But the pain in her knee and her hands and her ankle destroyed the verses. Proclaim the goodness of your Lord. Proclaim the goodness of your Lord.

There was a patch of green surrounded by black railings, and in the middle two wooden benches. In this city, a bit of grass was something to be guarded, fenced about, as if there were a sprinkling of emeralds sown in among the blades. Nazneen found the gate and sat alone on the bench. A maharanee in her enclosure. The sun came out from behind a black cloud and shone briefly in her eyes before plunging back under cover, disappointed with what it had seen. She was cold, she was tired, she was in pain, she was hungry and she was lost.

She had got herself lost because Hasina was lost. And only now did she realize how stupid she was. Hasina was in Dhaka. A woman on her own in the city, without a husband, without family, without friends, without protection. Hasina had written the letter before she left.

Sister I have not know what to tell and this is how no letter is coming before. Now I have news. In morning soon as husband go out for work I go away to Dhaka. Our landlady Mrs Kashem is only person who know about it. She say it is not good decision but she help anyway. She say it is better get beaten by own husband than beating by stranger. But those stranger not saying at same time they love me. If they beat they do in all honesty.

Mrs Kashem have uncle in Dhaka and this uncles brother-in-law rent out property. I have saving from housekeeping. You remember Amma always tell 'A handful of rice a day.' I have manage it and more. Do you think Amma save? Why she did not save?

Every evening I go up on roof. There is beggar woman lie on street corner. Body is snap shut. If she sit on behind she can look only at ground. It like big big foot press on the back. Any time she wanting to look higher she roll on side. She move along with shuffling and use hands as paddle. After it get dark man come and put on handcart and take somewhere. One time he come and she do not want to go. She start shuffling back away and shout. She get so far as coconut vendor at other corner.

I like to watch this woman. She have courage.

When I get address I write again to you.

Hasina A young man, tall as a stilt-walker and with the same stiff-legged gait, came and sat on the opposite bench. He put his motorcycle helmet on the ground. He ate a sandwich in four large bites. Something in his jacket crackled like a radio. He spoke to it and it appeared to speak back. He put on his helmet and left. Nazneen needed a toilet. The baby made her want to urinate about eight or nine times in the day, two or three times at night. It was past noon and all morning she had not thought of the toilet once.

She would have to urinate on the grass like a dog, or else wet herself and walk home in soaked clothes. But how would she go home? That was the point of being lost. She, like Hasina, could not simply go home. They were both lost in cities that would not pause even to shrug. Poor Hasina. Nazneen wept but as the tears started to come she knew that she was weeping more for her own stupidity than for her sister. What propelled her down all those streets? What hand was at her back? It could not help Hasina for Nazneen to be lost. And it could not give Nazneen any idea what Hasina was suffering. She watched heads above the railings. The people who looked in looked away again, neither slowly nor quickly, without interest or design. Razia always said, if you go out to shop, go to Sainsbury's. English people don't look at you twice. But if you go to our shops, the Bengali men will make things up about you. You know how they talk. Once you get talked about, then that's it. Nothing you can do.

Hasina would be talked about.

The baby had taken over her bladder. The baby was not much bigger than a lychee but it was in charge of all her internal organs, particularly her bladder. Nazneen got up and began walking again. The sun had gone somewhere. It no longer peeped out from time to time from behind the clouds. The clouds rushed at the tops of buildings as if they would smother them in a murderous rage. The buildings stood their ground, impassive as cows. And at the very last second the clouds went to pieces.

Nazneen wondered if Chanu worked in a building like these. She imagined him in a glass office, surrounded by piles of paper and talking in a big voice to his colleagues who hurried back and forth, getting on with their jobs while he talked and talked. It was lunchtime now and the streets were busier. People carried white paper bags with sandwiches poking out. Some ate and walked to save time. She might see Chanu; he might work just here, in this building, or this. These were important buildings. They were proud of what they were. They could be government buildings. Chanu might be walking towards her now. He could be behind her. She turned round and bumped into a man carrying a plastic cup of hot tea that spilled on her arm. She turned back again and walked quickly, stepping hard on her twisted left ankle, to distract from the pain in her arm, to punish herself for being so stupid. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she leaped like a dog away from a whip snake. He came round to the front. A brown-faced man in a dark coat and tie. He had a handkerchief arranged like an exotic flower in his breast pocket and his glasses had lenses as thick as pebbles. He said something. Nazneen recognized Hindi when she heard it, but she did not understand it. He tried again, in Urdu. Nazneen could speak some Urdu, but the man's accent was so strong that she could not understand this either. She shook her head. He spoke in English this time. His eyes looked huge behind their lenses, like they had been plucked from another, much bigger creature. She shook her head again and said, 'Sorry.' And he nodded solemnly and took his leave.

