Passing through the hallway on their way out, her sisters tipped their heads in the direction of the statue of the goddess Durga. They did it automatically, almost imperceptibly, and with wide, innocent eyes, like spies letting their handler know they had seen him and he should hold his position. Oma did the same, but with less conviction. It was one of many casual gestures of defiance on the part of the sisters. Their parents, aunts, and grandparents had offered unsatisfactory and conflicting answers to the question of why, since they did not believe in gods, their houses were filled with Hindu icons. Oma disliked it when her sisters interrogated their parents and shot glances at one another waiting for the elders to flounder, but she reluctantly played her part in the rituals her sisters established to confound them. She tipped her head to the goddess and moved along. The goddess both frightened and fascinated her, with her eight weaponized arms and peaceful expression.
“Did you pack parathas for your dinners?” Geeta asked over her shoulder.
Geeta was twenty-two, the eldest of the sisters. Ever since she
had become engaged to be married she had grown increasingly involved in the details of her siblings’ lives.
Oma looked at her.
“You didn’t, did you? You know the food is going to be awful?”
“I don’t mind,” Oma said.
The sisters stepped out onto the street. It was still dark. There were lights on in some of the houses and the girls looked in the windows as they passed.
Geeta walked ahead, then turned back, opened her purse, and gave Oma twenty pounds.
“You’d better take this in case,” she said.
“Thanks,” Oma said, knowing she would not spend Geeta’s money. The school would provide food on the trip and she would eat it or not.
“It’s six nights,” Geeta said, watching her.
“I know.”
Oma put the money inside the zip pocket of her rucksack.
The girls approached the railway bridge leading to the Tube station. Oma lifted the rucksack onto her shoulders, thinking her sisters would turn back, but they crossed over the
