“It’s all right if you can’t. You don’t have to.”

“No, I want to. It’s just that talking about my family is… difficult.” He licks his lips. “I had five older brothers and two younger sisters. I don’t remember their faces anymore, let alone their names. But there were times when I was still a part of their family. Times when I believed my parents loved me. We never had much to eat, and sometimes one or two bites were all each of us got. But once in a while, very, very infrequently, my mother would get some parantha from somewhere, some sugar and ghee from somewhere else, and she would make malida out of them. Do you know what that is?”

I shake my head.

“It’s just leftover parantha torn into pieces, mixed with sugar and ghee and rolled into balls. Three of us shared one, but every bite was eating a little bit of sunlight. The days we got malida were the happiest I ever was. I had brothers, sisters, and parents. I was loved. It didn’t matter that soon we would be hungry again or that my parents would fight or I would be beaten. As long as I had malida days to look forward to, I could go on and endure anything.”

He smiles his broken smile.

“When I eat this food, I taste the malida and feel the happiness I felt back then. I think I can even understand why my parents sold me. I was just one and they had so many to take care of. I can pretend they cried when they sent me way. I can pretend they were reluctant but had no other choice, no better alternative. I can tell myself those lies and pretend they are the truth.” He stops talking and takes another bite of the gollash.

It takes all I have not to get up, grab his hand, and flee. Away from here. Away from Baarish’s men.

“Taraana,” I say.

“Yeah?” He glances at me before he returns his attention to the food.

“I won’t judge you if you change your mind, so tell me that you have.” Please say that you have changed your mind. Please.

He stops eating and focuses on me. “You know I haven’t.”

I look at his stupidly beautiful face, at the stars in his eyes, at the way he is looking at me, and I find the resolve in me break. I am the stupid one. I should have thought of a better plan. One that doesn’t involve him getting kidnapped. Possibly beaten. Hurt.

“I am wearing the pendant. I know the word. It will be okay.” Why is he reassuring me when I should be the one reassuring him?

“Why don’t you wear more than one?” I ask. “Just in case.”

“It’ll be too suspicious if I do,” he says, turning me down. “One will be enough.”