”Mother was silent for a while, stirring the vegetables sautéing in a pan. I knew my mother, so I waited for her. Eventually she spoke.“Jahan Ara...” she said. “Your father has been contacted by a distant relative of ours, Seth Rashid Khan. He lives in Canada. He is looking for a bride for his son, Iqbal.”My blood ran cold. Canada! I knew where this was going.“But Mother, I am only seventeen!”“By the time he comes here in three weeks, you will be eighteen. He will arrive just after your birthday.. One night she invited me up to listen to some old tapes of hers. Her music was great, but her lyrics sucked (she said it, not me), and she was wondering if I could do anything with some of her forgotten material. Her place was on Mott Street, a cool little fifth floor chick flat with sharp art deco prints and a couple of cats. Piled high in a corner was a lump of men’s shirts, magazines and assorted shaving toiletries. ‘The Detritus’ she called it, the jumbled remains of Dean’s one-time male. More

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