Maps for Lost Lovers

commit crimes of honour give themselves up proudly, their duty done. They never deny or skulk. I am certain they will walk free after the trial in December.”
    The matchmaker nods vehemently. “And as for Chanda: What a shameless girl she was, sister-ji, so brazen. She not only had poor Jugnu killed by moving in with him, she also ruined the lives of her own poor brothers who had to kill them—if that was what happened, of course. Let’s hope they are found not-guilty in December. But what I fail to understand is how Shamas-brother-ji could have allowed the two of them to live together in sin? And how did you, Kaukab, manage to tolerate it, you who are a cleric’s daughter—born and brought up in a mosque all your life?”
    The matchmaker holds her mustard kameez against the veil that Kaukab has brought. “This is a perfect match, Kaukab.” She holds the soft veil against the back of her hand. “It’s not georgette. Is it chiffon?”
    Kaukab nods. “Japanese. From the shop way over there on Ustad Allah Bux Street. I don’t go there often—white people’s houses start soon after that street, and even the Pakistanis there are not from our part of Pakistan.”
    “I have just been to that street. Do you remember years ago I tried to arrange a marriage between your Jugnu and a girl from that street, a girl named Suraya? No? Well anyway, nothing came of that, of course, and so I found a man for her in Pakistan. But now unfortunately she has been divorced. The husband got drunk and divorced her, and although he now regrets doing it, she cannot remarry him without first marrying and getting a divorce from someone else. That’s Allah’s law and who are we to question it? Poor Suraya is back in England, and I am looking for a man who will marry her for a short period.”
    If her children were still living at home, or if Shamas was back from work, Kaukab would have asked the matchmaker to lower her voice to a whisper, not wishing her children to hear anything bad about Pakistan or the Pakistanis, not wishing to provide Shamas with the opportunity to make a disrespectful comment about Islam, or hint through his expression that he harboured contrary views on Allah’s inherent greatness; but she is alone in the house, so she lets the woman talk.
    “I’ll bring the veil back the day after tomorrow,” the matchmaker says as she leaves around five o’clock and Kaukab gets ready to cook dinner. “Shamas-brother-ji would be home soon from work—from this year onwards he’ll be able to put his feet up now that he’s sixty-five and retiring from work.” She laughs. “No retirement age for us housewives though, Kaukab. Anyway, I must leave you alone now because if you are anything like me, you too can’t bear another woman watching you while you cook.”
    Mung dahl. As she washes the dahl she recalls the disastrous evening with Jugnu and the white woman, the dahl in the shoes, and she begs forgiveness from Almighty Allah yet again for having wasted the food that He in His limitless bounty and compassion had seen fit to provide her with, a creature as worthless as her. But the fact of the matter is that she doesn’t really remember doling out the portions into the shoes and carrying them to the table; she remembers coming to her senses only once all the actions had been performed and she was standing in the room with Jugnu and the white woman staring at her, aghast.
    Kaukab can remember the evening as though she is reading it in the Book of Fates, the book into which, once a year, the angels write down the destiny of every human being for the next twelve months: who’ll live, who’ll die, who’ll lose happiness, who’ll find love—Allah dictates it to them, having come down especially for one night from the seventh heaven to the first, the one closest to earth.
    Allah gave her everything, so how can Kaukab not be thankful to Him every minute of the day when He had given her everything she had, how could she have not tried to make sure that her children grew up to be Allah’s servants, and how could she have approved of Jugnu marrying the white woman, or later, approve of him living in sin with Chanda? For the people in the West, an offence that did no harm to another human or to the wider society was no offence at all, but to her—to all Muslims— there was always another party involved—Allah; He was getting hurt by Chanda and Jugnu’s actions.
    She sets the mung dahl on the cooker and adds