Shanti and Laila smiled. After Chandani snapped a few photos, Shanti wrapped her neighbor in a tight embrace. “Thank you, Aunty. Thank you for giving me back my family. I would have never found them without your support.”

Chandani touched her cheek. “Shanti, you are the one who gave me back my Harjeet by helping me understand the root of his pain. And now that you have, my wounds can begin to heal.”

When Shanti and Laila continued to Amsterdam, Chandani would be catching a flight to Amritsar. She had a sister, nephews, and great nieces and nephews to meet for the very first time.

Chandani slung her camera strap around her shoulder and squeezed Shanti’s hand. “I’ll meet you two back in the gardens. I want to get a few more shots from there.”

A young girl wearing a light blue frock, about the same age Shanti was when she was last here, spun in circles on the terrace. Her braids flung in the air. Her face turned toward the sky. A man approached her, wrapped his arms around her, kissed her forehead. The doting father. He offered his bent arm, escorted her toward the steps to the gardens. Shanti once knew that kind of love, the love between a father and a daughter. She didn’t have it for long enough. But now, in her forties, she felt it stronger than ever. She would hold on tight to it and never let it go.

Shanti reached for Laila’s hand, the hand that, in some way, held a part of her father, her grandfather, and now a part of her too.

Laila looked up into her eyes. “How is it that I barely know you,” she said, “but feel as if I have always known you?”

Shanti smiled. “And this is only the beginning.” She opened her backpack and extracted a paper crane she had made on her own with nine words inscribed under its wings. For Kavita, Manoj, Amir, and Vijay. Love always, Shanti. She centered the crane on top of the railing and then wrapped her arm around her great-aunt. “Let’s go,” she said. “There’s still so much for us to see.” Together, they slowly walked back toward the mausoleum.

A breeze kicked up that shifted the crane slightly. Its beak, like the needle of a compass, now pointed in the direction of the Yamuna River, Agra Fort, and a horizon that seemed to stretch like a band around the whole, infinite earth.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Much gratitude to the outstanding folks at Hub City Writers Project who poured their hearts into this book, especially Betsy Teter and Meg Reid. Thank you for making all of my dreams come true.