It rained then. And in spite of the rain, and the wind which whipped it into her face, and in spite of the pain in her ankle and arm, and her bladder, and in spite of the fact that she was lost and cold and stupid, she began to feel a little pleased. She had spoken, in English, to a stranger, and she had been understood and acknowledged. It was very little. But it was something.

She got home twenty minutes before her husband, washed the rice and set it to boil, searched through a cupful of lentils for tiny stones that could crack your teeth, put them in a pan with water but no salt and put the pan on the stove. She removed her shoes and examined her blisters. She put on fresh underclothes and sari and soaped the rain-sodden one. When she had twisted the water out of it, she left it in the bath like a sleeping pink python.

She was skimming brown froth from the lentils when he came in.

'You see,' he said, as though the conversation had not been interrupted by a whole day, 'there's very little that I could do anyway. What your sister has done cannot be undone by me, or by anybody else. If she decides to go back to him, then that is what she will do. If she decides to stay in Dhaka, so be it. What will happen will happen.'

He leaned against the cupboards. His hood was still up and he had gloves on. He folded his arms so they rested on the shelf of his belly. She could hear him breathe, and then he began to hum. It was the tune of a nursery rhyme, a silly song about going to uncle's house for rice and milk but being disappointed. Every particle of skin on her body prickled with something more physical than loathing. It was the same feeling she had when she used to swim in the pond and came up with a leech stuck to her leg or her stomach.

'Shall I take your coat?' she said. 'Would you like to go and sit down?'

'Oh, coat,' he said, and carried on humming. 'When my boy is born I will teach him some songs. Do you know that the child can hear even in the womb? If I sing to him now, when he is born he will recognize the tunes.'

He dropped to his knees, put his arms around Nazneen's middle and began to sing to her stomach. She held a ladle full of boiling scummy water above his head. She poured it with great care into a bowl.

'You could go there.' The words burst as hot and fast as boils.

'Where?' He pulled down his hood and blinked at her.

'Where? To Dhaka. You could find her.'

He got to his feet and cleared his throat. He stirred the lentils absently and lifted the lid from the rice so that the steam escaped and it would not be properly cooked. 'Well,' he said, 'yes, I could go. I could go and walk around the streets and ask for her. "Have you seen my wife's sister? She just ran away from her husband, and she sent us this address: Dhaka." I'm sure it would not take long to find her. Perhaps one or two lifetimes. And after all there is very little for me to do here. I only have a degree to finish, and a promotion to get, and a son on the way.

'Shall I pack a suitcase? Perhaps you have prepared one. I shall go to Dhaka and pluck her instantly from the streets and bring her back to live with us. On the way I could pick up the rest of your family and we could make a little Gouripur right here. Is that what you have in mind?'

Anything is possible. She wanted to shout it. Do you know what I did today? I went inside a pub. To use the toilet. Did you think I could do that? I walked mile upon mile, probably around the whole of London, although I did not see the edge of it. And to get home again I went to a restaurant. I found a Bangladeshi restaurant and asked directions. See what I can do!

She said, 'It is up to you. I was only suggesting.'

Chanu took his coat off. He began to rub his hand over his face, looked at his gloves and took those off too. 'You are worried. Let me tell you something. Sometimes we just have to wait and see. Sometimes that's all we can do.'

'I have heard it. I know it.' She put three pinches of salt in with the lentils, now that they were soft enough to break down. She stirred in chilli, cumin, turmeric and chopped ginger. The golden mixture blew fat, contented bubbles. Nazneen tasted some from a spoon and burned her tongue. But it was her heart that was ablaze, with mutiny.

Nazneen dropped the promotion from her prayers. The next day she chopped two fiery red chillies and placed them, like hand grenades, in Chanu's sandwich. Unwashed socks were paired and put back in his drawer. The razor slipped when she cut his corns. His files got mixed up when she tidied. All her chores, peasants in his princely kingdom, rebelled in turn. Small insurrections, designed to destroy the state from within.

Mrs Islam took her to see Dr Azad. The waiting room was foetid, as if to sweat the illness out of the patients. An old man with a knobbly nose sat in the corner sipping mournfully from a can of something. A large family of Africans, the colour of wet river stones with long, beautiful necks and small sloping eyes, fanned out on the front seats. The children sat on their hands and whispered to each other. The grown-ups were silent. Their faces expressed nothing other than the ability to wait. Waiting was their profession.

