Mrs. Khan had not given much thought to what she would do when her daughter found out what she had done. In November, Nabiha had been so eager, so confident about applying to colleges in America. Her teachers had encouraged her.
“Such a good student she is,” they had told her parents at the PTA meeting, “Nabiha will definitely get a scholarship.”
“Such an honor it would be for you,” they urged, “what an opportunity!”
“She can apply just to girls’ colleges,” some added reassuringly, “so much safer!”

Nabiha’s friends had added to the chorus. Some had older brothers who had gone to Harvard, Yale, MIT. But who had heard of these small colleges--Wellesley, Smith, Grinnell? Not like Oxford or Cambridge, thought Mrs. Khan, with a dismissive toss of her head. Besides, Mr. Khan was not a big businessman or landowner. He was just a salaried manager at the Karachi branch of the Bank of America. The benefits had been good for their family, of course--a Honda Accord with their own driver, their modern house in Defence, children in good English-medium schools. But, she reflected, we are still middle-class people. What were Pakistani rupees in American dollars? Nabiha was only a girl. And she was followed by another girl, and then Naz, her beloved boy. If they let one daughter go to an American college, they would have to do the same for the second. What would be left for him? How would it affect Nabiha’s marriage prospects? What would people say? It was out of the question.
           
Now it was the beginning of April, and every day Nabiha would tell her mother about her friends’ acceptances arriving. American colleges were offering more scholarships, it seemed, since those Russians invaded Afghanistan.
“Ammi, Ayesha got a telegram from Bryn Mawr. They’ve offered her full financial aid!”
“Noreen has got into Cornell, but Oberlin is offering a better scholarship.”

Was Nabiha not wondering about her own applications? She had worked so hard on them. Well, thought Mrs. Khan, as she got dressed for her ladies’ morning bridge, at least they had given their daughters the best education any girl could have in Karachi. Soon Nabiha would get her A-level results from Cambridge University. How the relatives would bristle! Such schooling had not been possible for Mrs. Khan herself, or for her siblings and their children. The best Mrs. Khan had had was a government school, and then an arranged marriage to a promising boy from a good mohajir family from India like her own.

From her cushioned stool, Mrs. Khan leaned closer to the dressing table mirror to apply her lipstick. She liked being able to sit down comfortably when she did her make-up. She liked her new bedroom furniture, all white and gold, with the dressing table that matched the bed and bedside tables, the soft blue carpet that brightened the whiteness of the walls. She loved the spaciousness of her master bedroom, with enough room for two cozy sofa-chairs and matching tables. Her own private sitting room, bathroom, and attached dressing room as well! With all her husband’s hard work, she reflected, he had made possible a different life for their family. She was glad she had insisted that the girls not go to government schools. Unlike her relatives, she had always held a girl’s education to be important. Her daughters had attended a private girls’ Convent school where they completed their O-Levels. The school where governors sent their daughters. Their exams were sent to England to be marked! Then Nabiha had had two years at Karachi Grammar School, the most elite school in the city. Of course, their son had been there since kindergarten.

But there were limits on what one could do for a daughter. How could Nabiha go to America for four years? How Mrs. Khan’s brothers’ wives would crow over her. “Oh, you sent your daughter so far, alone, just to get a B.A.?” they would say in their poisonous tones. After her A-levels, Nabiha could attend a college in Pakistan, and they could start looking for a suitable boy for her. Who knew how long that would take? Maybe, until then, she could attend the new Institute for Business Administration at Karachi University. Her friend Shaheen’s daughter had done that, and didn’t she have a good job now in a bank? And most importantly, Nabiha would be available for prospective in-laws to see her. It was their son who needed a career. It was for him the Khans’ money was saved up, for who else would look after them in their old age?
           
But it had been hard to explain all this to her seventeen-year-old daughter. So, Mrs. Khan had let her apply. She had quietly watched as Nabiha wrote her application essays, collected teachers’ recommendations, rejoiced over her SAT and Achievement scores, got her transcripts signed and attested, filled out the financial aid forms, and taped up ten fat envelopes to be dispatched to America.

