Laila’s brother jogged up, panting. “Laila, you’re supposed to wait for me by the statue,” Amir huffed. “I couldn’t find you. I was looking everywhere.” He was in the twelfth class at St. Francis of Assisi. He had a strong jaw, a toothy smile, a chest that filled out the creases of his school uniform shirt. Deepa noticed him for the first time a few months ago, found herself staring a little too long at his profile in the courtyard the two schools shared. Once or twice, he caught her eye. She looked away quickly, burned with embarrassment.

Last week, while still on school break, they formally met at the Taj Mahal in Agra. It was a pilgrimage her parents had wanted to make one last time before the imminent division of the subcontinent, before their beloved homeland became a fractured one. Her parents had gone inside the mausoleum. Deepa chose to wait for them outside on the terrace, willed the heavy, gray clouds to rain upon her, to wash away her sticky sweat. Suddenly, Amir and Laila appeared at her side. He had recognized her from St. Magdalene, he said, asked her how she was enjoying the school holiday. For the first time, Deepa had trouble producing words. When Laila eyed Deepa’s tin, she finally found enough of her voice to offer the little girl a piece of jalebi. They talked for a few minutes before Amir and Laila left to find their parents in the gardens.

Amir let his satchel drop to the ground, rested his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Nice to see you again, Deepa. How was the rest of your time in Agra?”

Conscious of her slouch, Deepa straightened. “The bus ran out of petrol on the way back to Delhi. We waited on the side of the road for two hours for the driver to acquire enough to get us back home.” She had not minded the delay so much. As she sat on the side of the road with Mummy-ji and Papa-ji, she replayed her conversation with Amir at the Taj Mahal, recalled what he wore, how he smiled, regretted that she had looked so disheveled during their first real conversation. “By the time we reboarded the bus,” she added, “we were covered by so much dust we were the same color as camels!”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “Those drivers never fill up with enough petrol. They think they can complete an entire journey on prayer.”

Laila laughed heartily. When her hands flew to her mouth, a beige paper drifted to the ground.

Deepa reached down and picked it up. It was shaped like a small oval bowl. But it came to a point at each end. Smudged fingerprints covered the folds. She balanced it upright in the center of her palm.

“What is this?” she asked.