The Wish Maker Read Online Free PDF

right outside. Okay, no problem, no problem.” He held up the phone to check that it was the same number, then tossed it onto the dashboard.
    “Coming?” said Moosa.
    Isa nodded. He was watching the gate beyond, which opened at last with a whine and a clang: a man emerged with his shoulders thrown back as if to further project the bulge of his stomach. A duffel bag was carried on his palms. He paused at the gate and looked quickly to either side.
    “Boss,” said Isa through his window. He brought two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute.
    “Boss,” said the man in response, with a wide but withholding smile that took in the seats, the open dashboard, our clothes and faces.
    “Stuff ready?” said Isa.
    The man passed him the bag, and Isa settled it in his lap and searched it with his hand, rattling the glass inside. “Set,” he said, and brought out the cash. He counted it carefully to ensure it was the right amount, licking his forefinger every few notes.
    The man watched without altering his expression.
    Isa stacked the notes on his knee and handed them over in a drooping wad. “Otherwise? All well?”
    “God’s grace,” said the man with a hand on his heart.
    Isa held on to a look of contentment and reversed the car. He kept his speed in the lane, then outside the lane, on the streets, avoiding the checkposts and waiting until the danger had passed. And now came the rise of Sherpao Bridge, the wind and the lights in the sweep of transit: it was a memory and then a feeling, sitting in another car with Samar Api, her face turned to the window and waiting for a thrill that by then had always passed.
    I looked now and found that there was no horizon, only the lights of distant houses coming on in the dark.

    The days leading up to the wedding were marked by the bride’s absence. She was to be unveiled on the last night, after the two families had established themselves in a series of marital procedures that began with a milaad. It was held at our house on a weeknight. The veranda was covered in white bedsheets, which were spread out in overlapping squares and spotted with maroon velvet cushions rented from a shop in Canal Park. It was a ladies-only affair; they left their shoes at the entrance and sat in solemn rows on the floor, their heads covered and swaying to sad songs in praise of the Prophet. Then we attended a dholki at the groom’s house. Our party went in two cars, the men in starched white cotton and the women in fabrics of varying intensities, led by Daadi, who wore cream silk and a collaring of pearls, and approached the house with a frail arm in the nook of Naseem’s elbow. We were showered with rose petals at the entrance. Hands were held and cheeks were kissed. A photographer knelt and took pictures. We were shown into the enclosed lawn and were asked to take the front row of chairs, Daadi in the center, Naseem at her feet on the carpet. Instantly she began plying Daadi with tissue to show that our elders were cared for in unfamiliar environments; twice Suri and Hukmi stopped a bearer to demand a glass of water for Daadi, and my mother leaned in repeatedly to name the guests, to locate them within the crystalizing family network. Daadi listened with a steady unsurprised expression, as though the accruing information only validated opinions that had been aired earlier.
    The dances began. First the groom’s aunts performed the luddi in slow, restrained circles. Their dupattas were tied like sashes across their torsos and slipped when they bent to clap. Then the young men of the clan performed a rowdy bhangra. They wore matching black kurtas and yellow scarves in siphons around their necks, and kicked the air and jabbed their forefingers at the ceiling. Now a hush fell upon the room, and someone cried, “Auntie! It’s Auntie’s turn!” There was whistling and hooting as a well-preserved woman emerged from the seated crowd and took confident, youthful steps into the center of the room.