So this was what had been troubling her teacher. Her own family had been trying to flee. The hasty departure of her own loved ones, the fraught journey from one point to another, the border-crossing, the loss of communication in the interim, the waiting for word as the moon moved through its phases. Northern and eastern India were undergoing a massive uprooting. The homes and businesses belonging to beloved friends and neighbors were emptied, the doors locked.

Faseelah had not shown up to school today. Was she ill? Or had her family, too, left in the middle of the night without telling anyone? Was she, too, crossing by foot or train over the border to a place where she had no family, no friends, no community?

“I hope your family makes it across safely, Madam Grover,” Deepa finally said. “I know they’ll make it safely. They must, Madam Grover. So they will.”

Her teacher opened her palm. The leaf had disintegrated into crumbs and veins, its previous form unrecognizable. She looked back at Deepa with an expression of bewilderment, as if she suddenly had no idea why her student was there. She picked up her glasses, affixed them to her face, straightened her back. Her voice found its authority. “Don’t forget to study for the exam. It’s going to be a tough one.”

Deepa backed away. Her hand clutched the notes inside her bag. “I won’t. Have a nice afternoon, Madam Grover,” she said, before exiting the room.

At home that evening, Deepa sat cross-legged on her parents’ bed. Her mother, fresh from her bath, smelled of lavender soap and talcum powder. Her hair hung long and loose, formed a wet stain on the back of her light green housecoat.

She settled behind Deepa on the bed. Her teeth gripped bobby pins. She tugged on a section of her wet hair, started the brush at the crown of her head.

“One or two braids, Deepa?”

“Just one, Mummy-ji. Please.”

The mirror above the vanity reflected the white hairs along her mother’s forehead. Deepa had never known her mother’s parents, her grandparents, but she had seen a few photos of their lined faces, tufts of their silver hair, their soft, veined hands. She could imagine what her mother might look like older, how age would make her even more beautiful, even more refined than she already was.

When the brush lodged itself on a tangle, Deepa contracted her back. “Ouch. Not so hard, Mummy-ji.”

“Sorry, beta,” she said. She spread coconut oil in her palm. Her slender fingers massaged it in Deepa’s temples, along her ears. “It needed a good brushing today.”

Deepa brought her knees to her chest, braced herself.