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[dropcap]A[/dropcap]fter another night of sleeplessness and occasional episodes of passing into a state of half sleep, Maryam found herself on the sofa watching Countdown on Channel Four. As often, she noted that the man conducting the show wore a suit and tie and the woman a tight skirt. The man had to know all the words and remain seated in his tall chair as he dealt with the contestants, and the woman, well, she had to know all the words, have a shapely figure, and stand at perfect angles while she dealt with the man and the contestants. ‘Allah toba, is this how they decide who gets the job,’ she’d once said to Saffina.

She was determined not to open the photo albums this week. It was Thursday and she’d remained steadfast so far. Tempted, wavering and restless, but strong at the end of each night. Last weekend, she’d fallen asleep face down on Dilawar’s bed with an album open on either side and had felt uneasy and fearful in the morning: I did it again, she’d said to herself.

In this, she had slipped into the routine of an addict, vowing not to smoke up the next day, then, just this night, just this night, then a break, then the same cycle of need, greed and self-censure. Then she swore she must take a break or, at the very least, make it a once-a-week affair. You will go nuts like this, Maryam, she’d said to herself. It’s not as if anyone’s stopping you. But doing it every night would make you look like you’re mad, and what’s there to gain!

Since her walk in the marshes, she had been waiting for two things.

For Friday night when she would shut the door on the world and ‘check on Dil’ after five days. And the second thing she waited for was Julian. Even if he brought difficult questions with him, he helped pass the time. When he visited, the air in the house felt lighter, with a sense of anticipation that pleased her. Have to give him that, but where the hell was he?

Over the months, there had also been times when she felt she wanted to say everything to him, open up the wound all the way; she felt she could tell him everything because he was someone safe. But at other times she hesitated, prevaricated or adjusted her words because she was mindful of where he came from. As the days passed, she learned to find a place between these two states: she spoke when she felt she needed to speak and kept herself closed when she thought she was perhaps getting too close.

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Last week, she’d stared at the photographs night after night, as if the images might reveal something new. As if staring at Dil’s photo in silence might bring some news of him, some word. She’d given in to the impulse fully, abandoning the patience she’d cultivated in the previous weeks. She’d stretched full length on his bed, something she seldom did, rolling a little, sobbing a little, face pressing against his pillows. She’d felt a sharp anger rising in her afterwards. At what precisely, she couldn’t tell. Then she had become even more agitated as she searched for the reasons.

‘Mum, why do we always have white sheets and pillow covers,’ Dil had asked her once, when he was about fourteen.

She’d been asking him to help with the laundry for some time and he had at last obliged by taking the folded sheets and pillow covers to the cupboard.

‘Helps me put them in the machine on time, sweetheart. Do you mind?’

‘Just sayin’, Mum, just an observation.’

‘Ah, good observation … Your dad always liked the pillows plain white so I thought I can’t have mismatched bedsheets, could I …’ she’d replied, piling the dried fabrics on his outstretched arms.

He had said nothing at this. Just the blank stare and absent-minded nod that unnerved her sometimes.

In those days, she had been suspicious that he sneaked into Ash’s old estate to smoke. Tony had mentioned in passing that he might have seen Dilawar walking towards the lane that went to the closed-off estate. Soon as you turned into the lane there was a rain-beaten iron gate, behind which were scatters of rubble: cans of Red Bull, faded cartons of Pringles, packs of milk and Tropicana orange juice. A well-tended parking lot had stood here not too long ago, buffed maroon MGs and Jags waiting in front of the dark-glass offices of Whiteley’s small-scale industrial estate.

A few months after Ash’s funeral, Dil had found a carton of Marlboro Lights among the file folders in his father’s cupboard, and asked Saffina, who’d seen him cradling the unopened white box, to promise she wouldn’t tell.

Saffina kept the secret for years, but after his disappearance, she felt she must tell Maryam about it, shaking her head as she spoke. ‘It means nothing probably, it was years ago … I’m sorry. He was being so sweet, Baji … I can’t believe he’s just vanished …’

‘You don’t even smoke, Dilly, but, yeah, I promise I won’t tell Baji,’ she’d said to him then.

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Maryam took out a pack of chocolate-chip cookies from the kitchen cupboard and settled back on the sofa to watch Countdown. The new girl was doing alright, not bad at all, she thought, remembering Carol, who had quit the programme some years ago.

When Julian comes, I’ll ask him why Carol left. Was it because they wanted to pay her less, or did she grow tired of swivelling like a peacock on her heels all these years? He ought to know because he must know the kind of people who run TV channels, important, high-flying people, she thought as the credits rolled. But where is he? Nearly the end of the week and he hasn’t turned up. He’s probably stuck with that smooth weasel.

What if I’d been a high-flying woman, she wondered? What if Ash and I had both been high-fliers, eh? Then Dil might have turned out like Julian, but would we have been happy to have a posh boy for a son? Come on, Julian isn’t really like that, he’s got a heart, he listens to you, spends time with you, and you like him. What more do you want!

