“As if you don’t either.”

They were both right. There wasn’t anything Esha wanted to do that she couldn’t.

“Why do we need to hold on to our ancestors? Don’t people die when they’re ready to go away?” Esha asked, playing with the gold bangles on her mother’s wrist. “Aji says if we hold on too tight we keep our people from moving on to the next life.”

Aie had laughed at that, and Baba Saheb had shaken his head. “This is the result of filling our daughter’s head with stories all the time.”

Speaking of stories . . . Esha bounced in her seat. “Story, Aie, I’m bored.”

“Tell her that one.” Baba Saheb leaned back in his seat, the gold upholstery pushing out around his head like the sun halo on Lord Vishnu’s crown. “The story you told me to get me to fall in love with you.”

“I thought you fell in love with Aie—Aie Saheb—when she dropped the teacup and spilled hot tea in your lap,” Esha said.

Her parents looked at each other in that way again, that way that made Esha feel hugged even when they weren’t hugging her.

“I have the burn scars to prove it,” Baba Saheb mumbled. “Inconveniently located too.”

Aie’s face went red and Baba Saheb reached across Esha to stroke the color brightening her cheeks. For a moment Esha was filled up with so much happiness she thought she’d burst. Her parents were the best parents in the world and someday she would marry a man exactly like Baba Saheb. Powerful, regal, kind. And she’d be a wife exactly like her aie. Soft, clever, and full of blushes.

Smiling, Aie turned to Esha. “Do you know who Garuda is?” She always started all her stories that way. Do you know who Ram is? Do you know who Krishna is? Do you know who Mahatma Gandhi is?

Even though Esha pretty much knew who every single person on earth was, thanks to Aie’s stories and Baba Saheb’s library and the collection of biographies for children that her uncle Shree had bought her for her first birthday. She was her uncle’s favorite person on earth, as he always told her, but even he hadn’t expected her to read at one.

“Dear Mahesh Dada, This is so you remember to pause in your politics to read to my niece. Love, Shree.” It was the note her father used as a bookmark when he did read to Esha from the collection every night that he was home.

Everyone was always telling Baba Saheb to slow down, to take a breath. But Esha liked how he was always in motion, like the ocean waves outside Esha’s window at the Sagar Mahal. Crashing and retreating and pushing and pulling and never stopping.