Mrs Islam sucked her teeth. She shuffled her feet beneath her chair and rubbed her right heel with the toe of her left slipper. From her large black bag (it looked like a doctor's bag, but it smelled of mints and the clasp was jewelled with bright glass) she took out a polythene envelope of handkerchiefs. 'Here, child,' she said. 'Take them. They're for you.'

'Very pretty, very nice,' said Nazneen.

Mrs Islam snorted. 'Someone gave them to me. My handkerchiefs are high quality. If you like these, I'll get more.'

'No. Don't get more,' Nazneen protested.

'You don't like them either.' She raised a hand to ward off denials. 'Give them to your husband.' She leaned in towards Nazneen. The wart on the side of her nose was encircled by three stubby hairs, toughened and thickened by tweezing. 'How are things now, with your husband?'

Nazneen looked away. 'He is well. Not counting the corns, and a little stomach problem sometimes.' From the corner of her eye she saw her companion waggle her head and purse her lips. There was a pause.

Eventually, Mrs Islam spoke. 'There is no need to tell me. I know how it is. I get to know these things.'

Nazneen stared at a notice on the wall, printed in five languages.

'All the young people, they come to me. Everyone knows that what they say to me stays in confidence. But if you do not wish to speak, I do not wish to hear.'

The notice said: No smoking, no eating, no drinking. All the signs, thought Nazneen, they only tell you what not to do.

'I'll tell you something instead.' Mrs Islam took Nazneen's wrist. Her hand was hot and dry. The skin was powdery, as if it would dissolve in water. 'When I was a girl, the nearest well to the village was two miles' walk. There was a well in the village but the water had turned bad because of a curse, and the pond water was also poisoned. Two hard miles to the water, and two harder miles back. And the women got fed up. They did the fetching and the carrying, and when they complained to their husbands, what was the result?

'There was no result. Because for the men, there was no incentive. They were not suffering. Why should they act? So then the women of the village came together to discuss. First they shared their complaints. Then they sympathized, one with another. After that they berated their menfolk. Once these important things were done, they moved on to decide what to do.

'One woman, I believe it was Reba, a seamstress, said, "Sisters, it is obvious. We must make the men suffer so that they will come to our aid and dig a new well. All we have to do is withdraw our labour. We go on strike. If they want water, let them fetch it for themselves." This suggestion found some favour and it was discussed. But then the faults emerged. Could the men be trusted to bring sufficient water for their families? Was it possible for the women to bring only their own ration of water and not share it with the men? Would the children be the ones to suffer most? Would the men see reason and begin to dig, or would they resort to violence?

'That is when Shenaz spoke.

'Shenaz was sitting just outside the circle. So far she had been silent. After marriage, Shenaz had gone to the town but her husband abandoned her there. That is when she became a Jatra girl, a dancing girl. When she came back to the village, she had to survive by selling the only thing that she had to sell. That is why she sat outside the circle.

'Anyway, now she spoke. "There is another kind of labour we perform, and if we withdraw it that will be a discomfort only for the men." Everyone turned to look at her, and though she could only look at the ground she was determined to press her point. "A man cannot live without water. He cannot live without it, but he can bear the thought of no water. A man can live without sex. He can live without it, but he cannot bear the thought of no sex. This is my suggestion."

'That's how the women in my village got themselves a new well. If you think you are powerless, then you are. Everything is within you, where God put it. If your husband does not do what is required, think what you yourself have left undone.'

Mrs Islam let go of Nazneen's wrist. She took a handkerchief and wiped her mouth, as if clearing the way for the next story. Her eyes were small and hard like a bird's; her white hair looked as if it would snap under a comb. On her face was written grandeur and weariness, and the knowledge that whatever happened she would be the one called to preside over it.

The receptionist, who had a cigarette tucked behind her ear, called Nazneen's name. 'Mrs Ahmed,' she said, leaning over the counter so that her breasts threatened to roll into the waiting room.

Nazneen got up but hesitated because she was unsure if she would go in alone, or with her chaperone.

'Go. Go,' said Mrs Islam. She glared at the receptionist's breasts, and the girl withdrew them at once.

Dr Azad sat with his feet together. His knees pressed against each other. Although his chair was large and well padded, he did not lean into it but kept his back straight, so that he appeared like a jointed doll balanced stiffly in a seat. He sat at a ninety degree angle to his desk, facing Nazneen. On the desk were a notepad, a pen, a yellow pocket file and a row of snowstorms. Nazneen learned about snowstorms on her first visit to Dr Azad. They were fascinating, these sleeping underwater towns. When you shook them they were whipped with a white explosion but then, only then, you could imagine the life within. Children's things, Dr Azad said. He didn't explain why they were on his desk.

