Excerpt from In Other Rooms, Other Wonders by Daniyal Mueenuddin, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The next day she hid in her room with the doors closed. When Rafik knocked she said, “Please, I beg you. You’ll only hurt me. Tell them I’m sick, and leave me alone.”

“Are you sick?” he asked, concerned.

“What do you think?”

She heard his measured footsteps walking away.

She thought, If just once he would act rashly or even quickly, suddenly, without thinking. But he wouldn’t. She remembered how slowly he had surrendered to her.

Three days passed. She and Rafik barely spoke, and when they passed each other she saw from his broken and haunted look that he missed her as she missed him. Yet also she saw how resolutely he had turned from her. Just once, when they were alone in the kitchen, at night, he reached over and touched her hand.

“You know, don’t you . . .” he said.

The well inside her stirred, all the sorrows of her life, the sweet thick fluid in that darkness, which always lay at the bottom of her thoughts, from which she pulled up the cool liquid and drank.

“I know.” And they knew that she forgave him.

Still she hoped. The wife sat in Rafik’s room all day, the door open, cross-legged on the bed, eyes not responding to passersby, heavy and settled—Saleema couldn’t help walking past on her way to the latrine.

One morning very early she heard the master’s bell ring, and then people rushing around. She rose and went to the kitchen.

Hassan told her as soon she walked in, “The old man’s sick, they’re taking him to the hospital.”

The other servants milled around the kitchen, no one spoke. The household rested on Harouni’s shoulders, their livelihoods. Late that night he died. The daughters had come, Kamila from New York, her sister Sarwat from Karachi. Even Rehana, the estranged middle daughter, who lived in Paris and hadn’t returned to Pakistan in years, flew back. A pall fell over the house. Already the bond among the servants weakened.

Hassan disappeared to his quarters, his face fallen in.

The house was full of mourners, the governor came, ambassadors, retired generals. There was nothing to do, no food would be served.

Rafik sought her out. He came to her room, where she sat on the bed, contemplating the emptiness of her future. Even the child had become silent. When Rafik came in she stood up, and he leaned against her and sobbed.

She couldn’t understand what he said, except that he repeated how he had fastened the old man’s shirt the last evening in the hospital; but he kept saying butters instead of buttons. He couldn’t finish the sentence, he repeated the first words over and over. Finally he became quiet, face streaked.

That was the last time ever that she held him. After a week Sarwat called all the servants into the living room. She sat wearing a sari, her face collapsed and eyes ringed, arms hung with gold bracelets.

“I’m going to explain what happens to you. Rafik and Hassan I’ve spoken to, as well as the old drivers. The ones who’ve been in service more than ten years will get fifty thousand rupees. The rest of you will get two thousand for each year of service. If you need recommendations I’ll supply them. You served my father well, I thank you. This house will be sold, but until it is you’ll receive your salaries and can stay in your quarters.” She stood up, on the brink of tears, dignified. “Thank you, goodbye.”

Crushed, they all left. They had expected this, but somehow hoped the house would be kept. It must be worth a tremendous amount, with its gardens and location in the heart of Old British Lahore, where the great houses were gradually being demolished, to make way for ugly flats and townhouses. That all was passing, houses where carriages once had been kept, flags lowered at sunset to the lawns of British commissioners. Gone, and they the servants would never find another berth like this one, the gravity of the house, the gentleness of the master, the vast damp rooms, the slow lugubrious pace, the order within disorder.

Excerpted from In Other Rooms, Other Wonders by Daniyal Mueenuddin. © 2009 by Daniyal Mueenuddin. Excerpted by permission of W.W.Norton & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.