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stared lovingly at her sleeping son. She had just got out of bed when the door of her bedroom opened across the courtyard, and, as if on cue, her husband stepped out. It was as if he had waited for his mother-in-law to leave.
    Haroon crossed the courtyard and saw his wife’s bent figure sitting on the edge of his mother-in-law’s bed. He padded into the room and stood in front of her, not knowing what to say. His hand tentatively reached for her head. She quickly jerked it away, keeping her eyes and face averted from him. She didn’t need her mother to remind her – woman’s primitive instinct dictated her actions.
    Haroon stepped back.
    ‘I can explain, Gulshan,’ he offered coolly.
    ‘You can explain kissing another woman?’ Gulshan hissed up at him, hurt and condemnation leaping out of her eyes, her breathing shallow. Haroon stared down with dismay into her eyes, which had hitherto flashed only innocence and sweetness at him. Had he done that? No sweetness or innocence now. He gave up, forhe couldn’t explain. She wasn’t ready for his explanation. Nor ever would be now, he admitted sadly to himself. She would never be able to cope. What a mess!
    He stood for a few more seconds, looking down at her bent head, hoping for some way of bridging this gulf that had suddenly sprung up between them since last night. He knew it was all his fault, yet he felt no guilt or remorse. Finally he let her be and returned to his own room.

SIX
    S ITTING IN FRONT of the dressing table, Naghmana stared at her image in the mirror. Her beautiful, immaculately made-up face was framed by her hair in a becoming fashion. Peering closer in the oval shaped mirror, she frowned at the pronounced swelling of her lower lip. Luscious by nature, there was an added fullness this morning. She caressed its softness with her fingertip. ‘Mosquitoes!’ her aunt had queried in disbelief.
    Naghmana giggled, her cheeks glowing a pinkish shade. She reached for a dark lipstick in her cosmetic bag. She must disguise the swelling, otherwise she would have to go round explaining it to all the village women she came across. She remembered them all. Young, old, teenage girls. Gauche village women, constantly staring at her since she arrived. It was as if she had virtually landed from another world. For sure, she was chic in her dress and probably on all accounts more fashionable in appearance and taste than the local women, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a woman like them. Apparently the point of fascination was her long, wavy, hair, which had attracted everyone’s attention from the moment she stepped out of her car. First, the old man had grimaced at it, for there was no scarf wound round her head. Then the teenage girls were giving her surreptitious looks of envy, whereas the elder ones had glanced at her bare head and open maneof hair with a distinct look of disapproval. ‘Did these people never watch TV? Or keep abreast with the changing world around them?’
    A loud knock thudded on her aunt’s door. Naghmana quickly glanced up at her reflection. ‘Are people so rude in this village that they disturb you, even before seven o’clock,’ Naghmana asked herself irritably.
    In even strokes, she lovingly brushed the long waves of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders in feathery bunches. Her pride and joy. And
he
loved it!

    Propped on a low stool in front of her pedestal stove in the kitchen, Fatima was rolling out another
puri
pancake on the marble rolling stone when somebody hammered on the outside door. Surprised at the urgency of the knocks, she hastily fished out the puri from the deep oil in the large wok and placed it on a tray, covering it with a cloth, so that it didn’t get cold. Her niece liked them hot and wafer thin.
    ‘Coming!’ Fatima shouted, scrambling out of her kitchen. Wiping her damp forehead with her head shawl she crossed her large square courtyard, supported by verandahs on all four sides, leading to various