ForCarin,whobelievedfromthebeginning,andAlberto,whosawmetotheend

lasciach’iotornialmiopaesesepoltonell’erbacomeinunmarecaldoepesante.

letmereturn tomyhome townentombed ingrassas inawarmandhighsea.

—GIORGIOBASSANI,“SalutoaRoma”

Contents

PartIChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6

PartIIChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4

PartIIIChapter1Chapter2Chapter3

PartIVChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7

PartVChapter1Chapter2

Chapter3Chapter4

PartVIChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4

PartVIIChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6

PartVIIIChapter1Chapter2

AcknowledgmentsANoteAbouttheAuthorAlsobyJhumpaLahiri

PartI

Chapter1

Eastof theTollyClub,afterDeshapranSashmalRoadsplits in two, there isasmallmosque.A turn leads to a quiet enclave.Awarren of narrow lanes andmodestmiddle-classhomes.

Once,withinthisenclave,thereweretwoponds,oblong,sidebyside.Behindthemwasalowlandspanningafewacres.

After the monsoon the ponds would rise so that the embankment builtbetweenthemcouldnotbeseen.Thelowlandalsofilledwithrain,threeorfourfeetdeep,thewaterremainingforaportionoftheyear.

The flooded plain was thick with water hyacinth. The floating weed grewaggressively.Its leavescausedthesurface toappearsolid.Greenincontrast totheblueofthesky.

Simplehutsstoodhereandtherealongtheperiphery.Thepoorwadedintoforage for what was edible. In autumn egrets arrived, their white feathersdarkenedbythecity’ssoot,waitingmotionlessfortheirprey.

In thehumid climateofCalcutta, evaporationwas slow.But eventually thesunburnedoffmostofthefloodwater,exposingdampgroundagain.

SomanytimesSubhashandUdayanhadwalkedacrossthelowland.Itwasashortcuttoafieldontheoutskirtsoftheneighborhood,wheretheywenttoplayfootball.Avoidingpuddles,steppingovermatsofhyacinthleavesthatremainedinplace.Breathingthedankair.

Certain creatures laid eggs thatwere able to endure the dry season.Otherssurvivedbyburyingthemselvesinmud,simulatingdeath,waitingforthereturnofrain.

Chapter2

They’dneversetfootintheTollyClub.Likemostpeopleinthevicinity,they’dpassedbyitswoodengate,itsbrickwalls,hundredsoftimes.

Untilthemid-forties,frombehindthewall,theirfatherusedtowatchhorsesracing around the track. He’d watched from the street, standing among thebettors and other spectators unable to afford a ticket, or to enter the club’sgrounds.ButaftertheSecondWorldWar,aroundthetimeSubhashandUdayanwereborn,theheightofthewallwasraised,sothatthepubliccouldnolongerseein.

Bismillah,aneighbor,workedasacaddyattheclub.HewasaMuslimwhohadstayedon inTollygungeafterPartition.Fora fewpaisehesold themgolfballsthathadbeenlostorabandonedonthecourse.Somewereslicedlikeagashinone’sskin,revealingapinkrubberyinterior.

Atfirsttheyhitthedimpledballsbackandforthwithsticks.ThenBismillahalso sold them a putting ironwith a shaft thatwas slightly bent.A frustratedplayerhaddamagedit,strikingitagainstatree.

Bismillah showed them how to lean forward, where to place their hands.Looselydetermining theobjectiveof thegame, theydugholes in thedirt, andtried tocoax theballs in.Thoughadifferent ironwasneeded todrive theballgreaterdistances, theyused theputteranyway.Butgolfwasn’t likefootballorcricket.Notasportthebrotherscouldsatisfactorilyimprovise.

In the dirt of the playing field,Bismillah scratched out amap of theTollyClub. He told them that closer to the clubhouse there was a swimming pool,stables, a tennis court. Restaurants where tea was poured from silver pots,specialroomsforbilliardsandbridge.Gramophonesplayingmusic.Bartendersinwhitecoatswhoprepareddrinkscalledpinkladyandginfizz.

The club’smanagement had recently put upmore boundarywalls, to keepintrudersaway.ButBismillahsaidthattherewerestillsectionsofwirefencingwhereonemightenter,alongthewesternedge.

Theywaited until close to dusk,when the golfers headed off the course toavoid the mosquitoes, and retreated to the clubhouse to drink their cocktails.They kept the plan to themselves, not mentioning it to other boys in theneighborhood. They walked to the mosque at their corner, its red-and-white

minaretsdistinctfromthesurroundingbuildings.Theyturnedontothemainroadcarryingtheputtingiron,andtwoemptykerosenetins.

Theycrossed to theother sideofTechnicians’Studio.Theyheaded towardthepaddyfieldswheretheAdiGangaonceflowed,wheretheBritishhadoncesailedboatstothedelta.

Thesedaysitwasstagnant, linedwiththesettlementsofHinduswho’dfledfrom Dhaka, from Rajshahi, from Chittagong. A displaced population thatCalcutta accommodated but ignored. Since Partition, a decade ago, they hadoverwhelmedpartsofTollygunge,thewaymonsoonrainobscuredthelowland.

Some of the government workers had received homes in the exchangeprogram.Butmostwererefugees,arrivinginwaves,strippedof theirancestralland.A rapid trickle, then a flood.Subhash andUdayan remembered them.Agrimprocession,ahumanherd.Afewbundlesontheirheads,infantsstrappedtoparents’chests.

Theymadesheltersofcanvasorthatch,wallsofwovenbamboo.Theylivedwithoutsanitation,withoutelectricity.Inshantiesnexttogarbageheaps,inanyavailablespace.

TheywerethereasontheAdiGanga,onthebanksofwhichtheTollyClubstood,wasnowasewercanalforSouthwestCalcutta.Theywerethereasonfortheclub’sadditionalwalls.

SubhashandUdayanfoundnowirefencing.Theystoppedataspotwherethewallwas low enough to scale. Theywerewearing shorts. Their pocketswerestuffedwith golf balls. Bismillah said theywould find plentymore inside theclub, where the balls lay on the ground, alongside the pods that fell fromtamarindtrees.

Udayan flung theputting ironover thewall.Thenoneof thekerosene tins.Standingon theremaining tinwouldgiveSubhashenough leverage tomake itover.ButUdayanwasafewinchesshorterinthosedays.

Laceyourfingers,Udayansaid.Subhashbroughthishandstogether.Hefelttheweightofhisbrother’sfoot,

thewornsoleofhis sandal, thenhiswholebody,bearingdownforan instant.QuicklyUdayanhoistedhimselfup.Hestraddledthewall.

ShouldIstandguardonthissidewhileyouexplore?Subhashaskedhim.Whatfunwouldthatbe?Whatdoyousee?Comeseeforyourself.Subhash nudged the kerosene tin closer to the wall. He stepped onto it,

feelingthehollowstructurewobblebeneathhim.Let’sgo,Subhash.Udayan readjusted himself, dropping down so that only his fingertipswere

visible.Thenhereleasedhishandsandfell.Subhashcouldhearhimbreathinghardfromtheeffort.

You’reallright?Ofcourse.Nowyou.Subhashgrippedthewallwithhishands,huggingittohischest,scrapinghis

knees.AsusualhewasuncertainwhetherhewasmorefrustratedbyUdayan’sdaring,orwithhimselfforhislackofit.Subhashwasthirteen,olderbyfifteenmonths. But he had no sense of himself without Udayan. From his earliestmemories,ateverypoint,hisbrotherwasthere.

Suddenly they were no longer in Tollygunge. They could hear the trafficcontinuingdownthestreetbutcouldnolongerseeit.Theyweresurroundedbymassivecannonballtreesandeucalyptus,bottle-brushandfrangipani.

Subhash had never seen such grass, as uniform as a carpet, unfurled overslopingcontoursofearth.Undulatinglikedunes inadesert,orgentledipsandswellsinasea.Itwasshornsofinelyontheputtinggreenthatitfeltlikemosswhen he pressed against it. The ground belowwas as smooth as a scalp, thegrassappearingashadelighterthere.

Hehadnot seen somanyegrets inoneplace, flyingoffwhenhecame tooclose. The trees threw afternoon shadows on the lawn. Their smooth limbsdividedwhenhelookedupatthem,liketheforbiddenzonesofawoman’sbody.

Theywerebothgiddy from the thrill of trespassing, from the fear of beingcaught.Butnoguardonfootorhorseback,nogroundsmanspottedthem.Noonecametochasethemaway.

Theybegan to relax,discoveringa seriesof flagsplantedalong the course.The holeswere like navels in the earth, fittedwith cups, indicatingwhere thegolfballsweresupposedtogo.Therewereshallowpitsofsandinterspersedhereandthere.Puddlesonthefairway,strangelyshaped,likedropletsviewedunderamicroscope.

They kept far from themain entrance, not venturing toward the clubhouse,whereforeigncoupleswalkedarminarm,orsatoncanechairsunderthetrees.Fromtimetotime,Bismillahhadsaid,therewasabirthdaypartyforthechildofaBritish family still living in India,with ice cream and pony rides, a cake inwhichcandlesburned.ThoughNehruwasPrimeMinister,itwasthenewQueenofEngland,ElizabethII,whoseportraitpresidedinthemaindrawingroom.

Intheirneglectedcorner,inthecompanyofawaterbuffalothathadstrayed

in,Udayan swung forcefully.Raisinghis armsoverhishead, assumingposes,brandishingtheputtingironlikeasword.Hebrokeapartthepristineturf,losingafewgolfballsinoneofthebodiesofwater.Theysearchedforreplacementsintherough.

Subhashwasthelookout,listeningfortheapproachofhorses’hoovesonthebroad red-dirtpaths.Heheard the tapsofawoodpecker.The faint strikesofasickleasasectionofgrasselsewhereintheclubwastrimmedbyhand.

Groupsofjackalssaterectinpacks,theirtawnyhidesmottledwithgray.Asthe light dwindled a fewbegan to search for food, their lean forms trotting instraightlines.Theirdistraughthowling,echoingwithintheclub,signaledthatitwaslate,timeforthebrotherstogohome.

They left the two kerosene tins, the one on the outside tomark the place.Theymadesuretohidetheoneinsidetheclubbehindsomeshrubbery.

On subsequent visits Subhash collected feathers andwild almonds.He sawvulturesbathinginpuddles,spreadingtheirwingstodry.

Once he found an egg that had dropped, intact, from a warbler’s nest.Carefullyhecarriedithomewithhim,placingitinaterra-cottacontainerfromasweet shop, covering itwith twigs.Digging a hole for it in thegardenbehindtheirhouse,atthebaseofthemangotree,whentheeggdidnothatch.

Thenoneevening,throwingovertheputtingironfrominsidetheclub,climbingback over the wall, they noticed that the kerosene tin on the other side wasmissing.

Someonetookit,Udayansaid.Hestartedtosearch.Thelightwasscant.Isthiswhatyouboysarelookingfor?Itwasapoliceman,appearing fromnowhere,patrolling theareaaround the

club.Theycoulddistinguishhisheight,hisuniform.Hewasholdingthetin.Hetookafewstepstowardthem.Spottingtheputtingironontheground,he

picked it up, inspecting it. He set down the tin and switched on a flashlight,focusingitsbeamoneachoftheirfaces,thendownthelengthoftheirbodies.

Brothers?Subhashnodded.What’sinyourpockets?They removed the golf balls and surrendered them. They watched the

policemanputtheminhisownpockets.Hekeptoneout, tossingit intotheairandcatchingitinhishand.

Howdidyoucometoacquirethese?Theyweresilent.Someoneinvitedyoutoday,toplaygolfattheclub?Theyshooktheirheads.Youdon’tneedmetotellyouthatthesegroundsarerestricted,thepoliceman

said.HerestedtheshaftoftheputtingironlightlyagainstSubhash’sarm.Wastodayyourfirstvisit?No.Wasthisyouridea?Aren’tyouoldenoughtoknowbetter?Itwasmyidea,Udayansaid.Youhavealoyalbrother,thepolicemansaidtoSubhash.Wantingtoprotect

you.Willingtotaketheblame.I’lldoyouafavorthistime,hecontinued.Iwon’tmentionittotheClub.As

longasyoudon’tintendtotryitagain.Wewon’treturn,Subhashsaid.Verywell.Shall I escort youhome toyourparents, or shouldweconclude

ourconversationhere?Here.Turnaround,then.Onlyyou.Subhashfacedthewall.Takeanotherstep.He felt thesteel shaft strikinghishaunches, then thebacksofhis legs.The

forceof the secondblow,onlyan instantofcontact,broughthim tohishandsandknees.Itwouldtakesomedaysfortheweltstogodown.