'Any problems, any pain, any blood loss?'

'No,' said Nazneen. 'Everything is fine.'

'Any soreness, any swellings in the hands or ankles?'

'No.'

'You're having a good diet?'

'Yes.'

'Then I predict that things will go smoothly, you will have a healthy child and he will look after you in your old age.' The doctor smiled. He had the most peculiar smile. His chin pushed up, the ends of his mouth turned down. But still it was a smile. You could tell by the way his eyebrows lifted that he intended some kind of merriment.

'All I have to do now is take your blood pressure and make an appointment for you at the hospital. Do you have any questions?' His voice was soft, the words opened like flowers on his lips, and yet they had authority. Chanu spoke loudly. He weighed his words like gold and threw them about like a fool.

'Just one thing,' said Nazneen. 'My husband would like you to come to us again, for a meal.'

Dr Azad took out a black armband from a drawer and motioned for Nazneen to roll up her sleeve. She watched his face, trying to read his answer. She saw that his nose turned up at the end: a sign of weakness in a man, according to Amma. The doctor did not appear weak. His hair was like a shiny helmet, cut short and straight across the fringe and printed with a circle of light from the bulb overhead. The flesh around his eyes looked puffed and grey, and the eyes themselves were neither penetrating nor commanding. But his mouth was firm and his position erect. He held himself like a man who knew his place in the world, and knew that the world knew it too.

'Blood pressure is perfect. Good, good.' He put the armband and the little tube with the pump back in the drawer. 'Yes,' he said. 'I accept, with pleasure. We have a conversation to pursue, your husband and I. We were most rudely interrupted by my patients. And I have some books to return. There's one I'm still reading. I have it in my bag. Do you think I may be allowed to keep it a while longer?'

Nazneen did not know about conversations interrupted and books lent. Her back was hurting. Even lying flat on the new hard mattress was no relief. She needed to urinate, and now when she urinated it burned. The rest of the time it itched. But what could be said of this to Dr Azad? Everything is fine, she had told him. She could have mentioned the back, but what else can a pregnant woman expect if not back pain?

'Yes, your husband has been to see me once or twice.' He paused. 'No, let's say three or four times. I have tasted your excellent kebabs. I have signed his petition. I have been lent books. And I have engaged in literary debate. All these are fine things, but everything in its proper place. I shall, let's say, pay a home visit.'

A petition? What petition is this? Nazneen had not seen any petition. She returned to Mrs Islam, who was slumped in her chair with her head lolling back so that, but for the fact that her eyes were open, she appeared to be sound asleep. Perhaps she sleeps with her eyes open, thought Nazneen. That's how she misses nothing and knows everything. It must have been Razia though, who told her about Chanu and Hasina and our troubles. She smiled a little at the thought of Razia, curling up her long legs and dishing gossip sideways out of her man-size mouth.

She was on her knees and her hands were flat against the mat. Midday prayer. Everything must be kept clear now. All the complaints, all the anxieties and lists that made up her life must be set aside. She could be grateful. She could flush her body and mind with gratitude. There should be no room for other thoughts. Although she could think about God. And the words of the prayer. Glory be to my Lord, the Most High. God is greater than everything else. And remember the baby too, because God would not want her to forget that. Hasina, also. Because she was grateful for her safety, for the letter safely delivered. The baby she could not forget because he was scrambling around her belly, looking for footholds just beneath her ribs. She could not get her forehead down to the mat. It simply was not possible. There was a special dispensation for pregnant women. If she chose to, Nazneen could do namaz from her chair. She had tried it once and it made her feel lazy. But it was nice that the imams had thought of it. Such was the kindness and compassion of Islam towards women. Mind you, if any imam had ever been pregnant, would they not have made it compulsory to sit? That way, no one could feel it was simply down to laziness. How did I come to be so foolish, thought Nazneen. What is wrong with my mind that it goes around talking of pregnant imams? It does not seem to belong to me sometimes; it takes off and thumbs its nose like a practical joker.

She was half annoyed and half relieved to hear knocking, and Razia calling out, 'Sister, it's just me. I've brought medicine for you.'

Razia was wearing a woollen hat that came down over her ears and sat in a line with her eyebrows. Over her salwaar kameez she had a baggy jumper with some kind of animal (a deer? a goat?) knitted into the front. Her shoes were big as trucks and battered by untold collisions. She kept the hat on, and Nazneen was constantly on the brink of pointing this out.

