Cooped up inside the flat, Nusswan lamented the country’s calamity, grumbling endlessly. “Every day I sit at home, I lose money. These bloody uncultured savages don’t deserve independence. If they must hack one another to death, I wish they would go somewhere else and do it quietly. In their villages, maybe. Without disturbing our lovely city by the sea.”

When the curfew was lifted, Dina flew off to school, happy as an uncaged bird, eager for her eight hours of Nusswan-less existence. And he, too, was relieved to return to his office. On the first evening of normalcy in the city, he came home in a most cheerful mood. “The curfew is over, and your punishment is over. We can throw away your plaits now,” he said, adding generously, “You know, short hair does suit you.”

He opened his briefcase and took out a new hairband. “You can wear this now instead of electrical tape,” he joked.

“Wear it yourself,” she said, refusing to take it.

Three years after his father’s death, Nusswan married. A few weeks later, his mother’s withdrawal from life was complete. Where before she had responded obediently to instructions — get up, drink your tea, wash your hands, swallow your medicine — now there was only a wall of incomprehension.

The task of caring for her had outgrown Dina’s ability. When the smell from Mrs. Shroff’s room was past ignoring, Nusswan timidly broached the subject with his wife. He did not dare ask her directly to help, but hoped that her good nature might persuade her to volunteer. “Ruby, dear, Mamma is getting worse. She needs a lot of attention, all the time.”

“Put her in a nursing home,” said Ruby. “She’ll be better off there.”

He nodded placatingly, and did something less expensive and more human than shipping his mother to the old-age factory — as some unkind relatives would doubtless have put it — he hired a full-time nurse.