Maps for Lost Lovers

asks: “What’s a libido? What’s a bromide, Mah-Jabin?”
    Ujala crosses the kitchen and goes out of the house, leaving Mah-Jabin and Kaukab where they are.
    “Mah-Jabin, go after him. Take his coat and go after him. Bring him back . . . Yes, yes, put on your own coat too . . .”
    “Mother, did you know what that powder was?”
    “I told you it was just ordinary salt over which some verses of the Koran had been read. What is a bromide?”
    “I’ll tell you later. I’d better go after him.”
    Alone, Kaukab suddenly sees for the first time the amount of food in the kitchen. There are bowls, plates, saucers, basins, katori s, pots, kamandal s and glasses on every surface, full of ingredients large and small, black cardamoms, green cardamoms, clove, cinnamon, mace, cumin, coriander seeds, saffron, yoghurt raita, green chilli, red chilli, onion, red onion, garlic, honey, gram flour, wheat flour, chicken pieces, mutton cubes, potato wedges, cauliflower florets, peas, beetroot, kebabs, basmati rice, bitter-gourds, vermicelli, cream, sultanas, dry coconut, lemons, fruits, dates, pink-husked pistachios, rose essence (the sweat of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him), lettuce leaves detached whole and curling like seashells, salted butter, unsalted butter, clarified butter. She feels shame for having forgotten that all this might appear inappropriate so soon after the confirmation of Jugnu and Chanda’s death. How insensitive would she—and therefore all Pakistanis and Muslims as a result—appear to the white girl Stella? A rush of blood to the head had resulted when she realized that her family would be together under the same roof for the first time in many months—many years. But now it is a possibility that Ujala would disappear again. What had she added to his food? What is a bromide? Is it some kind of poison?
    She lets out a whimper.
    She switches off the gas from under the pots and begins to clear some of the surfaces, thinking fast about how she can scale down tonight’s meal, her mind occupied by the complex culinary algebra. Just the mutton-and- potato curry and the pilau rice? But the white girl Stella doesn’t eat meat. So: the cauliflower-and-pea curry and pilau rice? But Shamas doesn’t like cauliflower, so she would have to fry the shami kebabs for him. She could freeze the almost-ready mutton-and-potato curry and use it at a later date . . . What had she fed her son? Is he ill as a result of it? She leans her head against the wall. There would be no fruit salad and the vermicelli would have to go without the sparkling gold leaf that the grandson would have enjoyed looking at . . . She reminds herself that her plan was to put the immersion heater on around about now so that the water could warm up for when the guests needed to wash their hands. Slowly she climbs the stairs and goes into the bathroom to switch it on. In the hatch she finds the piece of crumpled up paper and pulls it out, puzzled. Flattened, it looks like a soft square popadum. The handwriting looks like little black ants stuck to the popadum. . . . It is a story of love . . . She doesn’t know who this paper belongs to.
    The Television keeps informing us in the news bulletin that we are defeated yet again. The newspaper headlines scream. They say we are defeated, irrelevant, finished. And the reins are now in the hands of those who neither say their prayers nor keep the fast. On Allah’s vast earth, we small and humble Muslims are everywhere in ruins. Our lives and our lands lie like a pile of rubble. Our women have become disobedient like Western women. Our children seduced by the West into being strangers.
    The heads that had never bowed before anyone but Allah are being cut off.
    Kaukab frowns at the page. It reads like the text of a Friday sermon at a mosque. But what is it doing here?
    It is a story of love. The caravans of the lovers of Allah are being ambushed again and again and looted. Those talking—they who “claim” to be the possessors of wisdom—say, “We should realize that we are weak and should bow down before the strong.”
    From Adam to today, from Noah to Ibrahim, from Ibrahim to Lot, from Christ to Muhammad, peace be upon him: the believers carried the truth to streets and lanes. They were stoned. They were taunted. They were ridiculed by those who refused to believe. The Liars activated the laws against them. The non-believers said we won’t believe. The believers said we will believe even if they