'Dissolve the packets in water and take it twice a day. It will sort out your problem. No more burning.'

'I'll do it,' said Nazneen. 'I've got something to show you.'

The letter was longer this time. It gave an address. Hasina talked about her landlord, Mr Chowdhury, about the job he was going to get for her in a garment factory, and about the ice cream parlour at the end of the road. She sounded excited, especially about the pistachio flavour and the little plastic spoons. It seemed she had not the least idea about the danger she was in (and she was in danger, a girl, a beautiful young girl, alone in Dhaka) but Nazneen hoped that Mr Chowdhury would look out for her. Mr Chowdhury would be responsible. A man with property will be respectable, Chanu said, she will be under his protection.

'I'm glad for you,' said Razia. 'And your husband is glad too, I expect.'

'He didn't want to do anything, and now he doesn't have to.'

'Men like to be proved right. We must go out of our way to show them how right they are. My husband is just the same.'

'When he read the letter, he said, "What did I tell you? Sometimes we must sit and wait."'

'Did he push his lips out and waggle his head like this?' Razia made a fat bunch of her mouth, and made her eyes wide.

Nazneen was not finished. 'He cannot accept one single thing in his life but this: that my sister should be left to her fate. Everything else may be altered, but not that.'

Razia leaned back on the sofa. She made the sofa look small, and she knocked one of the plastic headrests to the floor. 'What can we say against fate?'

'I am not saying anything against it.' Nazneen thought briefly of telling the story of How You Were Left To Your Fate. It was too long to go into now. 'I am just. . .' What? Angry with Chanu. But about what, exactly?

'You are just concerned for your sister. It's natural. And in your condition, things become more of a worry. You have to take care, and don't overdo things. Did you know that Nazma had her third on Saturday and he was two months early? I don't know if it's true, but Sorupa says that it was because her husband wouldn't leave her alone, and that made the baby come before it was ready.'

'Ish,' said Nazneen, narrowing her eyes at the thought. She rubbed her stomach, and pressed on it firmly to feel around the curve of the baby's head, or his bottom. She put her feet up on a footstool. There were three footstools now, and an extra chair. (This one had things growing on it, strands of grey, mouldy stuff, but Chanu said it was valuable, and when he had fixed it he was going to sell it again.) It was getting difficult for her to navigate the furniture now. They were both growing, Nazneen and the furniture.

'Anyway, it was a quick labour. Not like her first. That was thirty-six hours. Mine was twenty-eight.'

'When I was born, Amma thought it was indigestion. She said that some women make a big fuss.'

'Hah,' said Razia. She picked up one of Chanu's books from under her feet and put it on the coffee table.

'It's a natural thing, which happens to all women.'

'Hah,' said Razia. 'I'll come with you to the hospital. Next time I come, I'll help you pack a bag for the big day.'

'Amma didn't make a single sound when I was born.'

'Mmmm,' said Razia. She looked around the room, as if she had just stepped into it for the first time. Nazneen looked around too. A piece of wallpaper was curling back just by the window and the thin grey curtains looked like large, used bandages. It was afternoon but the light had crept away and the greyness of the curtains seemed to hang over everything.

'Did you know about Amina?'

Nazneen did not know.

'She's asking for a divorce. I heard it from Nazma, who heard it from Sorupa. Hanufa told her about it, and she got it straight from the horse's mouth.'

'I saw her with a split lip. And one time she had her arm in a sling. He must have gone too far this time.'

'Not only that,' said Razia. She looked at Nazneen from under her curly eyelashes and Nazneen knew she was savouring the moment. 'He has another wife that he forgot to mention for the past eleven years.'

'May God save us from such wicked men.' And from ourselves too, that we should enjoy such stories.

'Anyway, your husband has not made you a co-wife. You have something to be grateful for.' Razia smiled. There was nothing feminine about her face, and with her hair tucked into her hat she could have been a labourer or a fisherman, but when she smiled her face lost its sly, sideways look and her nose seemed smaller. When she was smiling she was almost handsome. 'Any news of the promotion?'

'My husband says they are racist, particularly Mr Dalloway. He thinks he will get the promotion, but it will take him longer than any white man. He says that if he painted his skin pink and white then there would be no problem.' Chanu had begun, she had noticed, to talk less of promotion and more of racism. He had warned her about making friends with 'them', as though that were a possibility. All the time they are polite. They smile. They say 'please' this and 'thank you' that. Make no mistake about it, they shake your hand with the right, and with the left they stab you in the back.

'Well,' said Razia, 'this could be true.'