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the laundrywoman wasn’t heading for the same place and suddenly decided that she didn’t want her daughter to accompany her.
    ‘Shirin, please play at home or in the fields!’
    ‘I want to go to the fields.’
    Smiling, she left her daughter and hastened down the lane, the garland held tightly against her chest under the fold of her
chador
.
    *
    The sweetmaker’s wife, Jennat Bibi, had just been to see her
pir
in the next village. Face glowing, she hopped off the bus on the GT road and hurried home to tell her family the good news she had learned. Ahead of her, a large group of excited well-wishers had gathered outside Master Haider’s
hevali
to welcome back young Master Arslan. With garlands of flowers proudly draped over their arms, some talked animatedly amongst themselves.
    Jennat Bibi spotted her friend Neelam amongst the crowd of women well-wishers and hastened her pace.
    ‘Assalam alaikum
, Jennat Bibi. How are you?’ Neelum turned, smiling.
    ‘Wa laikum salam
, with God’s blessing I’m well and very happy.’
    ‘Been visiting your relatives in the city?’
    ‘No, my
pir
.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Good news! Tell you later – but why are you here?’
    ‘Don’t you know? Master Arslan is coming home from America. Did your husband not get the big order for the
mithai
for his homecoming party?’
    ‘Oh … Yes, of course. I forgot. I’ll join you, as I’m here anyway!’
    ‘Yes, do! Look! See who else is here! Hiding behind that tree … it’s her …’
    Both women glanced surreptitiously at the cloaked woman half hidden behind the tree.
    ‘Well, Sister Jennat Bibi. What did your
pir
say?’ Neelum eagerly pressed, wanting to know the truth behind her friend’s flushed face and laughing brown eyes.
    ‘Go on then … You’ll be the first to know. My
pir
tells me that Faiza is going to have a son!’
    ‘How wonderful! Congratulations!’
    ‘Thank you!’ Jennat Bibi winked. ‘This is going to be fun! Look at Massi Fiza – just because she collects the dirty linen from the
hevali
, she’s hogging the gates as if she owns them,’ she sneered, having never seen eye to eye with the laundrywoman since the
dhoban
had ruined her white silk shawl with red dye from another garment. She grimaced at the garland in her friend’s hands, wishing that she had one, too.
    And why was her foolish husband not here? Could he not spare a few measly minutes to leave his greasy
jalebi
-frying wok and syrup pot to attend this gathering? Did he not know the importance of remaining in the good books of the rich and the influential ones? Luckily for the sweetmaker’s household, she was the blessed one – with plenty of worldly wisdom, augmented by her
pir
’s guidance. Her husband was only fit to make
ladoos
!
    *
    ‘They are here!’ Begum excitedly shrieked to her Sahiba-ji, standing discreetly behind the door with a large china plate piled high with an assortment of sweetmeats in her hand, relishing the warmth of the freshly baked
ladoos
.
    The three cars with the Jeep in front rode up the dusty road to the
hevali
gates. The well-wishers excitedly rushed to greet. Haider stepped out first, followed by his beloved son, Arslan.
    Excited cries of
‘Mubarak, Mubarak
, Haider Sahib!’ jettedloudly out of everyone’s mouths. Arslan, a twenty-six-year-old young man, was immediately hemmed in by a circle of well-wishers and warm hugs. Grinning, he took it all in good grace, letting men eagerly drop their flower and money garlands over his neck.
    Haider stood aside, proudly watching.
    Unable to wait, Gulbahar boldly thrust the door wide open, desperate for the other people to leave her son alone, aching to smother his face with kisses. Her eyes scanned the heads of the villagers and then drifted to the old
neem
tree facing the
hevali
’s gates.
    Gulbahar froze, watching a woman’s cloaked figure move forward. Wide-eyed, her fingers tightly gripped a plate of sweetmeats.
    Ali, too, happened to look behind, eyes fixed on