Theirparentshadneverbeatenthem.Hefeltnothingatfirst,onlynumbness.Thenasensationthatwaslikeboilingwatertossedfromapanagainsthisskin.

Stop it, Udayan shouted to the policeman. He crouched next to Subhash,throwinganarmacrosshisshoulders,attemptingtoshieldhim.

Together, pressed against one another, theybraced themselves.Their headswere lowered, their eyes closed, Subhash still reeling from pain. But nothingmorehappened.Theyheardthesoundoftheputtingironbeingtossedoverthewall, landing a final time inside the club. Then the policeman, who wantednothingmoretodowiththem,retreating.

Chapter3

SincechildhoodSubhashhadbeencautious.Hismotherneverhadtorunafterhim. He kept her company, watching as she cooked at the coal stove, orembroidered saris and blouse pieces commissioned by a ladies’ tailor in theneighborhood.Hehelpedhisfatherplantthedahliasthathegrewinpotsinthecourtyard. The blooming orbs, violet and orange and pink, were sometimestippedwithwhite.Theirvibrancywasshockingagainstthedrabcourtyardwalls.

He waited for chaotic games to end, for shouts to subside. His favoritemomentswerewhenhewasalone,or feltalone.Lying inbed in themorning,watchingsunlightflickeringlikearestlessbirdonthewall.

He put insects under a domed screen to observe them.At the edges of theponds in the neighborhood,where hismother sometimeswashed dishes if themaidhappenednottocome,hecuppedhishandsinturbidwater,searchingforfrogs.Helivesinhisownworld,relativesatlargegatherings,unabletosolicitareactionfromhim,sometimessaid.

WhileSubhashstayedinclearview,Udayanwasdisappearing:evenintheirtwo-roomhouse,whenhewasaboy,hehidcompulsively,underthebed,behindthedoors,inthecratewherewinterquiltswerestored.

He played this game without announcing it, spontaneously vanishing,sneakingintothebackgarden,climbingintoatree,forcingtheirmother,whenshecalledandhedidnotanswer,tostopwhatshewasdoing.Asshelookedforhim, as she humored him and called his name, Subhash saw the momentarypanicinherface,thatperhapsshewouldnotfindhim.

When theywereold enough,when theywerepermitted to leave thehouse,theywere toldnot to lose sightofoneanother.Together theywandereddownthewindinglanesoftheenclave,behindthepondsandacrossthelowland,totheplaying fieldwhere they sometimesmetupwithotherboys.Theywent to themosqueatthecorner,tositonthecoolofitsmarblesteps,sometimeslisteningto a football game on someone’s radio, the guardian of the mosque neverminding.

Eventually theywere allowed to leave the enclave, and to enter the greatercity.Towalkasfarastheirlegswouldcarrythem,toboardtramsandbussesbythemselves. Still themosque on the corner, a place ofworship for those of a

separatefaith,orientedtheirdailycomingsandgoings.At one point, because Udayan suggested it, they began to linger outside

Technicians’ Studio, where Satyajit Ray had shot Pather Panchali, whereBengali cinema stars spent their days. Now and then, because someone whoknewthemwasemployedontheshoot,theywereusheredinamidthetangleofcablesandwires,theglaringlights.Afterthecallforsilence,aftertheboardwasclapped, they watched the director and his crew taking and retaking a singlescene, perfecting a handful of lines. A day’s work, devoted to a moment’sentertainment.

Theycaughtsightofbeautifulactressesastheyemergedfromtheirdressingrooms,shieldedbysunglasses,stepping intowaitingcars.Udayanwas theonebraveenoughtoaskthemforautographs.Hewasblindtoself-constraints, likean animal incapable of perceiving certain colors. But Subhash strove tominimizehisexistence,asotheranimalsmergedwithbarkorbladesofgrass.

Inspiteof theirdifferencesonewasperpetuallyconfusedwith theother,sothat when either name was called both were conditioned to answer. Andsometimes itwas difficult to knowwho had answered, given that their voiceswere nearly indistinguishable. Sitting over the chessboard they were mirrorimages:onelegbent,theothersplayedout,chinsproppedontheirknees.

Theyweresimilarenoughinbuildtodrawfromasinglepileofclothes.Theircomplexions, a light coppery compound derived from their parents, wereidentical.Theirdouble-jointedfingers, thesharpcutof theirfeatures, thewavytextureoftheirhair.

Subhash wondered if his placid nature was regarded as a lack ofinventiveness, perhaps even a failing, in his parents’ eyes.His parents didnothavetoworryabouthimandyettheydidnotfavorhim.Itbecamehismissiontoobey them,given that itwasn’tpossible tosurpriseor impress them.ThatwaswhatUdayandid.

In the courtyard of their family’s house was the most enduring legacy ofUdayan’stransgressions.Atrailofhisfootprints,createdthedaythedirtsurfacewaspaved.Adaythey’dbeeninstructedtoremainindoorsuntilithadset.

All morning they’d watched the mason preparing the concrete in awheelbarrow,spreadingandsmoothingthewetmixturewithhistools.Twenty-fourhours,themasonhadwarnedthem,beforeleaving.

Subhashhadlistened.Hehadwatchedthroughthewindow,hehadnotgoneout. But when their mother’s back was turned, Udayan ran down the longwoodenplanktemporarilysetuptogetfromthedoortothestreet.

Halfwayacrosstheplankhelosthisbalance,theevidenceofhispathforming

impressionsofthesolesofhisfeet,taperinglikeanhourglassatthecenter,thepadsofthetoesdisconnected.

Thefollowingdaythemasonwascalledback.Bythenthesurfacehaddried,and the impressions left by Udayan’s feet were permanent. The only way torepairtheflawwastoapplyanotherlayer.Subhashwonderedwhetherthistimehisbrotherhadgonetoofar.

Buttothemasontheirfathersaid,Leaveitbe.Notfortheexpenseoreffortinvolved,butbecausehebelieved itwaswrong toerasesteps thathis sonhadtaken.

And so the imperfection became a mark of distinction about their home.Somethingvisitorsnoticed,thefirstfamilyanecdotethatwastold.

Subhash might have started school a year earlier. But for the sake ofconvenience—also because Udayan protested at the notion of Subhash goingwithout him—theywere put into the same class at the same time. A Bengalimediumschoolforboysfromordinaryfamilies,beyondthetramdepot,pasttheChristianCemetery.

InmatchingnotebookstheysummarizedthehistoryofIndia,thefoundingofCalcutta.Theydrewmapstolearnthegeographyoftheworld.

They learned that Tollygunge had been built on reclaimed land. Centuriesago,whentheBayofBengal’scurrentwasstronger,ithadbeenaswampdensewithmangroves.Thepondsandthepaddyfields,thelowland,wereremnantsofthis.

As part of their life-science lesson they drew pictures of mangrove trees.Their tangled roots above the waterline, their special pores for obtaining air.Theirelongatedseedlings,calledpropagules,shapedlikecigars.

They learned that if the propagules dropped at low tide they reproducedalongsidetheparents,spearingthemselvesinbrackishmarsh.Butathighwatertheydrifted from their sourceoforigin, forup to ayear, beforematuring in asuitableenvironment.

TheEnglishstartedclearing thewaterlogged jungle, layingdownstreets. In1770,beyond the southern limitsofCalcutta, theyestablisheda suburbwhosefirst population was more European than Indian. A place where spotted deerroamed,andkingfishersdartedacrossthehorizon.

MajorWilliamTolly,forwhomtheareawasnamed,excavatedanddesiltedaportionoftheAdiGanga,whichcamealsotobeknownasTolly’sNullah.He’dmadeshippingtradepossiblebetweenCalcuttaandEastBengal.

ThegroundsoftheTollyClubhadoriginallybelongedtoRichardJohnson,achairman of the General Bank of India. In 1785, he’d built a Palladian villa.He’dimportedforeigntreestoTollygunge,fromalloverthesubtropicalworld.

In the early nineteenth century, on Johnson’s estate, the British East IndiaCompanyimprisonedthewidowsandsonsofTipuSultan,therulerofMysore,afterTipuwaskilledintheFourthAnglo-MysoreWar.

The deposed family was transplanted from Srirangapatna, in the distantsouthwestofIndia.Aftertheirrelease,theyweregrantedplotsinTollygungetolive on. And as the English began to shift back to the center of Calcutta,TollygungebecameapredominantlyMuslimtown.

ThoughPartitionhadturnedMuslimsagainintoaminority,thenamesofsomany streetswere the legacy ofTipu’s displaced dynasty: SultanAlamRoad,Prince Bakhtiar Shah Road, Prince Golam Mohammad Shah Road, PrinceRahimuddinLane.

GolamMohammadhadbuilt thegreatmosqueatDharmatala inhisfather’smemory.Foratimehe’dbeenpermittedtoliveinJohnson’svilla.Butby1895,whenaScotsmannamedWilliamCruickshankstumbledacrossitonhorseback,looking for his lost dog, the great housewas abandoned, colonized by civets,sheathedinvines.

Thanks to Cruickshank the villa was restored, and a country club wasestablishedinitsplace.Cruickshankwasnamedthefirstpresident.ItwasfortheBritish that thecity’s tramlinewasextendedso farsouth in theearly1930s. ItwastofacilitatetheirjourneytotheTollyClub,toescapethecity’scommotion,andtobeamongtheirown.

Inhighschoolthebrothersstudiedopticsandforces,theatomicnumbersoftheelements, the properties of light and sound. They learned about Hertz’sdiscovery of electromagneticwaves, andMarconi’s experimentswithwirelesstransmissions. Jagadish Chandra Bose, a Bengali, in a demonstration inCalcutta’s town hall, had shown that electromagnetic waves could ignitegunpowder,andcauseabelltoringfromadistance.

Each evening, at opposite sides of a metal study table, they sat with theirtextbooks, copybooks, pencils and erasers, a chess game that would be inprogress at the same time. They stayed up late, working on equations andformulas. Itwasquietenoughatnight tohear the jackalshowling in theTollyClub.At times theywerestill awakewhen thecrowsbeganquarreling innearunison,signalingthestartofanotherday.

Udayanwasn’tafraidtocontradicttheirteachersabouthydraulics,aboutplate

tectonics.Hegesticulatedtoillustratehispoints,toemphasizehisopinions,theinterplay of his hands suggesting thatmolecules and particleswerewithin hisgrasp.AttimeshewasaskedbytheirSirstostepoutsidetheroom,toldthathewasholdinguphisclassmates,wheninfacthe’dmovedbeyondthem.

Atacertainpointatutorwashiredtopreparethemfortheircollegeentranceexams, their mother taking in extra sewing to offset the expense. He was ahumorless man, with palsied eyelids, held open with clips on his glasses. Hecould not keep them open otherwise. Every evening he came to the house toreview wave-particle duality, the laws of refraction and reflection. TheymemorizedFermat’sprinciple:Thepath traversedby light inpassingbetweentwopointsisthatwhichwilltaketheleasttime.

After studying basic circuitry,Udayan familiarized himselfwith thewiringsystem of their home. Acquiring a set of tools, he figured out how to repairdefective cords and switches, to knot wires, to file away the rust thatcompromised the contact points of the table fan. He teased their mother foralwayswrappingherfingerinthematerialofhersaribecauseshewasterrifiedtotouchaswitchwithherbareskin.

Whenafuseblew,Udayan,wearingapairofrubberslippers,neverflinching,would check the resistors and unscrew the fuses, while Subhash, holding theflashlight,stoodtooneside.

Oneday,cominghomewitha lengthofwire,Udayansetabout installingabuzzerforthehouse,fortheconvenienceofvisitors.Hemountedatransformeronthefusebox,andablackbuttontopushbythemaindoor.Hammeringaholeinthewall,hefedthenewwiresthrough.

Once the buzzer was installed, Udayan said they should use it to practiceMorse code. Finding a book about telegraphy at a library, he wrote out twocopiesofthedotsanddashesthatcorrespondedtothelettersofthealphabet,oneforeachofthemtoconsult.

Adashwas three timesas longasadot.Eachdotordashwasfollowedbysilence.Therewerethreedotsbetweenletters,sevendotsbetweenwords.Theyidentifiedthemselvessimplybyinitial.Theletters,whichMarconihadreceivedacrosstheAtlanticOcean,wasthreequickdots.Uwastwodotsandadash.

Theytookturns,oneofthemstandingbythedoor,theotherinside,signalingto one another, deciphering words. They got good enough to send codedmessages that their parents couldn’t understand.Cinema, one of them wouldsuggest.No,tramdepot,cigarettes.

