They exited the auto. Shan scanned the area, took a few deep breaths. Chandani came to her side, looped her arm through hers. Shan hoped she hadn’t dragged her dear friend halfway around the world for nothing.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Chandani said. “It’s the most important thing.”

They approached the entrance. Two women in salwar kameezes chatted on the steps. Shan hiked up her sari skirt, paused in the arched doorway. “I wish my father was here,” she said.

Chandani leaned close to Shan, squeezed her arm. “He is,” she said.

The hallway burst with patrons. Conversations bounced off the high ceiling. A man behind a counter in a dark suit asked for their tickets. “The lecture is in Shah Hall, right next to the gallery.” He pointed off to the side. “You can enter the room any time after eight p.m.”

“Is she here yet? The artist?” Chandani asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “She’ll probably come right at eight.”

A sign directed them to Departures. They followed the stream of visitors through a wide hallway with floor to ceiling mirrors. Shan almost didn’t recognize herself in her reflection, her more steadied, assured gait in a sari. She straightened her posture, angled her head, tried to fake whatever elegance she could muster.

A doorway was draped with a black sheet. “Wait here for one moment,” a young woman told them. She spoke into a microphone clipped to her collar. “Okay, you can enter now.” She held open the drape. “Enjoy the show.”

They stepped inside.

In the center of an otherwise dark room was a shimmering light. Shan blinked, unsure of what was before her. The shapes gradually came into focus. Hundreds of shiny, copper, palm-sized sculptures hung from the ceiling with clear wires, eye-height. They had wings, elegant necks, beaks pointed like tiny arrows. They lined up in neat rows, wing tip to wing tip. Origami cranes. Gears in the ceiling conducted their movement. They rose and receded like waves.

A sign against the opposite wall caught her eye. She edged around the perimeter to read it.

Laila Rahim was six years old during June 1947, when she and her family fled to Lahore. For Departures, her artistic debut, she melds steel, bronze and copper sheets into origami, the art of Japanese paper-making. Flight, escape and creation were important themes for her. ‘Origami signifies the kinds of transformation that refugees must make to start a new life. They must create something new, something beautiful, from a blank page.’

Below the statement was the title of the piece.

CONTINENTAL DRIFT.

Shan and Chandani wandered to another room with much larger sculptures. Some were smooth like glass, others dimpled, corrugated, charred. A crow, a hawk, a rose, a lotus. In the very center was a life-size bronze gondola. A woman’s multicolored silk shawl draped over a seat in a striking contrast.

“Stunning,” Chandani whispered.