“I’ll post them for you, beta,” she told her daughter, when each packet was ready. “I’m going to Sofia Auntie’s new boutique in Clifton and the post office is on the way. The driver can drop them off. You get on with your homework.”

Trusting child! Nabiha had never suspected that not one of those envelopes had left the house. It had not even occurred to her to ask her mother for a certified receipt. Why would it, after all? What did she know about such things? Delicately nurtured, carefully protected daughter that she was of a well-to-do respectable family, Nabiha had never had to deal with those rude lower-class men at the post office.

And yet Mrs. Khan had not been able to throw away those fat repositories of her daughter’s work and trust. There they sat, unopened and unsent, hidden under her pashmina shawls at the back of the locked almirah in her dressing room. She had actually forgotten about them for a while, so busy had she been with all the social events of a pleasantly cool Karachi winter. Preparations for her brother’s daughter’s wedding, all those family dinners, and shopping trips to make sure the bride and groom had the right household things for their new California home. She paused to choose a coordinating handbag and shoes to go with her newly tailored shalwar kameez. Her pearls, ruby and gold set, with matching pendant, earrings and ring, would enhance the outfit, she decided. Now, if only she could find a boy like that for her daughter, she would be a success as a mother. If Nabiha wanted to go to college in America after marriage, that would be up to her husband’s family. After all there was nothing wrong with a girl being further educated as long as she was safely married first. Though, as everyone knew, there would be children and housekeeping to follow. For education was all very well, Mrs. Khan repeated firmly to herself as she shut and locked her cupboard with a loud click--but only up to a point. How could girls be married off if they got too highly qualified? What family would want a daughter-in-law who had more education than their son? Think of that Qureshi girl, who had recently returned from a girls’ college near Boston. As if her dark skin wasn’t disadvantage enough. What were her parents thinking? Now Nabiha was not light-skinned, but she was all right, a medium complexion, almost wheatish, as they say, but not too dark, oh no.

But Mrs. Khan’s heart sank a little at the thought of those incriminating packets in her cupboard. What was she going to say to her daughter when no letters or telegrams arrived for her, not even of rejection? She had always found it hard to say no to her first-born. Nabiha had been a mesmerizing baby, with those intense dark eyes. The first two years had been so happy, she thought fondly. Except for the inconveniences of babyhood. She had never liked dealing with the milk bottles that had to be sterilized, the constant change of nappies, the never-ending sicknesses. And servants were such trouble. The ayahs absconded when the child got sick, the cooks could not keep the kitchen clean. And then Tara had arrived. Another girl. Five more years before Allah had given her Naz, her pride, her affirmation, her only boy. Nabiha had shifted into the background, but that was inevitable. Girls got spoilt with too much attention.

However, Mrs. Khan quailed somewhat now as she wondered how Nabiha would take the news. Usually perfectly amenable, the girl could get upset sometimes. Like the time she wouldn’t speak for days after Mrs. Khan had locked up all her books. How could a girl be so difficult? Neither scolding nor cajoling had worked. But mothers had to stand their ground. Nabiha had wanted her own room, and Mrs. Khan had insisted she share with her sister. Naz, the boy, had a room to himself.

“I need privacy, Amma!” Nabiha had said.
Privacy! Mrs. Khan didn’t want her daughter to become one of those too-modern girls, unable to adjust to the expectations of husband and in-laws. She had a room to share with her sister. Each girl had her own desk and built-in bookshelves, to say nothing of the built-in closets. And their own private attached bathroom as well. Not what Mrs. Khan had as a girl.

Yet she had been unable to say to Nabiha, as many of the Khans’ friends had said to their girls: “No, no, what nonsense. We can’t let you apply to American colleges!” Or, “Girls in our family get married after school.” Those parents had made it clear to their daughters that going abroad to study by themselves was not in the cards, not even if the family could afford it. Such parents had it so easy, thought Mrs. Khan. They did not mind being called conservative. That’s what they even called themselves. But Mrs. Khan liked being counted among the more “advanced” people of her generation in Karachi. Not too conservative and not too liberal. She was ambitious in her own way. Her daughters had had swimming lessons at the exclusive Gymkhana club, with their ornate British buildings from colonial times. And they had two years at a co-ed school, another leftover of the British, where no “natives” had once been allowed.

