Maps for Lost Lovers

ready, secured in the violet thread that Kaukab had used to sew herself a frilled tablecloth not long ago, and she tells Mah-Jabin how difficult it had been to settle on that colour as the thread with which the sewing would be done. “Because the pattern on the fabric was yellow splashed with violet, a yellow seam would stand out when it passed across a violet patch, and the reverse would be true if the thread of the other colour was chosen.”
    “What you needed was a transparent thread: something which the spiders should get together with the fishing-line manufacturers to develop: thin enough but sufficiently strong.”
    Ignoring her frivolous comment, Kaukab looks around and says, “I’ve always wanted this kitchen to be bigger.” She is draining the water off the potatoes and putting the yellow wedges into the pan where the curry base is sizzling. “It is going to fill up this evening, and everyone will have to sit cramped around the table.”
    “We can eat in the sitting room,” Mah-Jabin suggests. “We’ll move the table in there.” She slides open the door and looks in to confirm that there is enough room in there. When Ujala comes down—he is putting on a sweater and his face emerges out of the neck-hole like a diver coming up and breaking the water’s surface—the brother and sister move the dining table and chairs into the centre of the next room, pushing the coffee table with the vase of lilies to one side. The Koranic verses hang in their black frames against the pink walls that are lined up to waist-length with bookshelves. “I used to cut the bookmark ribbons off Father’s books to tie up the hair of my dolls,” Mah-Jabin says. Ujala takes the latest issue of the Muslim women’s magazine Kaukab subscribes to—the monthly Veil, published in Pakistan—and puts it in the pile where the previous issues are kept.
    “It doesn’t do any harm,” Mah-Jabin whispers: she had seen the distaste on his face when he picked up the magazine full of orthodox rants and strictures, apocalyptic visions and prophecies.
    “I think it does.”
    She looks away. “It makes her happy.”
    “I don’t think it does. I have never seen more misery and guilt on her face than when she has just finished reading something printed in there. It’s turned her into a selfish monster. She is the reason why Father won’t openly condemn the idiocies of Islam. He thought it would hurt her. She and her like don’t do any harm? She has harmed every one of us. She won’t allow reason to enter this house.” Mah-Jabin leaves the room and he stands looking at the verses on the wall. For millions of people, religion was often another torture in addition to the fact that their lives were not what they should be. Their world is pitiless from womb to tomb, everything in it out of their control, almost as though the life-lines on the palms of their hands were live knife-cuts, a source of pain since birth. This world gives them terrible wounds and then the holy men and women make them put those wounds into bags of salt.
    He follows Mah-Jabin out into the kitchen. A ladle in each hand, Kaukab is stirring two pots simultaneously. “I should have made some chickpea stew as well, Charag’s favourite, but it is not the easiest thing to digest and I didn’t want him getting a stomach ache.”
    “But chickpea stew looks, smells and tastes so nice, though,” Mah-Jabin says, as she takes one of the ladles from Kaukab.
    “Yes,” Kaukab agrees. “Jugnu said: ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t eat it, and you’ll regret it if you do eat it . . .’ ”
    The air in the room changes. Mah-Jabin winces inwardly and takes in a breath at the mention of the dead man’s name. Kaukab slowly looks over her shoulder at Ujala, who is sweeping the area of linoleum that has been exposed now that the table is gone. He had stopped but now resumes the strokes of the long-handled brush, the nylon bristles red as a fish’s gills.
    “Don’t worry about the stew,” Mah-Jabin says, as she picks up the cauliflower pieces and adds them to the pot. “You’ve cooked enough food for today. It’s a feast.”
    “A feast?” Kaukab says. “It cost £39.”
    “No, Mother,” Mah-Jabin shakes her head. “The ingredients cost that much. You should add the cost of the planning, the organization, and the cooking that has gone into it all. A meal like tonight’s, if we were to pay a firm of caterers for it, would cost hundreds. Hundreds. And the