They concocted scenarios, pretending to be soldiers or spies in distress.CovertlycommunicatingfromamountainpassinChina,aRussianforest,acane

fieldinCuba.Ready?Clear.Coordinates?Unknown.Survivors?Two.Losses?Pressing the buzzer, theywould tell each other that theywere hungry, that

theyshouldplayfootball,thataprettygirlhadjustpassedbythehouse.Itwastheirprivateback-and-forth,thewaytwoplayerspassedaballbetweenthemasthey advanced together toward the goal. If one of them saw their tutorapproaching,theypressedSOS.Threedots,threedashes,threedotsagain.

They were admitted to two of the city’s best colleges. Udayan would go toPresidency to study physics. Subhash, for chemical engineering, to Jadavpur.They were the only boys in their neighborhood, the only students from theirunremarkablehighschool,tohavedonesowell.

To celebrate, their father went to the market, bringing back cashews androsewaterforpulao,halfakiloofthemostexpensiveprawns.Theirfatherhadstarted working at nineteen to help support his family. Not having a collegedegreewashissoleregret.HehadaclericalpositionwiththeIndianRailways.Aswordspreadofhissons’success,hesaidhecouldnolongerstepoutsidethehousewithoutbeingstoppedandcongratulated.

Ithadhadnothingtodowithhim,hetoldthesepeople.Hissonshadworkedhard, they’d distinguished themselves. What they’d accomplished, they’daccomplishedontheirown.

Askedwhat theywantedasagift,Subhashsuggestedamarblechess set toreplace the worn wooden pieces they’d always had. But Udayan wanted ashortwave radio.Hewantedmore news of theworld thanwhat came throughtheirparents’oldvalveradio,encasedinitswoodencabinet,orwhatwasprintedinthedailyBengalipaper,rolledslimasatwig,thrownoverthecourtyardwallinthemornings.

They put it together themselves, searching in NewMarket, in junk shops,finding parts from Indian Army surplus. They followed a set of complicatedinstructions,aworn-outcircuitdiagram.Theylaidoutthepiecesonthebed:thechassis, the capacitors, the various resistors, the speaker. Soldering the wires,

working together on the task.When itwas finally assembled, it looked like alittlesuitcase,withasquared-offhandle.Madeofmetal,boundinblack.

Thereceptionwasoftenbetterinwinterthaninsummer.Generallybetteratnight.Thiswaswhen the sun’s photonsweren’t breaking upmolecules in theionosphere.Whenpositiveandnegativeparticlesintheairquicklyrecombined.

Theytookturnssittingbythewindow,holdingthereceiverintheirhands,invarious positions, adjusting the antenna, manipulating two controls at once.Rotating the tuning dial as slowly as possible, they grew familiar with thefrequencybands.

They searched for any foreign signal.News bulletins fromRadioMoscow,Voice ofAmerica, Radio Peking, the BBC. They heard arbitrary information,snippets from thousands of miles away, emerging from great thickets ofinterference that tossed like an ocean, that wavered like a wind. Weatherconditions over Central Europe, folk songs from Athens, a speech by AbdelNasser.Reportsinlanguagestheycouldonlyguessat:Finnish,Turkish,Korean,Portuguese.

It was 1964. The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution authorized America to usemilitaryforceagainstNorthVietnam.TherewasamilitarycoupinBrazil.

In CalcuttaCharulata was released in cinema halls. Anotherwave of riotsbetweenMuslimsandHinduskilledoveronehundredpeopleaftera relicwasstolen from amosque in Srinagar.Among the communists in India therewasdissentover theborderwarwithChina twoyearsbefore.Abreakawaygroup,sympathetic toChina, called itself theCommunistParty of India,Marxist: theCPI(M).

CongresswasstillrunningthecentralgovernmentinDelhi.AfterNehrudiedofaheartattackthatspringhisdaughter,Indira,enteredthecabinet.Withintwoyears,shewouldbecomethePrimeMinister.

In themornings,nowthatSubhashandUdayanwerebeginning toshave, theyheldupahandmirrorandapanofwarmwaterforoneanotherinthecourtyard.Afterplatesofsteamingriceanddalandmatchstickpotatoestheywalkedtothemosque at the corner, leaving their enclave behind. They continued togetherdownthebusymainroad,asfarasthetramdepot,thenboardeddifferentbussestotheircolleges.

Onseparatesidesof thecity, theymadedifferent friends,mixingwithboyswho’dgone toEnglishmediumschools.Thoughsomeof theirsciencecourseswere similar, they took exams on different schedules, studying with differentprofessors,runningdifferentexperimentsintheirlabs.

BecauseUdayan’scampuswasfartheraway,ittookhimlongertogethome.Because he started to befriend students from North Calcutta, the chessboardstood neglected on the study table, so that Subhash started to play againsthimself.Still,eachdayofhislifebeganandendedwithUdayanbesidehim.

One evening in the summer of 1966, on the shortwave, they listened toEnglandplayGermanyintheWorldCupatWembley.Itwasthefamousfinal,theghostgoal thatwas tobedisputedforyears.They tooknotesas the lineupwas announced, diagramming the formation on a sheet of paper. They trailedtheir index fingers to mimic themoves being relayed, as if the bed were theplayingfield.

Germanyscoredfirst;intheeighteenthminutecameGeoffHurst’sequalizer.Toward the end of the second half,withEngland leading two to one,Udayanturnedofftheradio.

Whatareyoudoing?Improvingthereception.It’sgoodenough.We’remissingtheendofthematch.It’snotover.Udayanreachedunderthemattress,whichwaswheretheystashedtheirodds

and ends. Notebooks, compasses and rulers, razor blades to sharpen theirpencils,sportsmagazines.Theinstructionsforputtingtheradiotogether.Somesparenutsandbolts,thescrewdriverandpliersthey’dneededforthetask.

Usingthescrewdriver,hestartedtakingtheradioapartagain.Thewiringtooneofthecoilsorswitchesmustbeloose,hesaid.Youneedtofixthatnow?Hedidn’tstoptoanswer.He’dalreadyremovedthecover,hisnimblefingers

unthreadingthescrews.Ittookusdaystoputthattogether,Subhashsaid.IknowwhatI’mdoing.Udayanisolatedthechassis,realigningsomewires.Thenheputthereceiver

backtogetheragain.Thegamewasstillgoingon,thecracklelessdistracting.WhileUdayanhad

beenfiddlingwiththeradio,Germanyhadscoredlateinthesecondhalf,toforceovertime.

ThentheyheardHurstscoreagainforEngland.Theballhadhittheundersideofthecrossbar,andbounceddownovertheline.Whentherefereegavehimthegoal,theGermanteamimmediatelycontested.EverythingcametoahaltastherefereeconsultedwithaSovietlinesman.Thegoalstood.

England’swonit,Udayansaid.Therewerestillsomeminutesleft,Germanydesperatetotie.ButUdayanwas

right,Hurstevenscoredafourthgoalattheendofthematch.AndbythentheEnglish spectators, triumphant before the final whistle, were already spillingontothefield.

Chapter4

In 1967, in the papers and on All India Radio, they started hearing aboutNaxalbari.Itwasaplacethey’dneverheardofbefore.

ItwasoneofastringofvillagesintheDarjeelingDistrict,anarrowcorridorat thenorthern tipofWestBengal.Tuckedinto thefoothillsof theHimalayas,nearlyfourhundredmilesfromCalcutta,closertoTibetthantoTollygunge.

Mostofthevillagersweretribalpeasantswhoworkedonteaplantationsandlarge estates. For generations they’d lived under a feudal system that hadn’tsubstantiallychanged.

Theyweremanipulatedbywealthylandowners.Theywerepushedofffieldsthey’d cultivated, denied revenue fromcrops they’dgrown.Theywerepreyeduponbymoneylenders.Deprivedofsubsistencewages,somediedfromlackoffood.

That March, when a sharecropper in Naxalbari tried to plough land fromwhichhe’dbeenillegallyevicted,hislandlordsentthugstobeathim.Theytookawayhisploughandbullock.Thepolicehadrefusedtointervene.

After this, groups of sharecroppers began retaliating. They started burningdeedsandrecordsthatcheatedthem.Forciblyoccupyingland.

Itwasn’tthefirstinstanceofpeasantsintheDarjeelingDistrictrevolting.Butthistimetheirtacticsweremilitant.Armedwithprimitiveweapons,carryingredflags,shoutingLongLiveMaoTse-tung.

TwoBengalicommunists,CharuMajumdarandKanuSanyal,werehelpingtoorganizewhatwashappening.They’dbeenraisedintownsclosetoNaxalbari.They’dmetinprison.Theywereyoungerthanmostofthecommunistleadershipin India—menwho’dbeenborn in the late1800s.MajumdarandSanyalwerecontemptuousofthoseleaders.TheyweredissidentsoftheCPI(M).

Theyweredemandingownershiprightsforsharecroppers.Theyweretellingpeasantstotillforthemselves.

CharuMajumdarwasacollegedropoutfromalandowningfamily,alawyer’sson.Inthepaperstherewerepicturesofafrailmanwithabonyface,ahookednose,bushyhair.Hewasanasthmatic,aMarxist-Leninisttheoretician.Someoftheseniorcommunistscalledhimamadman.Atthetimeoftheuprising,thoughnotyetfifty,hewassufferingaheartailment,confinedtohisbed.

KanuSanyalwasadiscipleofMajumdar’s,inhisthirties.HewasaBrahminwho’dlearnedthetribaldialects.Herefusedtoownproperty.Hewasdevotedtotheruralpoor.

As the rebellion spread, the police started patrolling the area. Imposingundeclaredcurfews,makingarbitraryarrests.

ThestategovernmentinCalcuttaappealedtoSanyal.Theywerehopinghe’dget thepeasants to surrender.At first, assured thathewouldn’tbearrested,hemet with the land revenue minister. He promised a negotiation. At the lastminutehebackedout.

InMayitwasreportedthatagroupofpeasants,maleandfemale,attackedapoliceinspectorwithbowsandarrows,killinghim.Thenextdaythelocalpoliceforce encountered a rioting crowd on the road. An arrow struck one of thesergeants in the arm, and the crowdwas told to disband.When it didn’t, thepolicefired.Elevenpeoplewerekilled.Eightofthemwerewomen.

Atnight,afterlisteningtotheradio,SubhashandUdayantalkedaboutwhatwasunfolding. Secretly smoking after their parents had gone to bed, sitting at thestudytable,withanashtraybetweenthem.

Doyouthinkitwasworthit?Subhashasked.Whatthepeasantsdid?Ofcourseitwasworthit.Theyroseup.Theyriskedeverything.Peoplewith

nothing.Peoplethoseinpowerdonothingtoprotect.But will it make a difference?What good are bows and arrows against a

modernstate?Udayanpressedhisfingertips together,as if toclaspafewgrainsofrice.If

youwerebornintothatlife,whatwouldyoudo?Likesomany,UdayanblamedtheUnitedFront,theleft-wingcoalitionledby

AjoyMukherjeethatwasnowrunningWestBengal.EarlierintheyearbothheandSubhashhadcelebrateditsvictory.Ithadputcommunistsintothecabinet.Ithadpromised toestablishagovernmentbasedonworkersandpeasants. Ithadpledged to abolish large-scale landholdings. In West Bengal, it had broughtnearlytwodecadesofCongressleadershiptoanend.

But the United Front hadn’t backed the rebellion. Instead, in the face ofdissent,JyotiBasu,thehomeminister,hadcalledinthepolice.AndnowAjoyMukherjeehadbloodonhishands.

ThePekingPeople’sDaily accused theWestBengalgovernmentofbloodysuppressionof revolutionarypeasants.SpringThunderOver India, itsheadlineread. In Calcutta all the papers carried the story. On the streets, on college

campuses, demonstrations broke out, defending the peasants, protesting thekillings. At Presidency College, and at Jadavpur, Subhash and Udayan sawbannershangingfromthewindowsofcertainbuildings,insupportofNaxalbari.Theyheardspeechescallingforstateofficialstoresign.

InNaxalbaritheconflictonlyintensified.Therewerereportsofbanditryandlooting.Peasantssettingupparalleladministrations.Landownersbeingabductedandkilled.

In July theCentralGovernmentbanned thecarryingofbowsandarrows inNaxalbari.Thesameweek,authorizedbytheWestBengalcabinet,fivehundredofficersandmenraided theregion.Theysearched themudhutsof thepoorestvillagers. They captured unarmed insurgents, killing them if they refused tosurrender.Ruthlessly,systematically,theybroughttherebelliontoitsheels.

Udayansprangupfromthechairwherehe’dbeensitting,pushingapileofbooks and papers away from him in disgust. He switched off the radio. Hestartedtopacetheroom,lookingdownatthefloor,runninghisfingersthroughhishair.