Karachi Grammar School was still the most elite school in the city, though located in the middle of the stinky, dirty old Victorian section, right next to Empress Market. Getting there every day one had to deal with the garbage strewn streets, heavy with traffic fumes, crowded with honking cars, buses, rickshaws, bullock-carts. And the thela-wallahs, the vendors with their carts, always getting in the way! But the sons of ministers and the big landowners went there. Benazir Bhutto had gone there. Nabiha had told her about the polished wooden boards hanging on the walls in the school library, gilded with the names of past achievers—all male British names until the 1950’s. Girls’ names on those boards were very recent. Perhaps Nabiha’s name would be up there too, after her A-level results came out, Mrs. Khan secretly hoped. Her daughters were not allowed to wear skirts and blouses as the school uniform, oh no, only respectable shalwar kameez for them, nor go to the school parties, where, God help us, some boys and girls actually danced together! What would Mrs. Khan’s relatives say, if they ever found out? So, this question of applying to America had come as an unanticipated problem. How could she say yes? And yet how could she say no?

For a brief moment, yes, Mrs. Khan had lingered over the thought of Nabiha with a foreign B.A. It would bring a certain caché to their family. And the girl loved her studies so much. When Nabiha was a little girl, an old aunt had read Nabiha’s palm and announced, “O, this girl will go far!” Mrs. Khan had felt a stab of fear. What had she meant? As far as America? She recalled a great-uncle who had wagged his finger at his nieces and nephews and said, “Even in seventh century Arabia, the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, said, ‘Go far, go as far as China if you have to, for the sake of learning. Treat your daughters the same as your sons.’” That uncle had been such a maverick. Who listened to him? Mrs. Khan pushed the thought away. What did he know about raising daughters these days. This was the 1980s after all.
Things had changed, with President Zia-ul Haque in power. People talked about Islamizing now, after the Bhutto days. The army was controlling the country again. It was good for middle-class people like them, as her husband kept assuring her. Yes, the men talked about Kalashnikovs coming into Pakistan, when they thought the women were not listening. And drugs. But American money was also coming in. Afghans were selling contraband goods, new boutiques were being opened, new businesses and restaurants. In posh districts like Clifton, by the sea, there was a McDonalds now, and even a pizza place, where the modern teenagers gathered. Mrs. Khan wouldn’t let her daughters be seen among that crowd for sure. The prices in the city were not bad, though. Mr. Khan’s bank was doing well. She had just had two new ruby and emerald gold sets made for Nabiha’s trousseau. Those would only go up in value.
Besides, America was such a frightening place for a young girl. A few years earlier, just before Bhutto was hanged, the Khans had visited relatives in Los Angeles. Washers and dryers, dishwashers in every kitchen, microwaves, big shopping malls, two cars, big highways, but really, what struck Mrs. Khan was—there were no servants! Newly married girls who never washed a dish in Pakistan were vacuuming their own homes and cleaning toilets! What did their parents know when they triumphantly arranged their marriages to those American-resident green card holders. She had been horrified to see the tiny apartment her brother’s son and his new bride occupied. So much for those jewelry sets and lavish weddings. The girls were servants in their own American homes. But at least they were married. No, Nabiha was definitely not going there unmarried. Taking buses on her own! Unthinkable. And those forward men, with no culture. Respectable parents could not let their daughters be exposed to such behavior!

A little squirt of Christian Dior, her favorite perfume, and Mrs. Khan was ready to head down the curved stairs, carpeted in dark red to match the oriental rugs. She checked to make sure the cleaning woman was done with the daily sweeping, dusting, and mopping. Ah yes, she was now washing the clothes under the tap outside, so Mrs. Khan could lock up the house. She stopped in the kitchen, where the cook had started preparing the lunch. He had used up all the yogurt.

