She nodded. “I’m the youngest of four girls, the only one born after Partition. But I felt its aftermath. Amritsar was a border city, the rope in a tug of war between two new nations. Pakistan insisted that Amritsar belonged to it, just as India wanted to keep Lahore. My mother’s sister, Ekta, lived on the opposite end of Amritsar. During a riot, her infant son was knocked out of her arms and trampled upon. He died that night.”

“Oh, how awful.”

“It was,” Chandani said. “Apparently before Partition, my aunt was the funniest person in our family. I’d heard she was always telling jokes, playing pranks on others. She laughed with her whole body. After she lost Geet, she was never the same again.”

Chandani gazed at the bottom of her now empty cup and the formation of the remnants of leaves. She’d heard once these patterns told fortunes, predicted the future. As her own future shrunk before her, she seemed to understand less about life with each passing year, how little control anyone had in its ultimate direction. Perhaps there was a freedom in this kind of ignorance, in the not knowing or speaking of all things.

Shan rose, and picked up both teacups and the two plates. “The chai was delicious. Thank you. It was just what I needed.”

Chandani wouldn’t have normally let a guest clean up in her own house. But over the last few minutes, a fatigue had settled over her. If she was to lay her head on the table, she might fall asleep.

Shan flipped on the faucet in the kitchen, squirted soap onto the dishes, rinsed and set them in the drying rack. “Chandani,” she called, “do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Not at all. It’s down the hallway, the last door on the left.”

Chandani rose, blew out each of the candles, plucked the candles from the sticks. She imagined them swaddled inside layers of clothing, tucked deep inside a bag, little Harjeet lugging them through the camp in the dry heat, dust coating his face.

She set the candlesticks in a drawer, paused in the doorway of the dining room. It had been good to sit at the table again, to break the spell of not using it, of not entertaining because Harjeet wasn’t there with her. She supposed she had just surpassed another milestone in her life as a widow.

On her way to the living room, she glanced down the hall. The bathroom door was wide open, the light switch off, but there was no Shan. She walked down the hallway, passed her bedroom, which she’d painted lavender, her favorite color, and then the office, with its small desk and folding chair. She arrived at her pooja room, the door ajar. She peeked inside.