As a girl she lived through the death and destruction of the 1947 partition between India and Pakistan, but now Zubair’s grandmother is like everyone else’s grandmother.
Old and wrinkly, slow in speech and speed. The separation, isolation and loss of that time are a distant memory. Now she makes her own olive oil and mango pickle and butter. Sits in the afternoon sun brushing her grandchildren’s hair. Knits sweaters for the winter and makes cakes.
She had lived in the same house on the same street for 40 years of her life. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until she gets on a plane to visit Zubair seven seas afar.