That afternoon, back home, I take two pages of newspaper, twist them into an uneven rod, and leave the twist by the kitchen stove. Ma is taking her afternoon nap. I go out into the garden with a stick, look down at the trails and mounds among the roots. I kick, I jab the stick into the holes. Ants swarm out of the dirt. Some of them are in my sandal, biting me. It hurts, but it doesn't matter. I go back inside, grasp the newspaper twist, twist the knob of the stove: with a click a blue flame appears, flickering; I can feel the heat on my face. I hold the newspaper to the fire. The end turns bright gold and crumples black.

Divya's coughing is a constant beat in our classroom. She is absent more often, now. She's paler than usual. Maybe she's going to die. I don't know. She says her father is being transferred again. She will be leaving in two weeks. It's too soon. She's going to leave me here. "I'll write. Dunno what my new address is, so I can't give it to you now. I'll write. Promise. Remember to write back, okay?" She shuts the car door and waves. I wave, I watch the Mercedes drive off.

And that is the last I see of Divya Menon.

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