The first day of school was hurried. Nupur stuffed her bag with what she could find and ran down the stairs, where the house help was in a flurry and her anxious mother was shouting instructions. The yellow bus arrived with a hydraulic hiss. “Bacha party, where are you?”

Nupur fled, her sandwich in her mouth, her bag slapping one side, her lunchbox the other. She muttered a hi, a good morning, a kaise ho, and got to a window seat. The bus was air-conditioned; she took a deep breath and looked outside. Some sky was visible, some sun. It was a spring day in Delhi. A hot summer waited in the wings.

They drove through traffic onto a six-lane highway. They passed wheat fields and livestock and hoardings that offered villas with amenities. Her new school had a sprawling campus in the neighbour

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