Then again, Dil would be here now, wouldn’t he? At home, not missing, not fled, not suspected to be …

[et_pb_heading title="Relevant Information" _builder_version="4.27.6" _module_preset="default" title_font="|||on|||||" title_text_align="center" title_font_size="35px" global_colors_info="{}" theme_builder_area="post_content"][/et_pb_heading]  [et_pb_image src="https://www.inversejournal.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/maryam-61e2NMDJ7jL._SL1500_.jpg" title_text="maryam-61e2NMDJ7jL._SL1500_" _builder_version="4.27.6" _module_preset="default" global_colors_info="{}" theme_builder_area="post_content"][/et_pb_image][et_pb_button button_url="https://mirzawaheed.com/" url_new_window="on" button_text="Visit Book Page" button_alignment="center" _builder_version="4.27.6" _module_preset="default" custom_button="on" button_text_size="16px" button_text_color="#000000" button_bg_color="#FFFFFF" button_border_color="#000000" global_colors_info="{}" theme_builder_area="post_content"][/et_pb_button] [et_pb_heading title="About the Book" _builder_version="4.27.6" _module_preset="default" hover_enabled="0" global_colors_info="{}" theme_builder_area="post_content" title_font_size="35px" title_font="|300||on|||||" sticky_enabled="0" custom_margin="25px|||||"][/et_pb_heading]

A LITERARY NOVEL ABOUT MOTHERHOOD AND DESIRE, TOLD THROUGH THE COMPELLING PERSPECTIVE OF A MOTHER FORCED TO QUESTION EVERYTHING SHE BELIEVES ABOUT HER CHILD AND HERSELF.

[dropcap]M[/dropcap]aryam Ali, a school chef and widow, finds her son’s bed empty one morning. At her sisters’ insistence, she reports him missing, hoping the police will find him, bring him home. Instead, government officials arrive with news that Dil might be far from London and involved in something unthinkable. As the days pass and the waiting becomes intolerable, Maryam retreats into the past, seeking answers for the present. She finds herself unexpectedly drawn to Julian, the young family liaison officer assigned to her case—a dangerous attraction that forces her to navigate between desire and the knowledge that he represents the very forces that have her son in their sights. As bombs fall on Mosul, Maryam must confront the ultimate question: how does a mother grieve a child who may have done terrible things?
A provocative novel of motherhood, family, desire, and the limits of knowing those we love most.

Relevant Press

[et_pb_cta title="Arithmetic of loss | Review of Mirza Waheed’s Maryam & Son " button_url="https://www.thehindu.com/books/book-review-maryamamp-son-author-mirza-waheed-identity-muslim-immigrant/article70694867.ece" url_new_window="on" button_text="Read More" _builder_version="4.27.6" _module_preset="default" header_level="h4" header_font="|600|||||||" header_text_align="center" header_text_color="#000000" header_font_size="15px" header_line_height="1.5em" body_font="Adamina||||||||" body_text_align="center" body_text_color="#000000" body_font_size="13px" body_line_height="1.6em" background_enable_color="off" custom_button="on" button_text_size="15px" button_text_color="#000000" button_bg_color="#FFFFFF" button_border_width="1px" button_border_color="#000000" button_alignment="center" text_orientation="left" background_layout="light" global_colors_info="{}" button_text_size__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_width__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_width__hover="1px" button_border_color__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_color__hover="#000000" button_text_color__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_text_color__hover="#000000" button_text_size__hover="15px" theme_builder_area="post_content"]

Attaul Munim Zahid, The Hindu

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Somak Ghoshal, Mint

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Azra Hussain, Kashmir Life

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Mirza Waheed, Scroll.in

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Vineetha Mokkil, Outlook Magazine

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Gowhar Geelani, Frontline Magazine

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Nawaid Anjum, The Federal

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Sohini Dey, Open Magazine

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The Telegraph

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Kashmir Observer

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Ranjana Sengupta, Frontline Magazine

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Kashmir Life

[/et_pb_cta][et_pb_cta title="The Novelist of the Unburied: Mirza Waheed and the Quiet Catastrophe of Kashmir" button_url="https://kashmirtimes.com/opinion/comment-articles/mirza-waheed-and-the-quiet-catastrophe-of-kashmir" url_new_window="on" button_text="Read More" _builder_version="4.27.6" _module_preset="default" header_level="h4" header_font="|600|||||||" header_text_align="center" header_text_color="#000000" header_font_size="15px" header_line_height="1.5em" body_font="Adamina||||||||" body_text_align="center" body_text_color="#000000" body_font_size="13px" body_line_height="1.6em" background_enable_color="off" custom_button="on" button_text_size="15px" button_text_color="#000000" button_bg_color="#FFFFFF" button_border_width="1px" button_border_color="#000000" button_alignment="center" text_orientation="left" background_layout="light" global_colors_info="{}" button_text_size__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_width__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_width__hover="1px" button_border_color__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_color__hover="#000000" button_text_color__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_text_color__hover="#000000" button_text_size__hover="15px" theme_builder_area="post_content"]

Ira Mathur, Kashmir Times

[/et_pb_cta][et_pb_cta title="Backflap: What’s on the shelves this week?" button_url="https://www.tribuneindia.com/news/book-reviews/backflap-59/" url_new_window="on" button_text="Read More" _builder_version="4.27.6" _module_preset="default" header_level="h4" header_font="|600|||||||" header_text_align="center" header_text_color="#000000" header_font_size="15px" header_line_height="1.5em" body_font="Adamina||||||||" body_text_align="center" body_text_color="#000000" body_font_size="13px" body_line_height="1.6em" background_enable_color="off" custom_button="on" button_text_size="15px" button_text_color="#000000" button_bg_color="#FFFFFF" button_border_width="1px" button_border_color="#000000" button_alignment="center" text_orientation="left" background_layout="light" global_colors_info="{}" button_text_size__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_width__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_width__hover="1px" button_border_color__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_color__hover="#000000" button_text_color__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_text_color__hover="#000000" button_text_size__hover="15px" theme_builder_area="post_content"]

The Tribune

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