Areyouallright?Subhashaskedhim.Udayanstoodstill.Shakinghishead,restingahandonhiship.Foramoment

hewasspeechless.Thereporthadshockedthemboth,butUdayanwasreactingasifitwereapersonalaffront,aphysicalblow.

Peopleare starving, and this is their solution,heeventually said.They turnvictimsintocriminals.Theyaimgunsatpeoplewhocan’tshootback.

Heunlatchedthedooroftheirbedroom.Whereareyougoing?Idon’tknow.Ineedtotakeawalk.Howcouldithavecometothis?Soundslikeit’soverinanycase,Subhashsaid.Udayanpausedbeforeleaving.Thiscouldonlybethebeginning,hesaid.Thebeginningofwhat?Somethingbigger.Somethingelse.UdayanquotedwhattheChinesepresshadpredicted:ThesparkinDarjeeling

willstartaprairiefireandwillcertainlysetthevastexpansesofIndiaablaze.

By autumnSanyal andMajumdar had both gone into hiding. Itwas the sameautumnCheGuevara was executed in Bolivia, his hands cut off to prove hisdeath.

In India journalists started publishing their own periodicals. Liberation inEnglish, Deshabrati in Bengali. They reproduced articles from Chinese

Communistmagazines.Udayanbeganbringingthemhome.This rhetoric is nothing new, their father said, leafing through a copy.Our

generationreadMarx,too.Yourgenerationdidn’tsolveanything,Udayansaid.Webuiltanation.We’reindependent.Thecountryisours.It’snotenough.Wherediditgetus?Whohasithelped?Thesethingstaketime.TheirfatherdismissedNaxalbari.Hesaidyoungpeopleweregettingexcited

overnothing.Thatthewholethinghadbeenamatteroffifty-twodays.No,Baba.TheUnitedFront thinks it’swon,but it’s failed.Lookatwhat’s

happening.Whatishappening?Peoplearereacting.Naxalbariisaninspiration.It’sanimpetusforchange.I’ve already lived through change in this country, their father said. I know

whatittakesforonesystemtoreplaceanother.Notyou.ButUdayanpersisted.Hestartedchallengingtheirfatherthewayheusedto

challengetheirteachersatschool.IfhewassoproudthatIndiawasindependent,whyhadn’theprotestedtheBritishatthetime?Whyhadheneverjoinedalaborunion?Given thathevotedcommunist inelections,whyhadhenever takenastand?

Both Subhash and Udayan knew the answer. Because their father was agovernment employee, hewasbarred from joining anypartyorunion.DuringIndependence hewas forbidden to speak out; thosewere the terms of his job.Thoughsomeignoredtherules,theirfatherhadnevertakensuchrisks.

Itwasforoursake.Hewasbeingresponsible,Subhashsaid.ButUdayandidn’tseeitthatway.

AmongUdayan’s physics texts therewere now other books hewas studying.Theyweremarked upwith little scraps of paper.TheWretched of the Earth.WhatIstoBeDone?Abooksheathedinaredplasticcover,hardlylargerthanadeckofcards,containingaphorismsofMao.

WhenSubhashaskedwherehewasgettingthemoneytobuythesematerials,Udayansaid theywerecommonproperty,circulatedamongagroupofboysatPresidencywithwhomhe’dbeengrowingfriendly.

UnderthemattressUdayanstoredsomepamphletshe’dobtained,writtenbyCharuMajumdar.MostofthemhadbeenwrittenbeforetheNaxalbariuprising,whileMajumdarwas in prison.OurTasks in thePresent Situation. TakeThis

Opportunity.WhatPossibilitytheYear1965IsIndicating?One day, needing a break from his studies, Subhash reached under the

mattress.Theessayswerebrief,bombastic.MajumdarsaidIndiahadturnedintoa nation of beggars and foreigners. The reactionary government of India hasadopted the tactics of killing the masses; they are killing them throughstarvation,withbullets.

He accused India of turning to theUnited States to solve its problems.HeaccusedtheUnitedStatesofturningIndiaintoitspawn.HeaccusedtheSovietUnionofsupportingIndia’srulingclass.

He called for the building of a secret party. He called for cadres in thevillages.HecomparedthemethodofactiveresistancetothefightforcivilrightsintheUnitedStates.

Throughout the essays,he invoked the exampleofChina. Ifwecan realizethetruththattheIndianrevolutionwillinvariablytaketheformofcivilwar,thetacticofarea-wiseseizureofpowercanbetheonlytactic.

Youthink itcanwork?SubhashaskedUdayanoneday.WhatMajumdar isproposing?

They’dbothjustfinishedsittingforthelastoftheircollegeexams.Theywerecuttingthroughtheneighborhood,goingtoplayfootballwithsomeoftheiroldschoolfriends.

Before heading toward the field they’d gone to the corner, so thatUdayancould buy a newspaper. He’d folded it to an article pertaining to Naxalbari,absorbedbyitastheywalked.

They proceeded down the curving walled-off lanes, passing people who’dwatchedthemgrowup.Thetwopondswerecalmandgreen.Thelowlandwasstillflooded,sotheyhadtoskirtarounditinsteadofacross.

AtonepointUdayanstopped,takingintheramshacklehutsthatsurroundedthelowland,thebrightwaterhyacinththatteemedonitssurface.

It’salreadyworked,hereplied.MaochangedChina.Indiaisn’tChina.No.Butitcouldbe,Udayansaid.NowiftheyhappenedtopasstheTollyClubtogetherontheirwaytoorfrom

thetramdepot,Udayancalleditanaffront.Peoplestillfilledslumsalloverthecity, childrenwere born and raised on the streets.Whywere a hundred acreswalledofffortheenjoymentofafew?

Subhashrememberedtheimportedtrees,thejackals,thebirdcries.Thegolfballsheavyintheirpockets,theundulatinggreenofthecourse.Heremembered

Udayangoingover thewall first,challenginghim to follow.Crouchingon thegroundthelasteveningtheywerethere,tryingtoshieldhim.

ButUdayansaidthatgolfwasthepastimeofthecompradorbourgeoisie.Hesaid the Tolly Club was proof that India was still a semicolonial country,behavingasiftheBritishhadneverleft.

He pointed out that Che, who had worked as a caddy on a golf course inArgentina, had come to the same conclusion. That after the Cuban revolutiongettingridofthegolfcourseswasoneofthefirstthingsCastrohaddone.

Chapter5

Byearly1968,inthefaceofincreasingopposition,theUnitedFrontgovernmentcollapsed,andWestBengalwasplacedunderPresident’sRule.

Theeducationsystemwasalsoincrisis.Itwasanoutdatedpedagogy,atoddswithIndia’sreality.Ittaughttheyoungtoignoretheneedsofcommonpeople.Thiswasthemessageradicalstudentsstartedtospread.

EchoingParis,echoingBerkeley,examswereboycottedthroughoutCalcutta,diplomas tornup.Studentscalledoutduringconvocationaddresses,disruptingthe speakers.They said campus administrationswere corrupt.Theybarricadedvice-chancellors in their offices, refusing them food and water until theirdemandsweremet.

In spite of the unrest, encouraged by professors, both brothers beganpostgraduate studies,Udayan atCalcuttaUniversity,Subhash continuingon atJadavpur.Theywereexpected to fulfill theirpotential, to support theirparentsoneday.

Udayan’sscheduleturnedmoreerratic.Onenightwhenhedidnotreturnfordinner, theirmotherkepthisfoodwaitingin thecornerof thekitchen,underaplate.Whensheasked,inthemorning,whyhehadn’teatenwhatshe’dsetaside,hetoldherhe’deatenatthehomeofafriend.

Whenhewasgone,therewasnotalkduringmealtimesofhowtheNaxalbarimovementwasspreadingtootherpartsofWestBengal,alsotosomeotherpartsof India.Nodiscussionabout theguerillasactive inBihar, inAndhraPradesh.Subhashgathered thatUdayan turned toothersnow,withwhomhecould talkfreelyaboutthesethings.

WithoutUdayan theyate in silence,without strife, as their fatherpreferred.ThoughSubhashmissedhisbrother’scompany,attimesitcameasarelieftositdownatthestudytablebyhimself.

When Udayan was at home, odd hours, he turned on the short-wave.Dissatisfied by official reports, he found secret broadcasts from stations inDarjeeling,inSiliguri.HelistenedtobroadcastsfromRadioPeking.Once,justas the sun was rising, he succeeded in transporting Mao’s distorted voice,interruptedbyburstsofstatic,addressingthepeopleofChina,toTollygunge.

BecauseUdayan invitedhim,becausehewascurious,Subhashwentwithhimoneeveningtoameeting,inaneighborhoodinNorthCalcutta.Thesmallsmokyroomwasfilledmostlywithstudents.TherewasaportraitofLenin,wrappedinplastic,hangingonamint-greenplasterwall.Butthemoodintheroomwasanti-Moscow,pro-Peking.

Subhashhadpicturedaraucousdebate.Butthemeetingwasorderly,runlikeastudysession.Awispy-hairedmedicalstudentnamedSinhaassumedtheroleofprofessor.Theothersweretakingnotes.OnebyonetheywerecalledupontoprovetheirfamiliaritywitheventsinChinesehistory,tenetsofMao.

TheydistributedthelatestcopiesofDeshabratiandLiberation.Therewasanupdate on the insurgency at Srikakulam. One hundred villages across twohundredmountainousmiles,fallingunderMarxistsway.

Peasant rebels were creating strongholds where no policeman dared enter.Landownerswerefleeing.Therewerereportsoffamiliesburnedtodeathintheirsleep,theirheadsdisplayedonstakes.Vengefulsloganspaintedinblood.

Sinhaspokequietly.Sittingatatable,ruminating,hisfingersclasped.Ayear has passed sinceNaxalbari, and theCPI(M) continues to betray us.

Theyhavedisgracedtheredbanner.TheyhaveflauntedthegoodnameofMarx.TheCPI(M),thepoliciesoftheSovietUnion,thereactionarygovernmentof

India,allamounttothesamething.TheyarelackeysoftheUnitedStates.Thesearethefourmountainswemustseektooverthrow.

Theobjectiveof theCPI(M) ismaintainingpower.Butourobjective is theformationofajustsociety.Thecreationofanewpartyisessential.Ifhistoryistotakeastepforward,theparlorgameofparliamentarypoliticsmustend.

The room was silent. Subhash saw Udayan hanging on Sinha’s words.Riveted,justasheusedtolooklisteningtoafootballmatchontheradio.

Though Subhash was also present, though he sat beside Udayan, he feltinvisible. He wasn’t convinced that an imported ideology could solve India’sproblems.Thoughasparkhadbeen litayearago,hedidn’t thinkarevolutionwouldnecessarilyfollow.

Hewondered if itwas a lack of courage, or of imagination, that preventedhimfrombelievinginit.Ifthedeficitshe’dalwaysbeenconsciousofwerewhatpreventedhimfromsharinghisbrother’spoliticalfaith.

HerememberedthesillysignalsheandUdayanusedtosendtooneanother,pressingthebuzzer,makingeachotherlaugh.Hedidn’tknowhowtorespondtothemessageSinhawastransmitting,whichUdayansoreadilyreceived.

Undertheirbed,againstthewall,therewasacanofredpaintandabrushthathadnotbeentherebefore.BeneaththeirmattressSubhashfoundafoldedpieceof paper containing a list of slogans, copied out in Udayan’s hand. China’sChairman is our Chairman! Down with elections! Our path is the path ofNaxalbari!

Thewallsofthecitywereturningthickwiththemnow.Thewallsofcampusbuildings,thehighwallsofthefilmstudios.Thelowerwallsflankingthelanesoftheirenclave.

Onenight,SubhashheardUdayancomeintothehouseandgostraighttothebathroom.Heheardthesoundofwaterhittingthefloor.Subhashwassittingatthestudytable.Udayanpushedthecanofpaintbeneaththeirbed.

Subhash closed his notebook, replaced the cap on his pen.Whatwere youdoingjustnow?

Rinsingoff.Udayancrossedtheroomandsatinachairbythewindow.Hewaswearing

whitecottonpajamas.Hisskinwasdamp, thehairdarkonhischest.Heputacigarettetohislipsandslidopenamatchbox.Ittookhimafewstrikestolightthematch.

Youwerepaintingslogans?Subhashaskedhim.Therulingclassputsitspropagandaeverywhere.Whyshouldtheybeallowed

toinfluencepeopleandnooneelse?Whathappensifthepolicecatchyou?Theywon’t.Heturnedontheradio.Ifwedon’tstanduptoaproblem,wecontributetoit,

Subhash.Afterapauseheadded,Comewithmetomorrow,ifyouwant.

