A collective groan echoed throughout the car. It startled a small baby whose face crumpled into a frown. Gradually, masses of feet shuffled to one of the doorways. Mothers positioned children on their hips and backs and trudged off the train.

“Will we go to the camp, Papa-ji?” Simran asked, when they could finally move.

He slung a bag over his shoulder and rubbed his temple. “Let’s see this camp. Come. Lachhman get the other bag.”

They joined the hundreds who spilled onto the platform and fanned out around the station. Some remained on the platform, settled in the shade, and opened sacks of food. The others flowed in the direction of the camp.

Lacchman charged ahead. “Lacchman,” Papa-ji called, “let’s make sure to stay together. I don’t want us to get separated.” He nodded and fell back.

Simran tightened her grip on Harjeet’s hand. It was warm, strong. Like the one he imagined their mother must have had. “You go in front of me, Harju,” Simran said. “Bhenji will follow right behind you.”

At fifteen, Simran had always mothered him the best she could. She fed him with her own fingers, drilled him on his math skills, blew on his tea when it was too hot, comforted him at night if he woke with a nightmare, helped him in the bath, scrubbed hard behind his ears, his back, all of the places he couldn’t reach himself. He knew real mothers did these things, saw his friends’ mothers do them. His sister completed these tasks as well as any mother and probably as well as their own Mummy-ji would have, were she still alive.

The ground was lumpy, uneven. His ankle twisted in the pits in the ground. The skin between his two biggest toes pinched. He would need to wait until they made it to the camp before he removed his chappals.

He focused on his father’s shoulders, straight and strong. Papa-ji had been a respected commissioned officer with the British Indian Army. His Papa-ji’s Papa-ji, also a soldier, received the Victoria Cross for his bravery. And his Papa-ji received the Indian Order of Merit for his bravery during the Battle of Saragarhi.

Harjeet would make make them all proud now. He pretended to be marching with his own regiment, a rifle propped against his shoulder.

They came upon rows upon rows of brown tents. Harjeet tried to do a quick count but had to stop at forty. The number of tents seemed to stretch to the horizon. Hundreds. Perhaps even thousands. When he had a better vantage point, he’d count them all. Travelers milled about, slept on heaps in the ground, squatted in the shade where they could find it. A few children about Harjeet’s size chased one another between tents. They were smiling, laughing. Harjeet wondered if this was their new life, here, in this camp, if they, too, had left behind their homes, their schools.