The sun receded behind a blanket of dusk. Bala eyed the sky, pouted, resumed her mission. Shoppers filled in empty spaces between aisles, toted purchases in burlap sacks, sidled up to one another along the perimeter of carts. A shriek emitted from one stand, followed by gruff cursing, flung hands—an argument over the weight of rice. Accusations of cheating and fixed scales flew through the air. Such antics were a daily occurrence at the market. People argued. They fought. They tussled for the best quality items, stormed off in exaggerated tantrums when rebuffed. Today felt different, more tense, the kind of irritability inspired by a full moon. Bala took Deepa’s hand, dragged her in the opposite direction.

Deepa slid her other hand into her pocketbook, wrapped it around the most recent origami note from Amir, a red paper heart, on which he’d inscribed, You have mine, may I have yours? She’d seen him only once since his injury almost a week earlier. He had been visiting his friends outside of the school he no longer attended. She was too shy to approach him.

They came upon a cart with rows of glass jars containing bronze, orange, black spices. Bala brought one close to her face, scrutinized its contents. The glass distorted her reflection, her dour facial expression. “This turmeric isn’t the right color,” she barked. “Four annas, that’s all.”

“I ground it myself, Madame,” a man with a turban responded, puffing out his chest. “I know exactly what it is. Ten annas, nothing less.”

They lobbed back and forth until Bala crossed her arms. “Come, Deepa,” she huffed. “This man is trying to rob us.”

Deepa’s stomach growled. She wished Bala would tone down her dramatics for just one afternoon so they could return home more quickly.

Around the corner, a woman fried parathas while holding an inconsolable baby on her hip. The baby’s two white lower teeth protruded awkwardly from her gums, saliva spilled from her lower lip onto the woman’s shoulder. Despite the baby’s constant squirming, the girl deftly captured the parathas with her fingernails, flipped them over in the pan. The baby must have been teething. At the clinic, her mother often advised the mother or father to soak a cloth in cold water and allow the baby to chew on it.

The clinic. How she wished she could be there instead of the market!

“Do you want another snack?” Bala asked.

Deepa nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Just don’t tell your parents I let you ruin your appetite for dinner.”

Bala opened her wallet, counted out coins. In her periphery, Deepa spotted a little girl in a bright yellow salwar kameez carrying a basket of vegetables near a flower cart. When the little girl waved, Deepa’s hand flew to her chest.

Laila.

Deepa touched Bala’s sleeve, pointed. “I see a friend. Can I go say hello? I’ll come right back.”