AgainSubhashwasthelookout.Againalerttoeverysound.They crossed a wooden bridge that spanned a narrow section of Tolly’s

Nullah. It was a neighborhood considered remote when they were younger,wherethey’dbeentoldnottowander.

Subhashheldtheflashlight.Heilluminatedasectionofthewall.Itwasclosetomidnight.They’d told theirparents that theyweregoing toa lateshowofafilm.

Hestoodclose.Heheldhisbreath.Thepondfrogswerecalling,monotonous,insistent.

HewatchedasUdayandippedthepaintbrushintothecan.Hewaswriting,in

English,LongliveNaxalbari!QuicklyUdayanformedthelettersoftheslogan.Buthishandwasunsteady,

addingtothechallenge.Subhashhadnoticedthispreviously,inrecentweeks—anoccasionaltremorashisbrotheradjustedtheradiodial,orframedtheair infrontofhis face in thecourseof saying something,or turned thepagesof thenewspaper.

Subhash remembered climbing over thewall of the Tolly Club. This time,Subhash wasn’t afraid of being caught. Perhaps it was foolish of him, butsomethingtoldhimthatsuchathingcouldhappenonlyonce.Andhewasright,noonenoticedwhat theydid,noonepunished themfor it, anda fewminuteslater theywere crossing the bridge again, quickly, smoking cigarettes to calmthemselvesdown.

ThistimeitwasonlyUdayanwhowasgiddy.OnlyUdayanwhowasproudofwhatthey’ddone.

Subhashwasangrywithhimselfforgoingalongwithit.Forstillneedingtoprovehecould.

Hewas sickof the fear that always roseup inhim: that hewould cease toexist,andthatheandUdayanwouldceasetobebrothers,wereSubhashtoresisthim.

After their studies ended, the brothers were among so many others in theirgeneration, overqualified and unemployed. They began tutoring to bring inmoney, contributing their earnings to the household. Udayan found a jobteaching science at a technical high school close to Tollygunge. He seemedsatisfiedwithanordinaryoccupation.Hewasindifferenttobuildingupacareer.

Subhash decided to apply to a few Ph.D. programs in the United States.Immigrationlawshadchanged,makingiteasierforIndianstudentstoenter.Ingraduate school he’d begun to focus his research on chemistry and theenvironment.Theeffectsofpetroleumandnitrogenonoceansandstreamsandlakes.

He thought it was better to broach it with Udayan first, before telling hisparents. He hoped his brother would understand. He suggested that Udayanshouldgoabroad,too,wherethereweremorejobs,whereitmightbeeasierforbothofthem.

Hementionedthefamousuniversitiesthatsupportedtheworld’smostgiftedscientists.MIT.Princeton,whereEinsteinhadbeen.

But none of this impressedUdayan.How can youwalk away fromwhat’shappening?There,ofallplaces?

It’sadegreeprogram.It’sonlyamatterofafewyears.Udayanshookhishead.Ifyougo,youwon’tcomeback.Howdoyouknow?BecauseIknowyou.Becauseyouonlythinkofyourself.Subhashstaredathisbrother.Loungingon theirbed,smoking,preoccupied

bythenewspapers.Youdon’tthinkwhatyou’redoingisselfish?Udayan turned a page of the newspaper, not bothering to look up. I don’t

thinkwantingtomakeadifferenceisselfish,no.Thisisn’tagameyou’replaying.Whatifthepolicecometothehouse?What

ifyougetarrested?WhatwouldMaandBabathink?There’smoretolifethanwhattheythink.What’shappenedtoyou,Udayan?They’rethepeoplewhoraisedyou.Who

continuetofeedandclotheyou.You’damounttonothing,ifitweren’tforthem.Udayansatup,andstrodeoutoftheroom.Amomentlaterhewasback.He

stoodbeforeSubhash, his face lowered.His anger, quick to flare, had alreadylefthim.

You’re the other side of me, Subhash. It’s without you that I’m nothing.Don’tgo.

Itwastheonlytimehe’dadmittedsuchathing.He’dsaiditwithloveinhisvoice.Withneed.

ButSubhashheard itasacommand,oneofsomanyhe’dcapitulated toallhislife.AnotherexhortationtodoasUdayandid,tofollowhim.

Then,abruptly,itwasUdayanwhowentaway.Hetraveledoutsidethecity,hedidnotspecifywhere.Itwasduringaperiodthattheschoolheworkedinwasclosed.HeinformedSubhashandhisparents themorningofhisdeparture thathe’dmadethisplan.

Itwasas ifhewereheadingout foraday,nothingbutaclothbagoverhisshoulder.Justenoughmoneyinhispocketforthetrainfareback.

Thisissomesortoftour?theirfatherasked.You’veplanneditwithfriends?That’sright.Achangeofscene.Whyallofasudden?Whynot?He bent down to take the dust from their parents’ feet, telling them not to

worry,promisingtoreturn.Theydidnothearfromhimwhilehewasgone.Noletter,nowaytoknowif

hewasaliveordead.ThoughSubhashandhisparentsdidn’ttalkaboutit,noneof thembelieved thatUdayanhadgone sightseeing.Andyetnoonehaddoneanything to stophim.He returnedafter amonth, a lungi aroundhiswaist, thebeardandmoustacheovertakinghisfacenotconcealingtheweighthe’dlost.

The tremor in his fingers had gotten worse, persistent enough so that histeacup sometimes rattled on the saucer when he held it, so that it could benoticedwhenhebuttonedhisshirtorgrippedapen.Inthemorningsthesheetonhissideofthebedwascoldwithsweat,darkwiththeimprintofhisbody.Whenhewokeuponemorning,hisheartracing,arashcoveringhisneck,adoctorwasconsulted,abloodtestperformed.

They worried he’d contracted an illness in the countryside, malaria ormeningitis. But it turned out to be an overactive thyroid gland, somethingmedication could keep in check. The doctormentioned to the family that thedrugcouldtakesometimetowork.Thatitneededtobetakenconsistently.Thatthediseasecouldcauseapersontobeirritable,tobemoody.

Heregainedhishealth,andlivedamongthem,butsomepartofUdayanwaselsewhere. Whatever he had learned or seen outside the city, whatever he’ddone,hekepttohimself.

He no longer tried to convince Subhash not to go to America.When theylistened to the radio in the evenings, when he looked through the papers, hebetrayedlittlereaction.Somethinghadsubduedhim.SomethingthathadnothingtodowithSubhash,withanyofthem,preoccupiedhimnow.

OnLenin’sbirthday,April22,1969,a thirdcommunistpartywas launched inCalcutta. The members called themselves Naxalites, in honor of what hadhappenedatNaxalbari.CharuMajumdarwasnamedthegeneralsecretary,KanuSanyalthepartychairman.

OnMayDay, amassive procession filled the streets. Ten thousand peoplemarched to the center of the city. They gathered on theMaidan, beneath thedomedwhitecolumnofShahidMinar.

KanuSanyal,justreleasedfromprison,stoodatarostrum,andaddressedtheexuberantcrowd.WithgreatprideandboundlessjoyIwishtoannouncetodayatthismeeting

that we have formed a genuine Communist Party. The official name was theCommunistPartyofIndia,Marxist-Leninist.TheCPI(ML).

He did not express gratitude to the politicians who had released him. Hisreleasehadbeenmadepossiblebythelawofhistory.NaxalbarihadstirredthewholeofIndia,Sanyalsaid.

Therevolutionarysituationwasripe,bothathomeandabroad,hetoldthem.Ahightideofrevolutionwassweepingthroughtheworld.MaoTse-tungwasatthehelm.Internationally and nationally, the reactionaries have grown so weak that

theycrumblewheneverwehitthem.Inappearancetheyarestrong,butinrealitytheyareonlygiantsmadeofclay,theyaretrulypapertigers.

The chief task of the new party was to organize the peasantry. The tacticwouldbeguerillawarfare.TheenemywastheIndianstate.

Theirs was a new form of communism, Sanyal declared. They would beheadquartered in the villages.By the year 2000, that is only thirty-one yearsfrom now, the people of the whole world will be liberated from all kinds ofexploitationofmanbymanandwillcelebratetheworldwidevictoryofMarxism,Leninism,MaoTse-tung’sthought.

CharuMajumdarwasn’tpresentattherally.ButSanyalcalledforallegianceto him, comparing him to Mao in his wisdom, warning against those whochallengedMajumdar’sdoctrine.Wewillcertainlybeabletomakeanewsunandanewmoonshineinthesky

ofourgreatmotherland,hesaid,hiswordsringingoutformiles.In the papers therewere photographs, taken from a distance, of thosewho

gatheredtohearSanyal’sspeech,togivetheRedSalute.Abattlecrydeclared,agenerationtransfixed.ApieceofCalcuttastandingstill.

ItwasaportraitofacitySubhashnolongerfeltapartof.Acityonthebrinkofsomething;acityhewaspreparingtoleavebehind.

SubhashknewthatUdayanhadbeenthere.Hehadn’taccompaniedhimtotherally,norhadUdayanaskedhimtocome.Inthissensetheyhadalreadyparted.

Chapter6

A fewmonths later Subhash also traveled to a village; thiswas theword theAmericans used. An old-fashioned word, designating an early settlement, ahumbleplace.Andyetthevillagehadoncecontainedacivilization:achurch,acourthouse,atavern,ajail.

Theuniversityhadbegunasanagriculturalschool.Alandgrantcollegestillsurroundedbygreenhouses,orchards,fieldsofcorn.Ontheoutskirtswerelushpastures of scientifically cultivated grass, routinely irrigated and fertilized andtrimmed.NicerthanthegrassthatgrewinsidethewallsoftheTollyClub.

But he was no longer in Tollygunge. He had stepped out of it as he hadstepped so many mornings out of dreams, its reality and its particular logicrenderedmeaninglessinthelightofday.

Thedifferencewassoextremethathecouldnotaccommodatethetwoplacestogetherinhismind.Inthisenormousnewcountry,thereseemedtobenowherefortheoldtoreside.Therewasnothingtolinkthem;hewasthesolelink.Herelifeceasedtoobstructorassaulthim.Herewasaplacewherehumanitywasnotalwayspushing,rushing,runningasifwithafireatitsback.

Andyet,certainphysicalaspectsofRhodeIsland—astatesosmallwithinthecontext ofAmerica that on somemaps its landmasswas indicated only by anarrowpointingtoitslocation—correspondedroughlytothoseofCalcutta,withinIndia.Mountains to thenorth,anocean to theeast, themajorityof land to thesouthandwest.

Bothplaceswereclosetosealevel,withestuarieswherefreshandsaltwatercombined.AsTollygunge,inapreviousera,hadbeenfloodedbythesea,allofRhodeIsland,helearned,hadoncebeencoveredwithsheetsofice.Theadvanceand retreat of glaciers, spreading andmelting over New England, had shiftedbedrockandsoil,leavinggreattrailsofdebris.Theyhadcreatedmarshesandthebay,dunesandmoraines.Theyhadshapedthecurrentshore.

He found a room in a white wooden house, close to themain road of thevillage,withblackshuttersflankingthewindows.Theshuttersweredecorative,never opening or closing as they did throughout the day in Calcutta, to keeproomscoolordry,toblockrainorletinabreezeoradjustthelight.

Helivedatthetopofthehouse,sharingakitchenandbathroomwithanother

Ph.D.studentnamedRichardGrifalconi.Atnightheheardtheprecisetickingofanalarmclockat the sideofhisbed.And in thebackground, likeanongoingalarm itself, the shrill thrumof crickets.Newbirdswokehim in themorning,smallbirdswithdelicatechirpsthatrupturedsleepnevertheless.

Richard,astudentofsociology,wroteeditorialsfortheuniversitynewspaper.Whenhewasn’tworkingonhisdissertationhedecried,interseparagraphs,therecent firing of a zoology professor who had spoken out against the use ofnapalm,orthedecisiontobuildaswimmingpoolinsteadofmoredormitoriesoncampus.

He came from a Quaker family inWisconsin. He wore his dark hair in aponytail, and didn’t bother to trim his beard.He peered closely throughwire-rimmed spectacles as he pecked out his editorials with two fingers at theirkitchentable,acigaretteburningbetweenhislips.

He told Subhash that he’d just turned thirty. For the sake of the nextgeneration,he’ddecidedtobecomeaprofessor.He’dtraveledtotheSouth,asanundergraduate, to protest segregation on public transportation.He’d spent twoweeksinaMississippijail.

