Chandani noticed that Shan had finally gained back some weight since the collapse of her marriage. Her skin glowed. Her hair was shorter, chin length, in soft layers around her face. A faint sheen of gloss coated her lips, a silver square pendant hung around her neck, a chunky ring with a stone, tiger’s eye, replaced her wedding band. There was a spark to Shan that Chandani hadn’t seen before.

Shan swirled her glass. The ice clinked against the inside. She stopped, watched as the ice stilled. “Chandani, I’m going to the Netherlands. I think I know where Deepa is. She used to teach at Amsterdam College.”

“Really?” Chandani asked.

“I pulled this up on my walk over here. Take a look.” She tapped a few times on her phone, turned the screen toward Chandani. It was a website for the college with a list of upcoming events. Shan’s finger pointed to one event in particular.

Retired poetry professor Kavita Grover will be reading new work, as well as poems from her collection, Exodus.

“It’s in a few weeks,” Shan said. “She’s the featured reader.”

The server set their appetizers in front of them. Chandani shook out her napkin, laid it on her lap. “Have you thought about calling or emailing her first?”

Shan picked up a wedge of naan, took a bite, chewed slowly. “I could, but I worry she’ll just ignore my messages. Besides, I need to talk to her face-to-face. I’ve learned some more information about her life, Chandani. I think I’ve misjudged her. I should have tried to reach out to her years ago.”

Shan told Chandani about the Partition Project, a website archiving survivors’ testimonies, and Deepa’s account about how her parents died.

“I knew that Deepa’s parents died tragically,” Shan said. “Until I came across this website, I had no clue how. I also didn’t know Deepa was with them when they died. That she tried and failed to save them.”

“My God,” Chandani said. “That’s truly terrible. I’m so sorry to hear it.” She wondered if her relatives in India knew about the Partition Project, if they’d ever tried to record their memories, anywhere, of that terrible time. Chandani’s aunt, Ekta, passed away ten years ago. No one ever talked about her infant son’s death during Partition. In another generation, Geet and his short life would be forgotten about completely.

Shan cleared her throat, set down her spoon. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “There’s something else, Chandani. Right before coming here, I ran a different search on the same website. And I found a video of Harjeet.”

Chandani’s spoon was midway to her mouth. She set it back in the bowl. “You found a video of my Harjeet? Are you absolutely certain it was him?”