Anarkali at Noon

Anarkali at noon was a kind of weather of its own. The bazaar pressed in from both sides, all sequins and steel pots and bolts of lawn, and the air was thick with frying samosas and the shouts of men selling things nobody needed at prices nobody believed.

Zoya had come with her mother and two aunts to choose fabric for her cousin’s wedding, which meant she had come to stand in doorways holding bags while the three women argued about shades of peach.

She saw the bookstall before she saw him. It was the old one near the tomb, where the owner sold second-hand Urdu digests and British detective novels with their covers torn off. Armaan was crouched in front of it, turning the pages of something small and blue.

He looked up as if he had felt her there. Neither of them moved. Between them the crowd went on flowing, a river of shoppers and porters and children eating ice lollies, and for a long moment it was as though they were standing on opposite banks.

Then her aunt called her name, and the moment broke, and she turned away.

That evening there was a book under the loose brick. It was a slim collection of Faiz, the blue one from the stall, and on the inside cover he had written the date and the words Anarkali, noon, for the girl holding the bags.

She laughed out loud in the empty stairwell and then clapped a hand over her mouth, as if the house might tell on her.