HeinvitedSubhash togowithhimto thecampuspub,where theysharedapitcherofbeerandwatchedthetelevisionreportsofVietnam.Richardopposedthewar,buthewasn’tacommunist.HetoldSubhashthatGandhiwasaherotohim.Udayanwouldhavescoffed,sayingthatGandhihadsidedwithenemiesofthepeople.ThathehaddisarmedIndiainthenameofliberation.

Oneday,walkingpastthequadrangle,SubhashsawRichardatthecenterofagroupofstudentsandfaculty.Hewaswearingablackarmband,standingontopofavanthathadbeendrivenontothegrass.

Speaking through amegaphone, Richard said Vietnamwas amistake, andthat theAmericangovernmenthadhadno right to intervene.Hesaid innocentpeopleinVietnamweresuffering.

Some people called out or cheered, but most of them just listened andclapped, as they might at the theatre. They sprawled back on their elbows,sunning their faces, listening to Richard protest a war that was being foughtthousandsofmilesaway.

Subhashwas theonly foreigner.No students fromotherpartsofAsiawerethere. It was nothing like the demonstrations that erupted now in Calcutta.Disorganizedmobs representing rivalcommunistparties, runninghelter-skelterthroughthestreets.Chanting,unrelenting.Theyweredemonstrationsthatalmostalwaysturnedviolent.

After listening to Richard for a few minutes, Subhash left. He knew how

muchUdayanwouldhavemockedhimatthatmoment,forhisdesiretoprotecthimself.

Hedidn’tsupportthewarinVietnam,either.Butlikehisfather,heknewhehadtobecareful.HeknewhecouldgetarrestedinAmericafordenouncingthegovernment, perhaps even for holding up a sign. He was here courtesy of astudentvisa, studying thanks toa fellowship.He’dbeen invited toAmericaasNixon’sguest.

Here,eachday,herememberedhowhe’dfeltthoseeveningsheandUdayanhadsnuckintotheTollyClub.Thistimehe’dbeenadmittedofficially,andyetheremainedvigilant,atthethreshold.Heknewthatthedoorcouldclosejustasarbitrarilyas ithadopened.Heknewthathecouldbesentbacktowherehe’dcomefrom,andthattherewouldbeplentytotakehisplace.

TherewereafewotherIndiansattheuniversity,mostlybachelorslikehim.Butas far as Subhash could tell, he was the only one from Calcutta. He met aneconomics professor named Narasimhan, from Madras. He had an Americanwifeandtwotanned,light-eyedsonswholookedlikeneitheroftheirparents.

Narasimhanworeheavysideburns,bell-bottomedjeans.Hiswifehadaprettyneck, long beaded earrings, short red hair. Subhash saw them all for the firsttimeonthequadrangle.TheyweretheonlypeoplethatSaturdayafternooninthesquaregreenenclosureatthecenterofcampus,rimmedwithtrees.

Theboyswerekickingaballonthegrasswiththeirfather.AsSubhashandUdayanused todo,on the fieldon theother sideof the lowland, though theirfatherhadneverjoinedthem.Thewifewaslyingonablanketonthegrass,onherside,smoking,sketchingsomethinginanotebook.

Thiswas thewomanNarasimhanhadmarried, as opposed towhatever girlfromMadrashisfamilyhadwantedforhim.Subhashwonderedhowhisfamilyhad reacted to her. He wondered if she’d ever been to India. If she had, hewonderedwhethershe’dlikeditorhatedit.Hecouldnotguessfromlookingather.

The ball rolled over inSubhash’s direction, and he kicked it back to them,preparingtocontinueonhisway.

Youmustbethenewstudentinmarinechemistry,Narasimhansaid,walkingtowardhim,shakinghishand.SubhashMitra?

Yes.FromCalcutta?Henodded.

I’msupposedtokeepaneyeoutforyou.IwasborninCalcutta,Narasimhanadded,sayingthathestillunderstoodawordortwoofBengali.

Subhash asked where in Rhode Island he lived, whether it was close tocampus.

Narasimhanshookhishead.TheirhousewasclosertoProvidence.Hiswife,Kate,wasastudentattheRhodeIslandSchoolofDesign.

Andyou?WhereinCalcuttaisyourfamily?InTollygunge.Ah,wherethegolfclubis.Yes.You’restayingattheInternationalHouse?Ipreferredaplacewithakitchen.Iwantedtomakemyownmeals.Andyou’vesettledin?Madesomefriends?Afew.Toleratingthecold?Sofar.Kate,writedownourphonenumberforhim,willyou?Sheturnedtothebackofhernotebookandtoreoutapage.Shewrotedown

thenumberandhandedittoSubhash.Anything you need, just give a call, Narasimhan said, patting him on the

shoulder,turningbacktohissons.Thankyou.I’llmakeyoumyyogurtriceoneofthesedays,Narasimhancalledout.Butaninvitationnevercame.

Theoceanographycampus,wheremostofhisclasseswereheld,overlookedtheNarragansettBay.Everymorning,onabus,heleftthevillagebehind,travelingalongawoodedroadwheremailboxesstuckonpostswerevisible,butmanyofthehomeswerenot.Pastasetoftrafficlights,andawoodenobservationtower,beforeproceedingdownhilltowardthebay.

The bus crossed over a winding estuary, to an area that felt more remote.Heretheairwasneverstill,sothatthewindowsofthebuswouldrattle.Herethequalityofthelightchanged.

The laboratory buildings were like small airplane hangars, flat-toppedstructures made of corrugated gray metal. He studied the gases that weredissolvedinthesea’ssolution,theisotopesfoundindeepsediments.Theiodinefoundinseaweed,thecarboninplankton,thecopperinthebloodofcrabs.

Atthefootofthecampus,atthebaseofasteephill,therewasasmallbeachstrewnwithgray-and-yellowstoneswherehelikedtoeathislunch.Therewereviewsofthebay,andthetwobridgesgoingtoislandsoffshore.TheJamestownBridgewasprominent, theNewportBridge, a fewmiles in thedistance,morefaint. On cloudy days, at intervals, the sound of a foghorn pierced the air, asconchshellswereblowninCalcuttatowardoffevil.

Someofthesmallerislands,reachableonlybyboat,werewithoutelectricityand running water. Conditions under which, he was told, certain wealthyAmericanslikedtospendtheirsummers.Ononeislandtherewasspaceonlyfora lighthouse,nothingmore.All the islands,however tiny,hadnames:PatienceandPrudence,FoxandGoat,RabbitandRose,HopeandDespair.

At the top of the hill, leading up from the beach, therewas a churchwithwhiteshinglesarrangedlikeahoneycomb.Thecentralportionrosetoasteeple.Thepaintwasnolongerfresh,thewoodbeneathithavingabsorbedsomuchsaltfromtheair,somanystormsthathadtraveleduptheRhodeIslandcoast.

Oneafternoonhewassurprised toseecars lining the roadwhere itcrested.Forthefirsttimehesawthatthefrontdoorsofthechurchwereopen.Agroupofpeople,amixofadultsandchildren,nomorethantwenty,stoodoutside.

He glimpsed a couple inmiddle age, newlymarried.A gray-haired groomwithacarnationinhislapel,awomaninapalebluejacketandskirt.Theystoodsmilingon the stepsof thechurch,ducking theirheadsas thegroupshoweredthemwith rice. Looking like they should have been parents of the bride andgroom,closertohisparents’generationthantohisown.

Heguessedthatitwasasecondmarriage.Twopeopletradingonespouseforanother, dividing in two, their connections at once severed and doubled, likecells.Orperhaps itwas a caseof a couplewhohadboth lost their spouses inmidlife.Awidowandwidowerwithgrownchildren,remarryingandmovingon.

Forsomereasonthechurchremindedhimofthesmallmosquethatstoodatthecornerofhisfamily’sneighborhoodinTollygunge.Anotherplaceofworshipdesignatedforothers,whichhadservedasalandmarkinhislife.

Oneday,whenthechurchwasempty,Subhashwalkedupthestonepathtotheentrance.Hefeltthestrangeurgetoembraceit;thenarrowproportionsweresoseverethatitseemedscarcelywiderthanhisarmspan.Theonlyentrancewastheroundeddarkgreendooratthefront.Aboveit, thewindows,alsorounded,wereasthinasslits.Spaceforahandtopokeoutbutnotaface.

Thedoorwaslocked,sohewalkedaroundthebuilding,standingontheballsofhisfeetandlookingintothewindows.Someofthepanesweremadeofredglass,interspersedwithclearones.

Inside he saw gray pews, edged with red trim. It was an interior at oncepristineandvibrant,bathedwith light.Hewanted tosit inside, to feel thepalewallsaroundhim.Thesimple,tightlyangledceilingoverhead.

He thought of the couple he’d seen, getting married. He imagined themstandingnexttooneanother.

Forthefirsttime,hethoughtofhisownmarriage.Forthefirsttime,perhapsbecausehealways felt inRhode Island that somepartofhimwasmissing,hedesiredacompanion.

Hewonderedwhatwomanhisparentswouldchoose forhim.Hewonderedwhen it would be. Gettingmarried wouldmean returning to Calcutta. In thatsensehewasinnohurry.

Hewasproud tohavecomealone toAmerica.To learn it asheoncemusthave learned to stand and walk and speak. He’d wanted so much to leaveCalcutta,notonlyforthesakeofhiseducationbutalso—hecouldadmitthistohimselfnow—totakeastepUdayanneverwould.

Intheendthiswaswhathadmotivatedhim.Andyetthemotivationhaddonenothingtopreparehim.Eachday,inspiteofitsgrowingroutine,feltuncertain,improvisational.Here,inthisplacesurroundedbysea,hewasdriftingfarfromhis point of origin.Here, detached fromUdayan, hewas ignorant of somanythings.

MostnightsRichardwasoutatdinnertime,but ifhehappened tobehomeheaccepted Subhash’s invitation to share ameal, bringing out his ashtray and apacket of cigarettes, offering one of his beers as Subhash cooked curry andboiledapotofrice.Inexchange,RichardbegantodriveSubhash,onceaweek,tothesupermarketintown,splittingthecostofthegroceries.

Oneweekend,whentheybothneededabreakfromstudying,RicharddroveSubhashtoanemptyparkinglotoncampus,teachinghimtoshiftgearssothatSubhashcouldapplyforadriver’s licenseandborrowthecarwhenheneededto.

WhenRicharddecidedSubhashwas ready, he let him take the car throughtown, navigating him toward Point Judith, the corner of Rhode Island thatabuttedno land. Itwasa thrill tomaneuver thecar, slowingdownfor theoddtrafficlightandthenacceleratingagainontheabandonedseasideroad.

He drove through Galilee, where the fishing boats came and went, pastmudflats where men waded in rubber boots to harvest clams. Past closed-upshackswithmenusoffriedseafoodpaintedlikegraffitiontothefacades.Theycame toa lighthouseonagrassyhill.Dark rocksdrapedwith seaweed, a flag

thatwrithedlikeaflameinthesky.They had arrived in time to see the sun setting behind the lighthouse, the

white foamof thewavespouringover the rocks, the flagand thechoppybluewatergleaming.Theysteppedouttosmokeacigarette,andfeelthesaltsprayontheirfaces.

The talked aboutMyLai.Thedetails had just appeared.Reportsof amassmurder,bodiesinditches,anAmericanlieutenantunderinvestigation.

There’sgoingtobeaprotestinBoston.Ihavefriendswhocanputusupforanight.Whydon’tyoucomewithme?

Idon’tthinkso.You’renotangryaboutthewar?It’snotmyplacetoobject.SubhashfoundthathecouldbehonestwithRichard.Richardlistenedtohim

insteadofcontradictinghim.Hedidn’tmerelytrytoconverthim.AstheydrovebacktothevillageRichardaskedSubhashaboutIndia,about

itscastesystem,itspoverty.Whowastoblame?Idon’tknow.Thesedayseveryonejustblameseveryoneelse.Butisthereasolution?Wheredoesthegovernmentstand?Subhash didn’t know how to describe India’s fractious politics, its

complicated society, to anAmerican.He said itwasanancientplace thatwasalsoyoung,stillstrugglingtoknowitself.Youshouldbetalkingtomybrother,hesaid.

Youhaveabrother?Henodded.You’venevermentionedhim.What’shisname?Hepaused,thenutteredUdayan’snameforthefirsttimesincehe’darrivedin

RhodeIsland.Well,whatwouldUdayansay?Hewouldsay thatanagrarianeconomybasedonfeudalism is theproblem.

He would say the country needs a more egalitarian structure. Better landreforms.

SoundslikeaChinesemodel.Itis.HesupportsNaxalbari.Naxalbari?What’sthat?

Afewdayslater,inhismailboxathisdepartment,SubhashfoundaletterfromUdayan. Paragraphs in Bengali, dark blue ink against the lighter blue of the

aerogramme.IthadbeenmailedinOctober;itwasNovembernow.

