Our mother is bursting through doors, breathlessly dropping pieces of jewellery across the floor whenever they are not working with her shalwar kameez. She has changed three times, has settled on a blue one that doesn’t suit her at all. To tell her would be fatal. Years later she will wear one again, for a solemn occasion , and it will remind her of nights like this. She will trick herself into missing these nights.

… Somebody asks her how it felt having her birthday on the day of the fire. What’s it matter? she says. Even starting a fire couldn’t get people to come. They laugh, and she tries to laugh hard enough so as not to feel hurt, thinking about that night. How she was across town and saw the firetrucks zoom down the main road, headed straight towards her wooden spot in the corner. The sirens cutting through the lyrics of Happy Birthday …