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why?’
    ‘You remember my friend – the one who settled down in Bareilly?’
    Mrs Sabharwal remembered no such friend – but her memory was bad and she said nothing.
    ‘Well, Mama, do you? Anyway, they have just discovered her husband has cancer – poor man, he is only in his late thirties, she called me in a total flap, they have to go right away to Bombay – and she has asked me if I can come – only till her parents manage to get there – so can you, Mama? Just for the weekend – two nights? Not even two days? I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.’
    There were many things Mrs Sabharwal didn’t know, many, many. Why you had to go to Bombay if you had cancer, who Shagun’s friends were, and whether they were married in Bareilly or not. But she could read the minutest change in her daughter’s voice and now suspicion unwillingly filtered through her mind as she agreed to spend the time required with her grandchildren in their mother’s absence.
    Once in Shagun’s house she was reassured. The children were as loving as ever, the servants gave no dubious replies to any of her oblique questions. But when Shagun returned two days later, the glow on her face, the radiance emanating from her made the mother’s alarm wearily rise to do more duty.
    She might as well rush in where angels fear to tread. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.
    Shagun blushed. ‘What are you talking about, Mama?’
    ‘You weren’t really in Bareilly, were you?’
    ‘Of course I was. Phone Rita – I can give you her number – and ask her.’
    ‘Phone a stranger to enquire about my daughter? No thank you.’
    ‘Mama – if you don’t trust me, you shouldn’t have agreed to come. I am tired now – and I want to spend time with the children. I am sure they missed me more than you did.’
    Quietly Mrs Sabharwal left the house. Her intuition made her wretched. She would have given anything to not know that Raman was no longer the centre of Shagun’s life. For the first time in twelve years, she felt irritated with him. He must be to blame in some way, her daughter would not jeopardise her home so easily. If that was not true, her life’s work had failed.
    All night Mrs Sabharwal tossed and turned, desolately seeking sleep. The electricity went. The inverter came on, and with it the fan. Again and again Raman’s face rose before her with all the urgency of a threatened species. Was this her fault in some way? Since her teens, Shagun had had an infinite number of unsuitable boys after her – she had needed to ensure her daughter’s safety before the fruit was snatched and a tender life ruined. Raman was the antidote to every fear.
    All that anxious care had apparently served no purpose. This was a worse situation to be in. Such transgressions seldom remained hidden. Some servant, some overheard phone call, some casual reported encounter. Raman might resort to violence against his wife, hard to imagine, but till yesterday it had also been hard to imagine her daughter going astray. And what about Raman’s safety? Stories of lovers murdering husbands appeared regularly in the newspapers.
    She got up to start reciting the Gayatri Mantra, praying for protection for her daughter and grandchildren. She prayed for Raman too as she had done all these years. How often had she told him that he was better than any son because she would never lose him to a wife. Now a wife was coming between them.
    Next morning found her at her daughter’s door. ‘Why do you want to destroy my peace?’ she demanded. ‘You have to tell me who he is. What kind of person will take you away from your husband, such a good man?’
    ‘You always take his side.’
    ‘You never said that was a problem.’
    ‘I was so young, what did I know?’
    ‘You were of marriageable age, twenty-one, same as me.’
    ‘Have you come all the way to tell me this?’
    ‘Does he suspect? He must know – or guess – something at least.’
    Shagun stared at her mother. Her face was