hundreds of years of women. Coins. Gold. Silver. Money. Deeds to land. Receipts for cattle. All of it. Before they fled, my father-in-law put it all in one big cauldron and buried it in the frontyard. Said he would go back when things were safe and retrieve it. You know, we all thought that this India-Pakistan thing was going to be temporary.”
    “Did they get it?” Ammi asked.
    “What do you think? It wasn’t there. The maid they’d had back then must have seen them dig the hole. She was a smart little Hindu girl. She dug the treasure up and disappeared, or so we think. She went to some big city. Maybe Bombay. Maybe Delhi. She’s gone. No use crying over what’s lost. We gave it up for Islam. That’s how it is.”
    “The Holy Prophet and the Emigrants to Medina gave up everything also,” Ammi said. “All for Islam.”
    “There you go,” Dadi Ma replied. “You live; you worship. That’s what this life is for. Rewards are in the next life. Riches are in the next life. Did you hear that, Abir? Pray. Pray and pray and you will have your entire existence to recline on beds of gold in Paradise.”
    “I just want a regular bed,” I said. “And a ring for my pinky.”
    “Whatever you want,” said Dadi Ma. “You should still pray. It will take you to Paradise. Now someone bring me my fan. At least it won’t be hot in Paradise. Too hot here in this desert. Imagine! To go from the cool breeze off the foothills of Kashmir to this desert, where the breeze—. No, this isn’t breeze, it’s furnace blasts; it’s what hell will be like. Well, what can you say? Everything has been written.”
    “Kismet,” Ammi said.
    “Kismet.” Dadi Ma took her fan, leaned back against the wall, and drew her dupatta over her head to form a makeshift tent against the flies. “Anyway, forget it. Send someone to get the naan . Put aside some curry in that pot over there. The boys from the madrassa are coming tonight to ask for food. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when my husband comes home to bother us all.”
    Unlike his wife, I couldn’t wait till Dada Abu came home. I liked him more than anyone else. He was a stylish old man who wore aglittering watch and suits made of boski thread cotton. He drove an apple-red Kawasaki motorcycle and often gave me a ride. He usually arrived shortly before the maghrib prayer at sunset, made wazu , went to the mosque, and then came back for dinner, which he ate quietly with his hands. Then he drank three glasses of cool water from the clay matka —squatting on the ground for each chug as per the example of the Prophet—and left the house to go up the street and sit with his brothers. As he left the house, he often took me along with him and joked with me.
    “Who is this strange boy next to