“Oho, you know sahib doesn’t like the salan so watery,” she admonished him.
She locked the door to the kitchen, leaving the cook to his job. Then she had to take the stairs again, down to the ground floor. Located on a rocky hill-side, their split-level house had been designed by their own architect in the Frank Lloyd Wright style that had become popular in the 1960s. Even the garden was two levels. But you had to use two sets of stairs to go in and out of the house. It gave her daily exercise; she told her relatives proudly.

 Outside, the April sun was already beating down. The gardener should be watering those lilies more regularly, she thought with exasperation, when she saw the drooping potted plants that lined the driveway. She would remind her husband to order the water tanker more frequently now the weather was so hot. The driver was waiting by the car.

“Where to, Begum Saab?” he inquired.
“Mrs. Lodhi’s house,” she announced, as she settled into the back seat. That’s where bridge was today. The four ladies who played regularly took turns at hosting the event every Wednesday. The driver knew the routine. Every morning he took the children to school, the sahib to work, Mrs. Khan to her various morning appointments, and then picked the children up from school. On Monday mornings Mrs. Khan visited Behbud, a charity organization; on Wednesdays she had bridge, and on Thursdays she attended Daras, where an elderly lady explicated the Holy Quran. Mrs. Khan had met some quite important wives and socialites in these ways, and she enjoyed the gossip and informal networking that might lead to good matches in future for her children.

Today her friends were already at the bridge-table, dealing out the cards. The aroma of steaming cups of coffee and freshly baked snacks placed in an adjacent trolley combined pleasantly with a mix of foreign perfumes. Mrs. Khan liked Mrs. Lodhi’s house. It suggested old wealth, with its carved teak furniture, thick carpets, potted plants, and stylish art on the walls. Mrs. Lodhi even owned one of Sadequain’s paintings. Mrs. Khan’s drawing room only had paintings by unknown artists, picked up from here and there. She did not know much about art. But Mrs. Khan enjoyed her bridge mornings. They made her feel very sophisticated. She learnt a lot from her bridge companions. They played for points, without stakes. They did not gamble, but enjoyed the companionship and concentration. It was a way to get out of the house and keep their minds active. And it was so relaxing to chat.
Mrs. Lodhi had just secured a match for her nineteen-year-old daughter, and was eager to be congratulated. “Such a well-mannered boy. And a well-paying job in New York,” she murmured. “We have agreed on December for the wedding.” The others chimed in graciously with their well wishes. On no account could mothers with unmarried daughters let their own anxieties be exposed.

“Oh, you must help us find a boy like that for my sister’s daughter,” said Mrs. Mohsin cheerfully, as she bit delicately into a chicken patty. “She is just finishing her B.A. in Home Economics from Karachi University. Going on 20, and my sister is getting worried.”

Her partner, Mrs. Abbasi, raised her brows. “Arré, what’s the hurry? She should get a Business degree. That’s what people are looking for these days for their sons. Have you heard, those Americans have just opened a new branch on the Karachi University campus, so our children can get the MBA degree here in Pakistan. It will be recognized in the U.S. Much less expensive, and they can live at home!”

“Oh yes, the Americans like us these days,” agreed Mrs. Mohsin with a laugh. “All because of the Russians. My cousin’s son is applying to the IBA. He has finished his A-levels and now he can get started in their Bachelor’s program.”
This caught Mrs. Khan’s attention. “They take applications from people without Bachelor’s degrees?”  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Abbasi assured her. “Haven’t you seen the ad in the papers? The deadline is May. They take students with A-levels. In four or five years they have an MBA! They want background in Economics of course.”

This was a new idea for Mrs. Khan. Nabiha had done Economics in A-levels, and it was one of her stronger subjects. Maybe this was something to pursue? Nabiha preferred English Literature, but what use was that?

It was not until she was home that evening, when the whole family was gathered at one end of their twelve-person dining-table, that Mrs. Khan brought it up. “Nabiha, the IBA is now taking applications from A-level students. The deadline is in May, I have heard. Why don’t you apply?”