Ifthisreachesyoudestroyit.Noneedtocompromiseeitherofus.Butgiven thatmyonlychance to invade theUnitedStates is by letter, I can’t resist. I’ve just returned fromanothertripoutsidethecity.ImetComradeSanyal.Iwasable to sit with him, speak with him. I had to wear ablindfold.I’lltellyouaboutitsometime.

Why no news? No doubt the flora and fauna of theworld’sgreatestcapitalistpowercaptivateyou.But ifyoucanbeartotearyourselfawaytrytomakeyourselfuseful.Iheartheantiwarmovementthereisinfullswing.

Here developments are encouraging. A Red Guard isforming,travelingtovillages,propagatingMaoTse-tung’squotations.Ourgenerationisthevanguard;thestruggleofstudents ispartof thearmedpeasant struggle,Majumdarsays.

You’ll come back to an altered country, a more justsociety,I’mconfidentofthis.Achangedhome,too.Baba’stakenoutaloan.They’readdingtowhatwealreadyhave.They seem to think it’s necessary. That we won’t getmarriedandraisefamiliesunderthesameroofifthehousestaysthewayitis.

Itoldthemitwasawaste,anextravagance,giventhatyoudon’tevenlivehere.Buttheydidn’tlistenandnowit’stoo late,anarchitectcameand thescaffolding’sgoneup,theyclaimthey’llbefinishedinayearortwo.

Thedaysaredullwithoutyou.And though I refuse toforgive you for not supporting amovement that will onlyimprove the lives of millions of people, I hope you canforgiveme for giving youa hard time.Will youhurry upwith whatever it is you’re doing? An embrace from yourbrother.

He’d concludedwith a quotation.Warwill bring the revolution; revolutionwillstopthewar.

Subhash reread the letter several times. It was as if Udayan were there,speakingtohim,teasinghim.Hefelttheirloyaltytooneanother,theiraffection,stretchedhalfway across theworld. Stretched to the breaking point by all thatnowstoodbetweenthem,butatthesametimerefusingtobreak.

Perhaps the letter would have been safe among his possessions in RhodeIsland. Itwaswritten inBengali, it could have been somethingSubhash kept.ButheknewUdayanwasright,andthatthecontents,thereferencetoSanyal,inthewronghands,might threatenthemboth.Thenextdayhe tookit tohis lab,lingering on some pretense at the end of the session, waiting to be alone.Ceremoniallyheplaceditonthedarkstonecounter,strikingamatch,watchingtheedgesblacken,hisbrother’swordsdisappear.

I’vebeenstudyingchemicalprocessesuniquetoestuaries,sediments thatoxidizeat low tide.Stripsofbarrierbeachrun parallel to the mainland. The ferrous sulfide leaveswideblackstainsonthesand.

Asstrangeasitsounds,whentheskyisovercast,whenthecloudsarelow,somethingaboutthecoastallandscapehere,thewaterandthegrass,thesmellofbacteriawhenIvisitthemudflats,takesmehome.Ithinkofthelowland,ofpaddyfields.Ofcourse,noricegrowshere.Onlymusselsand quahogs, which are among the types of shellfishAmericansliketoeat.

Theycallthemarshgrassspartina.Ilearnedtodaythatit has special glands for excreting salt, so that it’s oftencoveredwith a residue of crystals. Snailsmigrate up anddown thestems. It’sbeengrowinghereovermillennia, indepositsofpeat.Itsrootsstabilizetheshore.Didyouknow,it propagates by spreading rhizomes? Something like themangroves that once thrived in Tollygunge. I had to tellyou.

Thelawnofthecampusquadranglewascoverednowasifwithaseaofrust,the

dead leaves scuttlingandheaving in thewind.Hewaded, ankle-deep, throughtheirbulk.The leavessometimesrosearoundhim,as ifsomething livingweresubmerged beneath them, threatening to show its face before settling downagain.

Hehadobtained his driver’s license, and he had the keys toRichard’s car.Richardhad takenabus tovisithis family forThanksgiving.Thecampushadshutdownandtherewasnowheretogo;forafewdayseventhelibraryandthestudentunionwereclosed.

In theafternoonshegot into thecaranddrovewithnodestination inmind.He drove across the bridge to Jamestown, he drove toNewport and back.Helistenedtopopsongsontheradio,weatherconditionsforthoseonlandandonsea.Northwindstentofifteenknots,becomingnortheastintheafternoon.Seastwotofourfeet.Visibilityonetothreenauticalmiles.

Eveningscamequickly,headlightsonbyfive.OnenightwhenitwastimefordinnerhedecidedtohaveeggplantparmigianaatanItalianrestauranthewenttosometimeswithRichard.Hesatatthebar,drinkingbeer,eatingtheheavydish,watchingAmericanfootballonthetelevision.Hewasoneoftheonlycustomers.He was told, as he paid his bill, that the restaurant would be closed forThanksgiving.

Thatday theroadswereempty, thewhole townat rest.Whateverhappenedon the occasion, however it was celebrated, there was no sign of it. Noprocession that he knew of, no public festivity. Apart from a crowd that hadgatheredforafootballgameoncampus,therewasnothingtoobserve.

Hedrovethroughresidentialneighborhoods,areaswheresomeofthefacultymembers lived. He saw smoke rising from chimneys, cars with license platesfromdifferentstates,parkedalongtheleaf-strewnstreets.

He continued out to the breachway inCharlestown,where the spartina hadturned pale brown. The sun was already low in the sky, its glare too strong.Approachingasaltpond,hepulledovertothesideoftheroad.

Blending into the grass was a heron, close enough for Subhash to see theamberbeadofitseye,itsslate-coloredbodytintedwiththelateafternoonlight.Its neckwas settled into anS, the sharp length of the bill like the brass letteropenerhisparentshadgivenhimwhenheleftIndia.

He rolled downhiswindow.The heronwas still, but then the curved neckextendedandcontracted,asifthebirdwereawareofSubhash’sgaze.TheegretsinTollygunge,stirringthemuddywaterastheyhunted,werescrawnier.Neverasshapely,asregalasthis.

Hissatisfactionwasinwatching:itsbreastfeathersdroopingasitdippedits

headtowardthewater,asittookslowstridesonlong,backward-bentlegs.He wanted to sit in the car and watch as the bird stood there, staring out

toward the sea.Buton thenarrowdirt road,whichwasnormallyempty,acarapproached frombehind,wanting topass, forcingSubhash todriveon.By thetimehecircledback,thebirdwasgone.

Thenextafternoonhereturnedtothesamespot.Hewalkedalongtheedgeofthemarsh,searchingforthebird’soutline.Hestoodwatchingthehorizonasthelight turnedgoldenand the sunbegan to set.Hewondered if perhaps thebirdhad flown off for the season. Then suddenly he heard a harsh, repetitivecroaking.

Itwas theheron takingflightover thewater, itsgreatwingsbeatingslowlyanddeliberately,lookingatonceencumberedandfree.Itslongneckwastuckedin,darklegsdanglingbehind.Againsttheloweringskythesilhouettewasblack,thetipsofitsprimaryfeathersdistinct,theforkeddivisionofitstoes.

Hewentbackathirdday,butwasunabletoseeitanywhere.Forthefirsttimeinhislife,hefeltahelplesslove.

A new decade began: 1970. In winter, when the trees were naked, the stiffgroundcoveredwith snow,a second letter came fromUdayan, inanenvelopethistime.

Subhash tore it open and found a small black-and-white photograph of ayoungwoman,standing.Herslenderarmswerefoldedacrossherchest.

Shewasatease,alsoalittleskeptical.Herheadturnedpartlytooneside,herlipsclosedbutplayful,hersmileslightlyaskew.Herhairwasinabraid,drapedoverthefrontofoneshoulder.Hercomplexionwasdeep.

Shewascompellingwithoutbeingpretty.Nothinglikethedemuregirlsthathismother used to point out toUdayan and Subhash atweddings,when theywere incollege. Itwasacandidshot, somewhereon thestreetsofCalcutta, infrontofabuildinghedidnotrecognize.HewonderedifUdayanhadtakenthepicture.Ifhe’dinspiredtheplayfulexpressiononherface.

This is in lieu of a formal introduction, and it will be asformalanannouncementasyouwillget.Butit’stimethatyoumether.I’veknownherforacoupleofyears.Wekeptit quiet, but you know how it is. Her name is Gauri andshe’sfinishingadegreeinphilosophyatPresidency.AgirlfromNorthCalcutta, Cornwallis Street. Both her parents

aredead,sheliveswithherbrother—afriendofmine—andsomerelatives.Sheprefersbooks to jewelsandsaris.ShebelievesasIdo.

LikeChairmanMao, I reject the idea of an arrangedmarriage. It isone thing, Iadmit, that Iadmireabout theWest. And so I’ve married her. Don’t worry, apart fromrunningoffwithher there’sno scandal.You’renotaboutto be an uncle. Not yet, anyway. Too many children arevictimsofourdefectivesocialstructure.Thisneedsfirsttobefixed.

I wish you could have been here, but you didn’tmissany type of celebration. It was a civil registration. I toldMaandBabaafterthefact,asIamtellingyou.Itoldthem,either you accept her, and we return to Tollygungetogether,orweliveashusbandandwifesomewhereelse.

Theyare still in shock, upsetwithmeandalso fornoreasonwithGauri, but we’rewith them now, learning tolivewithoneanother.Theycan’tbeartotellyouwhatI’vedone.SoI’mtellingyoumyself.

At the end of the letter, he asked Subhash to buy a few books for Gauri,sayingthattheywouldbeeasiertofindintheStates.Don’tbotherputtingtheminthemail,they’llonlygetlostorstolen.Bringthemwithyou.Youwillshowuptocongratulatemeoneofthesedays,won’tyou?

Thistimehedidn’trereadtheletter.Oncewasenough.ThoughUdayan had a job, it was hardly enough to support himself, never

mindafamily.Hewasnotyet twenty-fiveyearsold.Thoughthehousewouldsoonbebigenough,toSubhashthedecisionfeltimpulsive,animpositiononhisparents,premature.AndhewaspuzzledthatUdayan,sodedicatedtohispolitics,soscornfulofconvention,wouldsuddenlytakeawife.

NotonlyhadUdayanmarriedbeforeSubhash,buthe’dmarriedawomanofhis choosing. On his own he’d taken a step that Subhash believed was theirparents’placetodecide.HerewasanotherexampleofUdayanforgingaheadofSubhash, of denying that he’d come second. Another example of getting his

way.ThebackofthephotographwasdatedinUdayan’shandwriting.Itwasfrom

overayearago,1968.Udayanhadgottentoknowherandfalleninlovewithherwhile Subhashwas still in Calcutta. All that time, Udayan had kept Gauri tohimself.

OncemoreSubhashdestroyedtheletter.Thephotographhekept,atthebackofoneofhistextbooks,asproofofwhatUdayanhaddone.

From time to time he drew out the picture and looked at it. He wonderedwhenhewouldmeetGauri,andwhathewouldthinkofher,nowthattheywereconnected.AndpartofhimfeltdefeatedbyUdayanalloveragain, forhavingfoundagirllikethat.

PartII

Chapter1

Normallyshestayedonthebalcony,reading,orkepttoanadjacentroomasherbrother and Udayan studied and smoked and drank cups of tea. Manash hadbefriendedhimatCalcuttaUniversity,wheretheywerebothgraduatestudentsinthephysicsdepartment.MuchofthetimetheirbooksonthebehaviorsofliquidsandgaseswouldsitignoredastheytalkedabouttherepercussionsofNaxalbari,andcommentedontheday’sevents.

The discussions strayed to the insurgencies in Indochina and in LatinAmerican countries. In the case of Cuba it wasn’t even a mass movement,Udayanpointedout.Justasmallgroup,attackingtherighttargets.

All over the world students were gaining momentum, standing up toexploitativesystems.ItwasanotherexampleofNewton’ssecondlawofmotion,hejoked.Forceequalsmasstimesacceleration.

Manashwasskeptical.Whatcouldthey,urbanstudents,claimtoknowaboutpeasantlife?

Nothing,Udayansaid.Weneedtolearnfromthem.Throughanopendoorwayshesawhim.Tallbutslightofbuild,twenty-three

but lookingabitolder.His clothinghungonhim loosely.HeworekurtasbutalsoEuropean-style shirts, irreverently, the topportionunbuttoned, thebottomuntucked,thesleevesrolledbackpasttheelbow.

