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wandering about and yawning. The drawstrings of their shalwars dangled like goat-tails. They smoked, hawked, and watched families re-unite. Two little children ran up to Khurram and boldly squeezed his midriff. ‘Khurram Bhai! Khurram Bhai!’ they squealed. The girl had stick-like legs that skipped under a golden dress, while arms bedecked in bangles and fingers finely tipped in magenta nail polish waved excitedly. The boy climbed into Khurram’s arms and was attaching a balloon to one fat ear, when all at once there appeared half a dozen others. Each began vying for Khurram while his mother, with whom he’d barely conversed during the entire flight, zealously orchestrated the grabbing and pinching.
    Daanish stood apart, eyeing the baggage, wondering howthey’d all fit into one car – or were there several? His attention was suddenly caught by another man obviously affiliated with the party, but like himself, not quite a part of it. He was a striking presence: dark, with cheekbones women would extract teeth for; coal-black, oiled ringlets that brushed a prominent chin; eyes an odd, bluish opal; soldierly stature; shoulders straight and solid, with curves decipherable enough through a thin kameez in the dim light. He seemed aware of cutting an impressive figure and turned his head, allowing Daanish a view of his haughty, chiseled profile. Daanish raised an amused brow.
    The cluster began to move. Daanish followed. Khurram introduced him to the others. The men and children hugged and kissed him too, the boy offering to tie his ear to another one of his balloons. The handsome man pulled Khurram’s cart. Daanish decided he was the driver.
    ‘We are dropping him first,’ Khurram pointed to Daanish. ‘He lives on our street.’
    ‘Is that so?’ an uncle smiled while the others nodded amiably.
    ‘Yes,’ Daanish replied. ‘Thanks for squeezing me in.’
    Khurram was now the star of the show and Daanish swore he’d even begun to look different. Gone was the chubby boy with toys. He walked erect, thrusting his belly forward like a beacon. He described with great authority his knightly escapades at supermarkets where he could, blindfolded, name every variety of cheese-spread and crackers just by taste. He spoke of bank machines that spit money by touching buttons impossibly convoluted. And all the while, he punctuated his stories with orders to the driver – ‘Be careful with that suitcase, it has tins.’
    There was only one car, a metallic-green Honda Civic. ‘Where’s mine?’ Khurram demanded of the driver.
    ‘Your brother-in-law took the Land Cruiser today,’ explained an uncle.
    While Khurram cursed the missing relative, the driver began loading the trunk. Khurram sat in front with a child on each knee and two duffel bags at his feet. The others piled at the back with the remaining luggage. When the handbrake was down, an aunt put a bag on top of it.
    The balloon hovering above Khurram burst with a bang and the boy started howling. The little girl clapped her lady-like hands. ‘Cry-baby!’
    ‘Come to me,’ said the boy’s mother, admonishing the girl. Everyone shifted and craned while the boy attempted to soar like Superman to the back. For this cleverness he was awarded with ching-um and forecasts of future prowess. He settled happily in his mother’s lap, his head propped against a bag his father held. The bag slowly drifted into Daanish, already balancing three others, and with a spine being rhythmically sawed by the doorjamb. The little girl wondered if she’d been dealt the short shrift and began to weep. She was promptly told to be quiet.
    They were on Drigh Road. A thin light pierced the haze and the sky turned smoky purple. To the south, Daanish could see service lanes ripped out. He’d heard about this. It was part of the Prime Minister’s development scheme: yellow taxis, a new highway, and a computerized telephone system with seven digits instead of six. But the new lines hadn’t been