Nabiha looked up in surprise. “But Ammi, I’m still waiting to hear from the American colleges.”
“It doesn’t look like you’re going to hear from them, beta,” replied Mrs. Khan soothingly.
“Yes, why don’t you do the application to the IBA,” Mr. Khan joined in. “Good idea. I can get the application forms. I’ll send a peon over for them tomorrow.”

Nabiha looked puzzled. Mrs. Khan could tell that she didn’t know what to make of her parents’ apparent assumption that she was not going to get into any of the colleges to which she had applied. They all knew that Nabiha had a stronger record than many of her classmates who had already had several acceptances.
“Can’t we wait and see what happens with the American colleges first?”
Nabiha’s father shifted in his chair.

“It’s getting late now to hear from them. We would like to get you settled, …err... that is, … get started on the next stage. Besides,” he continued more assertively, “if we wait for these colleges to reply, then you will miss the deadline for the IBA. It is not good to waste a year.”

Silence. Mrs. Khan spooned more gravy onto her son’s rice.

“Can’t we call up some of the colleges and ask?” said Nabiha at last, turning from parent to the other. “I have their phone numbers. Or send them a telegram? Maybe the postal delivery to our address is not working, or the postman is sick or something.”
Her father looked at her mother.

“Maybe you should tell her now, Shafqat,” he said to his wife. Mrs. Khan threw him an annoyed glance.
“Tell me what?” asked Nabiha, turning to her mother. There was another pause.
“We never posted your applications,” replied Mrs. Khan finally. She spoke more curtly than she had intended. Nor was she aware that she had shifted to the plural pronoun. “We did not want you to go to America. … This way you can stay with us. The whole family will be together. Otherwise, how much we would miss you.”

“And you can continue with your sitar lessons,” added Nabiha’s father. “Your friends Samia and Nigar also did not apply to America. They will be here too.”
“It is so difficult for Pakistani girls in that country.”
Mr. and Mrs. Khan’s utterances had begun to tumble over each other. Mrs. Khan could not remember later which parent said what, as they strove to maintain normality.

Nabiha was sitting very still. The cook came into the dining room with hot freshly puffed chapatis and Mrs. Khan told him to refill the water jug from the bottles in the kitchen-fridge.
“Sit still, Naz!” Mr. Khan ordered his fidgety young son.
“I don’t like this chicken,” complained Naz.

Mrs. Khan was uncertain what more to say to Nabiha, who was now staring at her plate. Mr. Khan was helping himself to more of the chicken curry. No one seemed to know what to do with this new chasm that had opened silently before them. The everyday texture of their lives was so undramatic. It crossed Mrs. Khan’s mind that in those American shows they watched on TV, teenagers enacted the American style of protest, yelling, shouting, throwing things, slamming out of the room: “I can’t believe it! How could you do this to me!” How American parents tolerated that she could not understand. She knew her daughter would not, could not, behave like that.

Mrs. Khan could not read her daughter’s face. She looked oddly calm. The chicken, though, was congealing on her plate. In the even mundaneness the Khans cultivated in their home, this occasion fitted no prior script. Neither in Urdu nor in English did their children have any formula ready to complain about parents. Taking another bite, Mrs. Khan looked over with studied casualness at her daughter. Still quiet. Her mother could see that she had trained her daughter well. Daughters did not talk back to their parents. Parents knew what was right for children.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nabiha said finally. Her voice trembled slightly. Before either parent could reply, Nabiha’s little brother spilled his drink. In the confusion that ensued, the moment was lost.

“My dress is wet!” exclaimed Tara as the water poured across the table, and also on to the carpet.
“Call the ayah!” shouted Mr. Khan.
“Can’t you be more careful?” Mrs. Khan scolded her son.
So the dinner ended, with nothing more said, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if nothing had been broken, and the parents moved upstairs with the children to the television room, as was their wont, to watch some news before bed.

