Lilia is a narrator with little to hide. Straightforwardly detached, her writing neither distorts nor withholds any details from the reader. Lilia’s storytelling is almost entirely unclouded by judgment, supported by the distance of time and the poise of her tone. She admits to her hidden sweet tooth and her “tightened” stomach as the TV relays the news. She even recounts her liking for Mr. Pirzada:
I was charmed by the presence of Mr. Pirzada’s rotund elegance, and flattered by the faint theatricality of his attentions, yet unsettled by the superb ease of his gestures, which made me feel, for an instant, like a stranger in my own home.
Here, Lilia conveys both her love for Mr. Pirzada and her ability to see past it. She falls for her guest but also warily eyes the “superb ease of his gestures.” Lilia is self-knowing, aware of her own biases and suspicious of her personal reactions. The startling precision with which she takes stock of her own emotions makes Lilia a cool, imperturbable presence. Nothing quite startles or surprises her, and the effect is a slightly wistful if jaded account of the past. Like her appraisal of Mr. Pirzada, she holds the reader and her most cherished memories at distance.
Lilia sustains her clinical tone. By the end of the story, Lilia tosses out the candy simply because “there was no need” for them any longer. She is unafraid to part with sentimental tokens and unwilling to indulge in nostalgia. Mr. Pirzada leaves almost as abruptly as he arrives, flying back to his home in Dacca “to discover what was left of it.” Lilia distills the sense of loss into fact, leaving behind barely a trace of emotion in the process.