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place I’d thought my heart had left.
    When the old man returns, he has a packet wrapped in crumpled yellow newspaper under one arm, a stack of pale-colored shawls under the other.
    “How much is this one?” I ask, holding out the soft green one.
    “It’s very expensive,” he says. “It’s
pashmina
from Kashmir. It was made for my mother before her wedding.”
    “How expensive?” I ask impatiently. I want this for Phulan. It will be beautiful with her tiger eyes.
    He looks at my desert nomad’s clothes, the glass bangles on my arm, and the tribal silver bracelet on one ankle above my rough bare feet.
    “Eight thousand rupees,” he says.
    My jaw drops. My ears burn with shame, and I turn to walk out of his shop.
    “Wait,” says the man. “What’s your name, child?”
    “Shabanu.”
    A smile starts slowly at the corners of his mouth and grows until it lights up his entire brown face.
    “It’s the name of a princess,” I say, lifting my chin and looking him in the eye.
    “It also was the name of my mother,” he says, and unties the packet of yellowed newspaper.
    His hands are gnarled and his beard wispy. He folds back the last piece of paper and pulls out an exquisite gray-colored piece of cloth as light as a spider’s web.
    “My father gave this
shatoosh
to my mother,” he says. “Would you like it?”
    Pale pink and green embroidery so fine I can’t see the stitches curls along the edges of the gossamer shawl. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen or touched.
    “I could never afford this,” I whisper.
    “Nor could I. They don’t make
shatoosh
anymore. There are so few wild goats, and nobody has the patience to gather the chin hairs from the bushes where they graze. So even the richest man in Pakistan can’t afford to buy a
shatoosh
. There are no more.”
    “But you could sell it for a fortune!”
    “If I can’t buy a
shatoosh
, how can I sell one?” he asks. “My wife is dead and I have no children. My mother visits me in dreams to ask what I’ve done with her
shatoosh
. I was ashamed to tell her it lies wrapped in newspaper under my bed. I’ve been looking for someone to give it to. I believe I have found the right person.”
    “But my sister Phulan …”
    “Ah, Phulan of the tawny eyes,” he says, resting his finger against his lips again. He turns to the stack he’s carried with him and sets them out between us on a clean but worn cloth.
    They are dull colors, and I protest that Phulan likes brightness. As he unfolds each one I feel the wool. It’s so soft and the embroidery so exquisite, I want them all.
    “When Phulan is grown, she’ll dress in bright colors,” says the shopkeeper. “She needs a white shawl to cover her bright dresses for special occasions and a fawn shawlto keep her warm in the day, so the gold in her eyes will show.”
    I know he’s right, and we sit down to choose which is better embroidery, which is the finer weave, the better color for Phulan’s eyes. When Dadi finds me, we have settled on the white and fawn shawls. While Dadi and the shopkeeper talk about prices, I return to finger the pale green
pashmina
.
    “This is my wedding present for Phulan,” says the shopkeeper, handing it to me. “May she have many sons.”
    As we leave I try to think of a special way to thank him, to tell him I’ve always dreamed of having a
shatoosh
but never imagined I would.
    “Thank you,” I say. It comes out in a whisper. The shopkeeper puts his hand on my shoulder and looks at Dadi.
    “She really is a princess, your Shabanu,” he says.
    I wonder if God has sent this man to show me I still have a heart, after all.
    We go next to the gold bazaar, where Dadi buys earrings for Phulan and a necklace for Mama, who has never owned gold.
    By the time we leave Rahimyar Khan, the camel is loaded with brass pots for Auntie and other gifts from Uncle, so Dadi and I will have to walk most of the next four days until we reach home.
    We enter the Cholistan