Traitor. The word vibrated through her eardrum. Her parents had devoted their lives to caring for the sick, risked their own health trying to manage outbreaks of malaria and tuberculosis. They visited the homes of the dying, held their hands, administered medicine, assured their last moments on earth were free from suffering. It was an absurd notion that her parents, who believed that the subcontinent should never be defined by caste, religion, language, or region, were traitors. They had devoted their lives to serving the land and the people they loved.

“You are the one who is in danger,” Deepa said. “You and Laila, your family—other Muslims. I’m worried for you, not us. After Partition, everything will eventually go back to normal for us,” she parroted with little conviction. “But this will not be true for you. You need to be careful. You and your family need to go somewhere safe.”

Amir took hold of her shoulder. “Deepa, listen to me. Partition is filling people with a kind of rage I’ve never seen. Muslims are being targeted here the most but Hindus helping Muslims are also in danger. You must understand this.”

A chill ran down her spine. Poonam’s words—the terrible things—echoed in her mind.

“What do you want me to do, Amir?”

“I’m afraid—”

“Amir,” Laila said. She ran up to him, tugged on his sleeve. “Can we please go home?” Her vegetable basket was now covered in flower petals.

“Laila, not now,” he said. “Just go sit there like a good girl.”

Her eyes darted between them. “Are you going to marry Deepa?”

“Laila,” Amir sighed. His face flushed. “That’s just … why would you—”

“Of course not, Laila,” Deepa said. “We’re friends. Just like you and I are friends. Do you understand?”

Laila’s mouth twisted to one side. “No.”

“Deepa, listen to me,” Amir said, ignoring his sister. “These extremists, whoever they are—they’re pinpointing businesses. Vandals have smashed in windows and stolen supplies from shops near Saravan Street. Isn’t that where your parents’ clinic is?”

Nora Aunty ordered most of their medical supplies from Vikram Pharmacy on Saravan Street—bandages, medications, cotton swabs, vials. If they ever ran out of anything, they’d send Deepa to pick them up. “It’s a few streets away,” Deepa said, swallowing.

“My new employer has been investigating some of the crimes—the looting, the assaults,” Amir said. “He thinks it’s going to get much worse.”

A queasiness settled over her. She recalled an argument between her parents a few nights ago while trying to fall asleep. Mummy-ji had just received a post from Uma, an old school friend in Bangalore who begged them to come south for a holiday, far from the new India—Pakistan border. Mummy-ji pleaded with Papa-ji to close the clinic for just one month. Papa-ji said they couldn’t leave Delhi. Their patients were too sick.