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said—’
    â€˜Always! What do you know about always? We were girls together.’ That word – ‘girls’; she said it as a deposed monarch might say ‘king’. ‘More than thirty-five years I haven’t seen her and you just assumed you understood my always. Blood is thicker than time, blood is thicker.’ And she sat on the cold marble floor and wept.
    It must be an instance of imagination plugging up a hole in my memory, but I could almost swear I remember Mariam Apa wrapping her arms around Dadi and rocking her into silence.
    Samia nudged me and I raised my head away from its resting position against the smudged window of the Tube. ‘Jet lag. Our stop already?’
    The train was hurtling on, so Samia didn’t even bother to answer. ‘Racy
desi
viciously and vigorously checking you out. Sitting next to purple-haired woman.’
    I casually flicked my hair aside, shifting the angle of my head as I did so. ‘Where?’ I said.
    â€˜He’s on the move,’ Samia whispered.
    I looked up at the man walking towards me and felt aterrible urge to stand up as well, meet him halfway between purple-haired woman and Samia and wrap my arms around him.
    â€˜Hi, Aliya,’ he said, sitting down opposite me. ‘Remember me?’ He crossed one foot over his knee and rested his hand on his sneaker. His hand span extended comfortably from the toe of his shoe to his ankle bone.
    â€˜The aeroplane,’ I said, as casually as possible. ‘Aisle seat. And you handed me my suitcase.’
    He extended his hand. ‘Cal,’ he said.
    â€˜You don’t look like a Caleb,’ Samia said, taking his hand before I could. ‘I’m the older cousin.’
    â€˜Hi, the older cousin. Actually, I’m a Khaleel. But when you live in the Western world, and your last name is Butt and you’re born in a town spelt A-T-H-O-L, pronounced “Athole”, things are bad enough already. You don’t want to add to the humiliation by admitting to a name that sounds to certain ears like you’re expectorating. That “kh” you know.’
    â€˜Could be worse,’ Samia grinned. ‘You could be a Fakhr.’
    â€˜That’s my older brother.’
    â€˜Liar,’ I said.
    He turned to look at me again. ‘Maybe. But a good storyteller never tells.’
    â€˜All the way from Boston to London I could see your fingers tapping on your sneakers,’ I said. ‘That’s some hand span.’ On occasion, evil demons take hold of my voice box and force out remarks like that one. I reached across and held my hand against Khaleel’s, palm to palm. His fingers bent forward at the topmost joint, pushing down against the tips of my nails, and his thumb rested lightly against themole on my index finger. I thought of mosques and churches and prayer mats. Hands clasped together; one hand resting atop the other; fingers interlocked to mime a steeple. What sacred power is invested in hands?
    This is not to say I was having pious thoughts.
    I pulled my hand away.
    â€˜So it’s safe to say your family didn’t arrive in Amreeks via the
Mayflower.’
Samia has the Pakistani knack of finding out all she deems it necessary to know about someone’s background within the first five minutes of conversation.
    â€˜PIA, actually. No, my parents are like Aliya. And like you, I guess. Karachiites. I’ve never been there, but there’s a chance I might, really soon.’
    â€˜Are you related to Bunty and Yousuf Butt?’ Samia’s foot was pressing against mine as she spoke, signalling He’s Gorgeous But Okay You Saw Him First.
    â€˜Bunty Butt! I don’t think so. No bells ringing. But I wish I were. Aunty Bunty Butt.’
    The train squealed to a stop at Green Park. ‘Isn’t this our stop?’ I said.
    Samia shook her head. ‘So where’ll you stay? If you come to Karoo?’
    â€˜With