“No. When my dad was living with us, he sometimes cooked it at home. A simple dal, paneer. That’s what I remember. But after he left, my mom and I would just get takeout from local restaurants.”

“I see,” Chandani said.

Shan had lost not only a father but a culture. It made Chandani unbearably sad. One’s heritage and traditions kept the ancestors alive long after they’d gone. Chandani still had her grandmother’s receipes saved to a file on her computer, her gold earrings in the safe. She had memories, too, of long walks with her grandfather in the evenings, riding on the handlebars of her uncle’s bike, the cousin who taught her how to sew. What had been passed down to her, on both sides of her family, was what made Chandani who she was. No wonder Shan seemed so unmoored in life. She was genetically and biologically Indian but had no other Indian roots to speak of.

The silver candlesticks drew Shan’s attention. She reached forward, ran her fingertip along the square base of one, and then along the engraved vine that wound around the stick until it morphed into a serpent. The serpent’s eyes were rubies. Sapphire and garnet stones encircled the nozzle.

“These are gorgeous,” Shan said. “Where did you find them?”

“They’re heirlooms, probably at least two hundred years old,” Chandani said. “They belonged to my husband Harjeet’s mother.” Such an odd coincidence that Shan would admire the two items in the entire house that held the largest significance in her husband’s life.

“Did she give them to you when you got married?” Shan asked.

“No. She passed away soon after she gave birth to Harjeet. He never knew her.”

“How sad,” Shan said. She dragged her hand back away from its base, laid it in her lap.

The mark of a child who’s lost a parent young is unmistakable. Chandani wondered whether Shan’s father’s premature death affected her the same way Harjeet’s mother’s death had affected him. In the early part of their marriage, before the darkness, Harjeet always seemed to be searching for something, for someone, never quite knowing what he was looking for. He’d step out the front door to go to work and walk right back in. “I feel like I’m leaving something at home,” he’d tell her. He would retrace his steps through the kitchen, the living room, down the hallway to the bedroom, scanning table surfaces, couch cushions. “Huh,” he’d finally say. “I guess I have everything I need.”

Shan seemed to have some memories of her Indian father, and from what Chandani could tell, some sort of a relationship with him before he died. Still, she could sense his absence in her gaze, in the way her words hesitated to form.