Then, as she looked for a free table somewhere near the geography section, she bumped into him. He was coming out of the international studies aisle and he had a pile of books in his arms. He flushed pink at the ears when he saw her and clutched the books tighter, like he hoped they’d disappear, but she could see some of their titles. India in the Twentieth Century. A True History of Colonial India. The Real Legacy of the British Empire.

“I thought about what you said,” he said in a rush, ears even redder now. “And you were right. I don’t know as much as I think I do. So I wanted to learn.”

“Guh?” she said intelligently.

“Sorry, what?”

“Just clearing my throat,” she said.

“Um. Okay.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I’ll see you around.”

She watched him go, a smile edging its way across her face. He’s seventeen, she’d said to her dad that day after coffee. He has time to figure shit out. And he wanted to. So she smiled. This time, she had homework. So did he. But next time, maybe, just maybe, they could go get that Chinese takeaway.

The Agony of a Heart’s Wish

The
Agony of a Heart’s Wish

Samira Ahmed

The time has not come true, 
the words have not been rightly set;

only there is the agony

of wishing in my heart . . .

—Rabindranath Tagore

Gray smoke billowed ahead of the gleaming black beauty as it chuffed to a halt on the wide-gauge track. Tara peered down the platform, keeping one arm linked through her nanni’s as she watched men jump from the train steps before it fully stopped. The cascade of sweaty, jostling bodies made her wonder why anyone would hurry in this kind of heat. Her nanni was commanding a coolie to be careful with their trunks, seemingly immune to the effects of weather or frenzied travelers. Tara wanted to be in Shimla already. Twelve stifling hours stood between her and the breezes of her family’s summer home in the foothills of the Himalayas. At least most of the ride would pass through the night.

“I’m worried this coolie will scratch the leather on your nana’s steamer trunk,” Nanni muttered. “It went with us on our honeymoon to Kashmir, you know. It’s borne the journey of a lifetime—of many lifetimes.”

For as long as Tara could remember, her nanni had worn a widow’s simple white sari—its end wrapped loosely around her head and across her shoulder—though Tara’s nana had died nearly twenty years earlier, before she was born. The modest dress belied both her ferocity and her wealth, the way she preferred it. Tara towered over her, and sometimes she liked to play the part of the helpless grandmother. But she was not shy about using her mahogany cane to make a point when it was necessary.