Harjeet then recalled the train ride, the unexpected stop in Attari, and the harrowing night in the camp. He had not spoken to Chandani about it for decades. Hearing it again, so fresh and vivid in his mind, seeing it on his face, in the tone of his voice, reminded her how deeply and how heavy this trauma and grief had weighed on him. Had she really supported him in the ways he needed her to? Were there moments when she had chosen to look away from his pain, when she should have done more to carry it with him? She now didn’t know. Truthfully, she could have been a better wife. She could have extended her Harjeet more grace, compassion, and patience. She should have done more.

After he relayed learning about his sister’s death, his image froze on the screen. The clip had finished.

She collapsed back into her chair. Her chest heaved. She placed her hand on it. She was about to close her laptop, when the video continued.

It was Harjeet again in the same room. He was no longer wearing his blazer. He slumped lower in his chair. A glass of water now sat on the table next to him. His eyes appeared moist. He sniffed.

She inched forward, turned up the volume.

“That was the story I was told about my sister, Simran.” His voice cracked. He turned his head to the side, pursed his lips, swallowed. “It was all … it was all a big lie. I saw my father last in 1996, just before he died,” he said. Harjeet lifted the glass, brought it to his lips, sipped. “The Sikh women at the camp were not murdered by the raiders. The Sikh men decided … decided to … martyr their own women and girls.”

He glanced at the ceiling. The camera zoomed closer on his face. His head dropped. “My father killed my bhenji.”

“Oh, no,” Chandani gasped. “No, no, no.”

A hand appeared at the bottom of the screen, offered Harjeet a tissue. He took it, pressed it against each of his eyes, folded it in one of his hands.

“Ever since my father told me this, I haven’t been able to … I have had great difficulty getting out of bed. I’ve been in therapy, on antidepressants, sleeping pills. I can’t … I can’t seem to get the image out of my mind. It’s … it’s killing me.”

He regained his composure, looked once more directly into the camera. “That’s all I wanted to say. Stop recording please.”

The screen went black. Chandani laid her hands on her chest, closed her eyes. The day Harjeet returned from India after his father’s death, he looked as pale as a ghost, said he picked up the flu. She care for him those first several days, brought him his tea, cooked simple rice dishes, kept the blinds closed, his room cool, just as he asked.