She lowered herself to the ground, brought a cup of chai to Deepa’s mouth. “Sip, beta,” Nora said. “Just drink a little something.”

Everyone wanted Deepa to drink something, as if a side effect of grief was dehydration. Their neighbors had practically pried Deepa’s mouth open to feed her food.

Deepa was too tired to explain to Nora she wasn’t thirsty, that she’d gulped down four cups of tea already that day. Nothing anyone offered could make her feel better. It made them feel better. Deepa simply endured it.

She took a few sips, pushed the cup away. Satisfied, Nora dabbed Deepa’s chin with a handkerchief, rose, set the cup and dish on the table.

The soles of John’s shoes smacked along the floor, their laces dragged behind like wilted flowers. He traced a path from the patio door, through the living room, to the edge of the kitchen and back. His red-veined eyes darted around the room, as if he was looking for something he lost. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp.

The ticking of the clock pounded through the room. When it struck four, brassy chimes echoed throughout the flat. Her parents had been dead and gone for five days. Deepa had somehow existed in their absence in tortured increments, breathing only when the pressure building under her ribs forced her to take in air. She’d lived what seemed like a lifetime without them. The night of their deaths played on an endless loop like a film. She rewound and replayed it, made mental notes of her culpability at crucial junctures. She altered the ending. A heroic rescue. She pulls them out of the burning building, mends their burns, feeds them spoonfuls of sambar while they rest in bed.

Further back in time. The three of them catch the train to Bangalore with John and Nora, far away from the new border. Papa-ji lifts their suitcases onto the train. Mummy-ji holds the tickets in her hands. As they board, the train whistles.

Deepa still felt their presence in their home. In the soft, rippling wind chimes, her mother hummed the melody to a Lata Mangeshkar song. Oil popping in a pan was Papa-ji cracking his knuckles. Images endlessly flashed through her mind: Mummy-ji raising her left eyebrow after catching a very young Deepa doing something naughty; Papa-ji ruffling his moustache while considering a troubling issue.