Nabiha’s eyes looked a bit puffy the next morning, but breakfast was always a chaotic affair on schooldays, so Mrs. Khan had little difficulty ignoring her eldest and rushing all three children off to the car, where the driver was waiting. When they came home, lunch had to be quick, for Mrs. Khan was going to an afternoon tea. In the evening they had to attend a dinner at a cousin’s house. “Tell the ayah to iron your outfits properly,” she instructed her daughters. “Tara can wear the pink silk with the gold gota and Nabiha, your dark blue and silver silk suit is back from the tailor with the sleeves shortened. You can wear my sapphire earrings with it today.”

Mrs. Khan was part of the way down the stairs before Nabiha spoke. “I don’t want to go,” she said, her tone mutinous. Mrs. Khan stopped and looked exasperated.
“What! Why not? What will everyone say?”
Nabiha’s face was averted.
“You can’t stay here by yourself!” said Mrs. Khan.

Why must Nabiha make this so difficult for her? Mrs. Khan thought she saw a glimmer of tears, but it might have just been the light. “Ok, bas, that’s enough. We are all going.”
Mrs. Khan’s sister had said that the Hassans would be coming, and they might bring their nephew with them, the one who had just graduated from UCLA. Better not say anything to Nabiha about that. Mrs. Khan stopped herself just in time.

The crisis was averted. Mrs. Khan was relieved. She did not bring up the applications, nor feel the need to explain herself, and Nabiha fortunately did not broach the subject on her own. As one busy day followed another, filled with usual school routines and social events, there was no opportunity for Nabiha to ask her parents if they had agreed upon their course of action, if it had been her mother’s idea, if her father had known. Nabiha would get over it soon, Mrs. Khan assured herself. Everything would be fine. She had only exercised a mother’s prerogative after all. “In our culture, girls learn to do what’s expected of them,” she told herself. She remembered a story she had read in school, of a mother who had torn up a daughter’s private journal.

“If my mother did that, I could never talk to her again!” one of Mrs. Khan’s classmates had declared angrily. “You know we are not like the Americans. Our ties with our mothers can never be broken,” another friend had said.

But part of Mrs. Khan could sense that the thing was not over, that the effects of her action were lingering. She had noticed the look that Miss Shahid, the new Economics teacher, a recently returned graduate from Wellesley College, had given her at the club. Nabiha must have told her teachers at school. That school was its own little community. All the senior students kept each other and their teachers informed of every development in the college application process.  

And sure enough, Nabiha’s guidance counselor stopped Mrs. Khan in the hallway one day when Mrs. Khan had gone to the school to get some forms. After the requisite preliminaries, the counselor got straight to the point.
“Nabiha is very upset,” she said in her stately tones.
Mrs. Khan mustered a polite smile.
“She is disappointed, yes,” she responded politely, spreading her hands in a seemingly helpless gesture. “We are obliged to you for all your good efforts, Mrs. Qureshi.” If only this woman would leave it there. But no.

“What a waste of time and effort.”
Mrs. Khan was silent.
“Nabiha says she wants to become a nun,” continued the counselor.

A nun? What was this? thought Mrs. Khan sharply. Muslim girls did not become nuns! Like Christians! Not even when they went to the Convent school. Nor leave their parents’ home for anything except marriage! She restrained herself. It was just a girl’s silliness. Just words. Why was Mrs. Qureshi repeating it to her? It was all their fault anyway, encouraging Nabiha to think of American colleges in the first place. Was this teacher daring to rebuke her, Nabiha’s mother? Mrs. Khan couldn’t believe that her daughter had confided in a teacher. What had she done to deserve this? All she had ever wanted was what was good for her daughter. What did these teachers know? Were they responsible for marrying off her daughter?

A lifetime of training in formality and formulaic phrases kept Mrs. Khan from venting her feelings. She had two younger children in the school. And she was a little afraid of these teachers with their outspoken ways.
“Ah, it is so difficult these days, with girls, you know, Mrs. Qureshi,” replied Mrs. Khan, shrugging her shoulders, maintaining her smile.

