“What was that?” her mother asked, holding open the front door.

“Nothing,” Deepa said. “I just didn’t want to bring it home.”

They turned down Bassant Street to number twelve. It was one among a row of whitewashed stone bungalows erected by the British Raj in the early part of the century. Her parents had purchased it last year from a Scottish family who, sensing the inevitability of Independence, packed up their belongings and moved to Edinburgh.

A concrete half-wall enclosed her father’s garden—his leafy money plants, white star-shaped jasmine flowers, a curry plant, coriander, mint, and tulsi. The mint was triple the size of the other herbs. Deepa often plucked leaves off and chewed on them after meals to freshen her breath. A stone birdbath stood in the center. Carved lotus flowers encircled its base. She needed to clean it out, add some fresh water. It made her happy to know Laila had seen the white mynahs cooling off in it.

Inside the flat, the aroma of ginger wafted through the air. They kicked off their chappals, set their bags on a table. Pots clanged, spoons scraped against the bottom of the cast-iron pans. While her mother headed toward the bedroom to change into her housecoat, Deepa sought out Bala.

Bala squatted on the ground in front of the burners. She had wide-set, heavy-lidded eyes that turned down at the edge of her square face. Her white braid ran along her spine. Its end brushed against the floor. Silver bangles decorated each of her forearms, gold studs shined in her ears. She had worked for Deepa’s mother’s family since Mummy-ji was a young girl and cared for Deepa since her birth. When Deepa’s parents married, and their parents disowned them for marrying outside of their castes, Bala quit working for Mummy-ji’s family and followed Mummy-ji and Papa-ji to their new home.

“How was school today, Deepa?” Bala asked, stirring a bubbling pot of brown lentils.

“Good.” Deepa removed the lid from a canister, popped a few almonds in her mouth. “Just going to water the plants. I’ll be right back.”

“Did you already have your chai?” Bala asked.

“Yes, on the way back from school.”

“Good girl,” she said. “Go check on the herbs, beta. The mint is looking a bit yellow.”

On the patio, the money plant’s dark green leaves curled around the lips of their clay pots. A vine from one pot twisted and turned to join a vine in the next, like little girls holding hands. She pressed her fingers in the soil. Dry. She lifted the can. Just as water emerged from the spout, she spotted something peeking out from between the leaves. She set the can down, pried it out.

It was a gondola, the exact replica of the sculpture Amir had made for Laila. He had hid it where he knew she would find it.