A chorus of bare feet slapped narrow, marble steps. Women hiked the skirts of their saris. Their bangles clanked along their forearms. Men stooped, clutched their hands behind their backs. Two small boys darted through the maze of bodies in a race to the top.

On the last step, she turned, leaned against the railing, shielded the sun with her hand. The gardens, the reflecting pool, and the entrance hall looked so tiny and ordered they appeared fake, like a landscape of Legos.

Visitors spilled onto the terrace, pointed to the monument, flowed toward the main entrance. She and her father fell in line, inched forward until a surge carried them through a short, narrow doorway of the building. She envisioned rows of armor, shields belonging to knights, scepters made of gold, red, plush carpet, portraits of royalty.

Instead, it was pitch dark. Cool. Shuffling feet echoed around her. She blinked her eyes, found herself in a single room with a vaulted ceiling. At its center, a marble lattice fence enclosed two long, narrow boxes. She wove her fingers through the grid, peered through the spaces.

“Here they are. The Queen Mumtaz and the Shah Jahan,” her father whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re resting here together,” he said, “for all eternity.”

“These are coffins?” Her hand dropped. She stepped back. She pressed her face into her father’s shirt, tried to shake the images of withering skin and bones from her mind.

“Shanti? Are you okay?” He raised her chin, narrowed his dark eyes. She saw in them the pain of disappointing her again, of falling short as a father.

“Can we please go back outside?” she asked.

He nodded. They worked their way quickly around the perimeter and exited where they entered.

“Let me show you something else,” he said. He led her around the corner, pivoted her body, directed her gaze along the banks of a shallow river. “See there? It’s called Agra Fort.” In the distance, red cylindrical towers kissed low-lying clouds. Walls, like decorative curtains, strung them together.

“That’s the palace where Emperor Shah Jahan ruled India,” he said. “When Mumtaz died, he built the Taj Mahal here, so he could watch over her from Agra Fort. When he died, they entombed him here, with her.” He paused. “Isn’t that a lovely thought? He never wanted to be apart from his wife.”

The truth of his statement stung. The Emperor had never wanted to be away from the Queen, but her own father had gone as far away from her and her mother as he could.

“I never knew my father,” he said. His gaze locked on hers. “Did I ever tell you that?”