From above, the narrow streets of Stone Town in the island of Zanzibar look even narrower. From his perch on the railing of a rickety balcony, Roohan looks down on the street below, which at this hour, is full of tourists in old t-shirts and crisp new khanga, freshly purchased at the large air-conditioned souvenir shops, for more than double the price of what they would have paid in the local market. Their hair is frizzy from the humidity and they are walking around with slightly stupefied expressions of people who were expecting pristine white beaches from Pinterest, but not the touts who yelled in their faces to buy whatever they were selling: cheap sunglasses, foreign currency, and watches labeled ROLEKS.
Roohan doesn’t know the year he arrived in Zanzibar, but he knows it was many years ago. The island, like the island he had left behind, was a fishing village. He was twenty-two, a father already, when a wealthy businessman, in gold edged robes, who was passing through on his way to the African island, had stopped by the little island in the Arabian Gulf, and had sold dreams of riches to the young men he met there, who then persuaded their own families to let them go off with the businessman to seek their fortunes.
Saying goodbye to his parents, especially his mother, was difficult. She had kissed the mole on his cheek and recited a dua’a for his protection. Saying goodbye to his young wife and baby, a boy, similarly marked with a mole on his cheek, had been heart-wrenching.
Yet, he had walked away, following in the wake of the businessman’s musk-scented, gold-edged robes.
On the dhow, Roohan, and his fellow fortune seekers, their lips bleeding and cracked under the white-hot sun, had talked long into the sweltering nights: sharing dreams of returning triumphant and wealthy, back to their little island and their wives’ embraces and their mothers’ cooking.
They didn’t see much of the businessman on the boat. Often catching a glint of gold in the sunshine as he swept past: the scent of musk filling the air briefly, before being whisked away to the sea on a blue ocean breeze.

Then the dhow capsized.

Death had not come quickly, in fact, sometimes, Roohan can still feel the tight grip of the villagers boney hands as they dragged the bodies to the shore; just before they covered his face with a hastily borrowed sheet, he sees a flash of the gold-edged robe and then, in a whorl of musk, silence comes.
Now, Roohan spends his days, hovering over Stone Town: he has seen it grow from a sleepy town with narrow streets and neighbors who shared food during Ramadan, to a tourist town, with Italian restaurants and coffee houses, the air regularly punctured with loudly ringing mobile phones.
Today he is around a fruit seller, when a young woman strides over, her orange hijab flaming in the sun. Something about her seems familiar to him and not just the Arabic accented English.
As the fruit seller slides the mangoes in a blue plastic bag, he asks her where she is from. She tells him. The fruit seller hasn’t heard of this place, but Roohan has. He has longed for this place, waiting here in the middle world for an aeon.

She tells the fruit seller that she is in fact going home that very night. She had had a great time on this island and yes, she will return. When she walks down the narrow street back to her hotel, Roohan floats alongside her.
That evening, he makes himself comfortable in the airplane, in the overhead bin, right above her seat. After an age, he is going back home. After an age, the right person has come to take him back.
On their island in the Arabian Gulf, they are driven home by an Indian driver, white and red flags line the road home. The girl sits at the back, looking through her mobile phone. Roohan does not recognize this island, and yet he does. He knows he is home.
At home, the girl runs to an old lady, waiting for her at the top of the steps, who greets her with a sweet, shy smile which disappears into deep wrinkles. The girl gives her the blue bag of mangoes: ‘for you, jida’
A car door slams and a man walks in: ‘baba is here’ says the girl, running towards him smiling. She hugs him and reaches up to kiss the mole on his cheek.