As she walked away, Mrs. Khan could imagine the senior teachers talking in the ladies’ staffroom. She was well acquainted with their personalities.
“These parents!” Mrs. Alvi, Nabiha’s Cambridge-educated English literature teacher would say dismissively, with an imperious wave of her diamond-ringed hand. “What can you do with them!”
“If that is what her parents want for her, it is their right,” her friend Mrs. Munazi the Vice Principal would agree, in her clear-cut pragmatic tones. “But they shouldn’t have let her go to all that trouble.”

Mrs. Khan knew that now. If she could go back to November, she would just tell Nabiha she was not allowed to apply, or even to take those SAT and Achievement tests. But she had not thought about it then. It was easier at that time to avoid the arguments. When she had held back those packets, she had not had a plan. It had just happened. That’s the result of being on the fence, she thought angrily. In the middle. Between modernity and tradition. Much easier if you just say no to begin with.

Mrs. Qasim, Nabiha’s Chemistry teacher, was more comforting when Mrs. Khan saw her a few days later at a school event.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Khan!” she said kindly. “It will be all right. Nabiha is such a good girl. Soon you will find a good boy for her.”
Mrs. Khan smiled wanly.
“And,” Mrs. Qasim added with a wave of her hand, and shake of her head, “she will have no more thoughts of college-shollege.”

Mrs. Qasim’s reaction was more in line with their world. Mrs. Khan need not have feared disapproval beyond the rarefied bounds of Nabiha’s school. Out in society, at parties or the club, at first Mrs. Khan shrank a little into herself, slightly apprehensive of how she would be judged. She felt defiant. She soon saw however that her acquaintances seemed unfazed. No one regarded trust or betrayal as relevant in the management of relations between mothers and daughters. If people knew of the matter, for people in Karachi knew everything, few thought much of it. If the topic came up, the consensus was that Mrs. Khan had done the right thing. Of course, she had.

Yet Mrs. Khan did not want to admit even to herself the twinge of pain Nabiha’s downcast face caused deep within her, or the ineffable loss of something between them that she could not name. For something in their relationship had changed, quietly, as irreparably as a rip in one of Mrs. Khan’s delicate chiffon saris. Nabiha was not rude or sullen, as another girl might have been, but her smile, if she smiled, was not the same, as if forced in an obliging gesture of accommodation. Something within her had withdrawn, and could not be tempted back. Mrs. Khan would not raise the topic. Best let it be, she thought. The girl would get over it. In her world, girls got over much worse disappointments. They did not fight their parents’ decisions.

Mrs. Khan could see that Nabiha, having told her close friends, was now acting as if nothing had happened. Her good-natured, habitually cheerful face had a wary, resolute look, as if she had vowed not to be seen as a victim. She was not one to encourage pity from her friends.

The following month, however, Mrs. Khan got another little surprise. Without consulting her mother, Nabiha began wearing a plain white dupatta tightly wrapped around her head. It completely hid her hair. What was this? It was exasperating, and disturbing, to say the least, to a mother who took pride in her modern status. Covering one’s head lightly at a religious ceremony was acceptable for the occasion, as long as it didn’t ruin one’s hairstyle, but it was not what her class of women did. Not all day! Certainly, respectable middle-class girls and women wore colored dupattas, semi-transparent yard-long stretches of thin muslin, draped decorously over their shoulders, dyed to match perfectly with their shalwar kameezes. But what was Nabiha trying to do, embarrass her parent by going around looking pious, or dowdy and lower-class, like those poor peasant women in burqas or hijab!

At first Mrs. Khan tried gentle discouragement. “What is this, beta? It doesn’t suit you.”

But there was something strangely determined about Nabiha’s newly donned garb and demeanor. What did the girl know about religion anyway, with her fancy western schooling, thought Mrs. Khan in annoyance. She had not even read the Quran in translation. Mr. Khan’s clumsily jovial mockery did not help. “Arré, from where did this village girl come into our house?” But Nabiha wouldn’t respond to his banter except to produce a thin obliging smile and look away. Mrs. Khan did not know what to do. It was difficult to order one’s daughter not to cover her head.

