NOORAN HATED FLIES and God. In that order. In 1947, returning from the field of death at the age of nine, she had carried two things with her: the stench of carrion and the drone of flies. This was why Nooran always walked on a whiff of attar, a plastic swatter dangling from one corner of her dupatta. Even in the most immaculate Punjabi household, a fly or two was inevitable, as elemental as summer heat. But not in the house of her Biji Nalwa.
The swatter wore out every two summers and was the only item Nooran required replacing on a regular basis, not the steel colander or the plastic buckets or the ceramic jars. The only time the swatter was not on Nooran's person was when she stepped out of home.

In every way, though, Nooran was an anomaly. Punjab prized fairness, but she was dark as the underside of a griddle and nonchalant about it. Punjabi women tiptoed around their menfolk, but Nooran strode about like an unapologetic peacock. In a land where multiple gods were invoked in one breath, non-belief was deviant behaviour in need of correction.

But Nooran would wrinkle her nose and declare, 'I encountered God long ago; he stinks.'

Now, Nooran took off her dupatta-with-the-swatter, picked a floral one – red and white flowers emblazoned on the long wide scarf – bolted the door of the house and stepped out. Niki's bus would arrive any minute at the end of the lane on which their house stood. At 1 p.m., the five-year-old would be drowsy and would need to be carried home. Niki had begun big school, which meant six hours of study and time enough to tire an adult. A bumblebee buzzed in the shade of the guava tree, its fruit ripening in the autumn sun. A bus pulled up. Laughter spilled out of its open windows and door. Nooran mounted the steps and scanned the seated children, the older ones chatting and the younger ones in various stages of slumber. Niki was slumped against a window, her schoolbag slack by her side. Nooran hoisted Niki upon one shoulder, the bag on the other, and exited the bus.

Niki was getting bigger, her feet now dangling down Nooran's thighs. She smiled at the observation as she strolled down the lane.

The next instant, her breast was groped, the schoolbag slid from her shoulder, and a bicycle sailed by, the man on it looking back at her, twisting his mouth in a lurid kiss.

Nooran was incandescent with rage. She steadied herself, aware that Niki had been jolted awake, the schoolbag was on the ground, while the man was pedalling leisurely on. Helping Niki stand up, Nooran bent, plucked something from the gravel and hurled it in the direction of the bicycle. An 'aayeee' rang out, the cycle wobbled and the man hunched in pain as the stone found its mark. He cast a wary look behind and Nooran pretended to bend again. He pedalled as if chased by a rabid dog.

'Coward!' Nooran spat.

'What happened?' Niki asked, wide-eyed.

Nooran grabbed the schoolbag and with Niki's hand clutched in hers, they marched down the lane.

'I taught him a lesson.'

'What lesson?' Niki skipped as she walked.

'When a man is violent, not every woman will remain silent.'

Sighting their gate, Niki ran ahead, stood on its bottom railing, reached for the latch and swung backwards with the opening gate.
Her red-ribboned plaits danced as she raced down the path to the front door on her chubby legs. Nooran, meanwhile, watching her progress with affection, absentmindedly reached for the air with both her hands, curling them as she tucked them to the sides of her head.

Shorthand for drawing towards herself any evil that might befall Niki. In a land where violence could surface unexpectedly, mothers had learnt to ransom themselves for their children.

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