Old Delhi pulled us apart.

The streets weren’t especially wide, but every inch belonged to someone. Rickshaws squeezed between bicycles. Pedestrians flowed around handcarts. Motorcycles nosed through impossible gaps. There wasn’t room for Dani and me to walk side by side.

She naturally claimed openings. I naturally yielded them.

Every hesitation widened the gap.

Soon I could barely see her through the traffic.

“Dani!” I called.

She couldn’t hear me.

Running felt more dangerous than walking. The drivers expected people to move at walking speed. Every sprint stole away their margin for error. But losing Dani felt worse.

I ran.

Between handlebars.

Around carts.

Behind rickshaws.

By the time I caught up, another rickshaw slipped between us.

~

The bus had never stopped as it crawled through the traffic circle in the center of the city.

Instead, the driver’s assistant jumped from the door while the bus still rolled forward. Holding one hand to the railing, he stretched himself into traffic, forcing cars and rickshaws to slow around him. One by one, passengers stepped from the moving bus into the narrow pocket of calm behind him.

Then the bus pulled away.

Traffic collapsed around us at once—cars, bicycles, motorcycles, rickshaws—horns blaring from every direction.

Across the circle, merchants watched from the sidewalk beneath rows of pink stone windows.

I looked at Dani, grabbed her hand, and turned toward safety.

Once the traffic pushed in, my grip didn’t last.

~

It took ten minutes to escape the traffic circle.

The next kilometer took nearly an hour.

From somewhere beyond, Karim’s appeared like shelter.

The restaurant traced its spices and recipes to the cooks of the Mughal emperors. We counted our change, ordered what we could afford, and waited.

The dining room hummed, but no one seemed in a hurry.

Ceiling fans pushed the smell of charcoal and cardamom through the room.

The lamb arrived first.

It fell from the bone as Dani lifted it to her plate.

Outside, Old Delhi kept moving.