“It doesn’t match your outfit,” she said weakly. “Why does it have to? White goes with everything, as you always say.” Nabiha had managed to marshal the force of cultural propriety and righteousness against the frivolity of fashion.

When Mrs. Khan arrived at her bridge gathering the next week, her companions greeted her as usual.
“My Queen of Clubs time beat your Queen of Hearts last time. Let’s see who gets to call the trumps this time,” joked Mrs. Lodhi.
“I hear your Nabiha is applying to the IBA, like my nephew,” said Mrs. Abbasi.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Khan a bit hesitantly, “she is disappointed, you know, about the American college applications.”

A short silence fell, as Mrs. Mohsin dealt the cards. So they all knew. They weren’t even pretending not to know.
“Oh, bhai, what is a mother to do, these days,” Mrs. Lodhi said heartily, “you did the right thing. We have to keep our girls safe. America has such terrible temptations. Terrifying place.”
“Nabiha is a good girl,” concurred Mrs. Mohsin reassuringly. “She’ll get over it soon, I guarantee.”

Mrs. Khan paused as she gathered her cards. It was her turn to call trumps. “Yes, …” she stopped herself. It was tricky to say anything about the head-covering, for she didn’t want to indicate that she was worried about her daughter. If she let slip any hint that Nabiha had become unmanageable, or slightly unhinged, that would ruin her marriage chances. But she couldn’t help saying, with a shaky laugh, “She’s taken to wearing a dupatta over her head. Not the custom in our family, you know.”

“Oh, it’s becoming the fashion these days,” said Mrs. Lodhi, who always tried to normalize things, “what with all these speeches the mullahs are making on TV every night.”
“Becoming religious might provide her with some solace for now,” Mrs. Mohsin joined in unexpectedly. “Until she gets over the disappointment. Maybe it gives her a sense of choice.”
“Choice?” Mrs. Abbasi snorted. She was known to be something of a non-conformist. “What kind of choice is it to do what the mullahs say? Now they’re talking about forcing the veil on us just like in Iran.” Mrs. Abbasi gave them all a steely look. “One of my nephews is married to an Iranian girl. Very nice family, they had so much money in Tehran before they had to leave because of the Revolution. You should hear the things they say about what’s happening there. Choice indeed! They are making all the women wear the veil! And stay home!”

“Ah yes,” agreed Mrs. Lodhi, soothingly. “In Pakistan we are fortunate, God willing.” That was just the problem, reflected Mrs. Khan as she looked at her cards. Choice. Both she and her daughter had had too much choice. Making decisions was so complicated. As a mother, she had chosen to let her daughter make the choice to apply to America. And then she herself had made another choice for the sake of her daughter’s future. Now, her daughter had made yet another choice, as if to render null her mother’s choice. Mrs. Khan felt counter-trumped. What good family would look at a girl who looked like this? Surely Nabiha was not trying to repel mothers on the lookout for suitable modern brides for their sons? What kind of choice was it, that made it look like Nabiha had no choice but to wear a head-covering, like those unfortunate women who really had no choice?

Sipping her tea, Mrs. Khan paused, as an awful thought struck her. Surely Nabiha was not covering her head to mimic those veiled women? Was this a way to signal to society what her mother had done? To seem choiceless? To take revenge on her mother? No no, Nabiha could not, would not, ever do that. She was much too good a girl.

“Arre, are you calling trumps or not?” said her partner. Mrs. Khan gave herself a little shake as she returned to her game. Everything was going to be all right, she reassured herself. This was only a minor wrinkle in their lives. It would pass. She knew Nabiha would soon give up that silliness about the head-covering. When she spent more time with her friends, she would become self-conscious, and realize. That reminded her, she had to book her own haircut one of these days at the new hairdressers someone at the club had recommended. She would book a haircut for Nabiha too. Once she had a fashionable new hairstyle, perhaps in the Lady Diana style, she would not want it covered.

Pleased with herself, Mrs. Khan felt she had solved the problem. And she had chosen her trumps. For she had the ace, king and jack in her hand. “Clubs,” she called.

                                                  ***