Hesatintheroomwheretheylistenedtotheradio.Onthebedthatservedasasofawhere,atnight,Gaurislept.Hisarmswerelean,hisfingerstoolongforthesmallporcelaincupsofteaherfamilyservedhim,whichhedrainedinjustafewgulps.Hishairwaswavy,thebrowsthick,theeyeslanguidanddark.

Hishandsseemedanextensionofhisvoice,alwaysinmotion,embellishingthe things he said. Even as he argued he smiled easily. His upper teethoverlappedslightly,asiftherewereonetoomanyofthem.Fromthebeginning,theattractionwasthere.

HeneversaidanythingtoGauriifshehappenedtobrushby.Neverglancing,never acknowledging that she wasManash’s younger sister, until the day thehouseboywasoutonanerrand,andManashaskedGauriifshemindedmakingthemsometea.

Shecouldnotfindatraytoputtheteacupson.Shecarriedthemin,nudging

openthedoortotheroomwithhershoulder.Lookingupatheraninstantlongerthanheneededto,Udayantookhiscupfromherhands.

The groove between his mouth and nose was deep. Clean-shaven. Stilllookingather,heposedhisfirstquestion.

Wheredoyoustudy?heasked.

BecauseshewenttoPresidency,andCalcuttaUniversitywasjustnextdoor,shesearchedforhimon thequadrangle,andamong thebookstalls,at the tablesoftheCoffeeHouseifshewenttherewithagroupoffriends.Somethingtoldherhedidnotgotohisclassesasregularlyasshedid.Shebegantowatchforhimfrom the generous balcony that wrapped around the two sides of hergrandparents’flat,overlookingtheintersectionwhereCornwallisStreetbegan.Itbecamesomethingforhertodo.

Thenonedayshespottedhim,amazedthatsheknewwhichofthehundredsofdarkheadswashis.Hewasstandingontheoppositecorner,buyingapacketof cigarettes. Then he was crossing the street, a cotton book bag over hisshoulder,glancingbothways,walkingtowardtheirflat.

Shecrouchedbelowthefiligree,undertheclothesdryingontheline,worriedthat he would look up and see her. Two minutes later she heard footstepsclimbingthestairwell,andthentherattleoftheironknockeronthedooroftheflat.Sheheardthedoorbeingopened,thehouseboylettinghimin.

It was an afternoon everyone, includingManash, happened to be out, andshe’dbeen reading,alone.Shewondered ifhe’d turnback,given thatManashwasn’tthere.Instead,amomentlater,hesteppedoutontothebalcony.

Nooneelsehere?heasked.Sheshookherhead.Willyoutalktome,then?Thelaundrywasdamp,someofherpetticoatsandblouseswereclippedtothe

line.Thematerialoftheblouseswastailoredtotheshapeofheruppertorso,herbreasts.Heunclippedoneoftheblousesandputitfurtherdownthelinetomakeroom.

He did this slowly, amild tremor in his fingers forcing him to focusmorethananotherpersonmightonthetask.Standingbesidehim,shewasawareofhisheight,theslightstoopinhisshoulders,theangleatwhichheheldhisface.Hestruckamatchagainst the sideof aboxand lit a cigarette, cuppinghiswholehand over his mouth when he drew the cigarette to his lips. The houseboybroughtoutbiscuitsandtea.

Theyoverlookedtheintersection,fromfourflightsabove.Theystoodbesideone another, both of them leaning into the railing. Together they took in thestone buildings,with their decrepit grandeur, that lined the streets. Their tiredcolumns,theircrumblingcornices,theirsulliedshades.

Herfacewassupportedbythediscreetbarrierofherhand.Hisarmhungoverthe edge, the burning cigarette was in his fingers. The sleeves of his Punjabiwere rolled up, exposing the veins running from hiswrist to the crook of theelbow. Theywere prominent, the blood in them greenish gray, like a pointedarchwaybelowtheskin.

Therewas something elemental about somany human beings inmotion atonce: walking, sitting in busses and trams, pulling or being pulled along inrickshaws.Ontheothersideofthestreetwereafewgoldandsilvershopsallina row, with mirrored walls and ceilings. Always crowded with families,endlessly reflected, placing orders for wedding jewels. There was the presswheretheytookclothestobeironed.ThestorewhereGauriboughtherink,hernotebooks.Narrowsweet shops,where traysofconfectionswere studdedwithflies.

Thepaanwallahsatcross-leggedatonecorner,underabarebulb,spreadingwhitelimepasteonstacksofbetelleaves.Atrafficconstablestoodatthecenter,in his helmet, on his little box. Blowing a whistle andwaving his arms. Theclamorofsomanymotors,ofsomanyscootersandlorriesandbussesandcars,filledtheirears.

Ilikethisview,hesaid.She’dobservedtheworld,shetoldhim,alloflife,fromthisbalcony.Political

processions,governmentparades,visitingdignitaries.Themomentousstreamofvehicles thatstartedeachdayatdawn.Thecity’spoetsandwriterspassingbyafter death, their corpses concealed by flowers. Pedestrianswading knee-deepthroughthestreets,duringthemonsoon.

In autumn came the effigies of Durga, and in winter, Saraswati. Theirmajestic clay forms were welcomed into the city as dhak were beaten, astrumpetsplayed.Theywereusheredinonthebacksoftrucks,thencarriedawayattheendoftheholidaystobeimmersedintheriver.Thesedaysstudentsweremarching up from College Street. Groups in solidarity with the uprising atNaxalbari,carryingflagsandplacards,raisingtheirfistsintheair.

He noticed the folding chair onwhich she’d been sitting. It had a saggingpieceofstripedfabric,likeasling,foraseat.Abookwasneglectedbesideit.AvolumeofDescartes’sMeditationsonFirstPhilosophy.Hepickeditup.

Youreadhere,withallthisgoingby?

Ithelpsmetoconcentrate,shesaid.Shewas used to the noise as she studied, as she slept; it was the ongoing

accompaniment to her life, her thoughts, the constant dinmore soothing thansilencewouldhavebeen.Indoors,withnoroomofherown,itwasharder.Butthebalconyhadalwaysbeenherplace.

Whenshewasalittlegirl,shetoldhim,shewouldsometimesstumbleoutofbedduring thenight,andhergrandparentswouldfindher in themorning, fastasleepon thebalcony,her faceagainst theblackened filigree,herbodyon thestonefloor.Deaftothetrafficthatrumbledpast.Shehadlovedwakingupout-of-doors,withouttheprotectionofwallsandaceiling.Thefirsttime,seeingthatshewasmissingfromthebed,theythoughtshehaddisappeared.Theyhadsentpeopledowntothestreettosearchforher,shoutinghername.

And?Udayanasked.TheydiscoveredthatIwashere,stillsleeping.Didyourgrandparentsforbidyoufromdoingitagain?No.Aslongasitwasn’ttoocoldorraining,theyleftalittlequiltoutforme.Sothisisyourbodhitree,whereyouachieveenlightenment.Sheshrugged.Hiseyesfelltothepagesshe’dbeenreading.WhatdoesMr.Descartestellusabouttheworld?She told him what she knew. About the limits of perception and the

experiment with a piece of wax. Held up to heat, the essence of the waxremained,evenas itsphysicalaspectchanged.Itwas themind,not thesenses,thatwasabletoperceivethis,shesaid.

Thinkingissuperiortoseeing?ForDescartes,yes.HaveyoureadanyMarx?Alittle.Whydoyoustudyphilosophy?Ithelpsmetounderstandthings.Butwhatmakesitrelevant?Platosaysthepurposeofphilosophyistoteachushowtodie.There’snothingtolearnunlesswe’reliving.Indeathwe’reequal.Ithasthat

advantageoverlife.Hehandedthebookbacktoher,closingitsothathecausedhertoloseher

place.Andnowadegreehasbecomemeaninglessinthiscountry.

You’regettingamaster’sinphysics,shepointedout.Myparentsexpectmeto.Itdoesn’tmattertome.Whatmatterstoyou?Helookeddownatthestreet,gesturing.Thisimpossiblecityofours.He changed the subject, asking about the others who lived with her and

Manash: two uncles, their wives, two sets of children. Her maternalgrandparents,whohadonceownedtheflat,weredead,aswereherownparents.Herolder sisters livedelsewhere, scatteredhereand there,now that theyweremarried.

Youallgrewuphere?She shook her head. There had been various homes in East Bengal, in

Khulna,inFaridpur,whereherparentsandsistershadoncelived.Herfatherwasadistrictjudge,andherparentsandhersistershadmovedeveryfewyearsfromplacetoplace,tobeautifulbungalowspaidforbythegovernment,inprettypartsofthecountryside.Thehouseshadcomewithcooks,servantswho’dopenedthedoors.

Manashwas born into one of these homes.Hebarely remembered, but hersisters still spoke of that phase of their upbringing, their shared past. Theteacherswhowould come togive themdance and singing lessons, themarbletables onwhich they atemeals, the broad verandahs onwhich they played, aseparateroominthehousethatwasjustfortheirdolls.

In1946thosepostingsended,andthefamilycamebacktoCalcutta.Butaftera fewmonths her father said he did notwant to live out his retirement there.Aftera lifetimeoutside it,hehadnopatience forcity life, especiallywhen itspeoplewerebutcheringeachother,whenentireneighborhoodsweregoingupinflames.

Onemorningduringtheriots,fromthesamebalconyGauriandUdayanwerestanding on now, her parents had witnessed a scene: a mob surrounding theMuslim man who delivered their milk on his bicycle. The mob was seekingrevenge; itwasreported thatacousinof themilkmanhadbeen involved inanattackonHindusinsomeotherpartofthecity.TheywatchedoneoftheHindusplungeaknifeintotheribsofthemilkman.Theysawthemilkthefamilywouldhavedrunkthatdayspillingontothestreet,turningpinkwithhisblood.

So thefamilymovedtoavillagewestofCalcutta,a fewhoursaway. Inanuneventful place, removed from their relatives, protected from turmoil, herparentspreferred toestablish their finaldomain.Therewasapond to fishandwadein,chickensfortheireggs,agardenherfatherlikedtotend.Nothingbutfarmland,dirtroads,skyandtrees.Theclosestmovietheatrewastwentymiles

away. A fair brought booksellers once a year. The darkness at night wasabsolute.

By the timeGauriwas born, in 1948, hermotherwas already preoccupiedwith settling themarriages of her older sisters.Her sisters belonged almost toanothergeneration:teenagedgirlswhenshewasaninfant,youngwomenwhenshewasachild.Shewasanaunttochildrenherownage.

Howlongdidyouliveinthecountryside?UntilIwasfive.Hermotherwas bedridden around that time. She’d had tuberculosis in her

spine.Gauri’soldersistershadbeenuseful,helpingwithhouseholdchores,butsheandManashwereonlyacomplication.Sotheyweresentawaytothecity,caredforbytheirgrandparents,inthecompanyoftheirauntsanduncles.

After her mother was on her feet again they had stayed on. Manash hadenrolledatCalcuttaBoys’School,andGaurididn’twanttobewithoutManash.Whenitwasherturntostartschool,giventhatthecity’sschoolswerebetter,itmadesenseforhertoremain.

Therehadalwaysbeentheoptiontoreturntoherparents’village.Butthoughshevisited,takingthetraintoseethemforholidays,rurallifeheldnoappealforher.Shedidn’tthinksheresentedherparentsfornotraisingher.Itwasthewayofmanylargefamilies,andconsideringthecircumstances,itwasnotsostrange.Really,sheappreciatedthemforlettinghergoherownway.

Thatwastheirgifttoyou,Udayansaid.Autonomy.Amotoraccidentonamountainroadhadkilledthem.Theyweretravelingin

badweathertoahillstation,forachangeofscene.Gaurihadbeensixteen.Thehousewassold,notraceofherfamilyinthatquietplaceremained.Itwasablowto lose them suddenly, but her grandparents’ deaths, more recently, hadsaddenedhermore.She’dgrownupintheirhome,sleptonabedbetweenthem.She’d seen them day after day, watched them turn ill and frail. It was hergrandfather,who’dbeenaprofessorattheSanskritCollege,who’ddiedwithabookonhischest,who’dinspiredhertostudywhatshedid.

Shesawthattheunremarkablejourneyofherlifethusfarwasfascinatingtohim:herbirthinthecountryside,herwillingnesstoliveapartfromherparents,herestrangementfrommostofherfamily,herindependenceinthisregard.

He lit anothercigarette.He toldherhischildhoodwasdifferent.Therewasonlyhimselfandabrother.Ithadbeenonlythetwoofthemandtheirparents,inahouseinTollygunge.

Whatdoesyourbrotherdo?HetalksthesedaysofgoingtoAmerica.

Willyougo,too?No.Heturnedtolookather.Andyou?Willyoumissallthis,whenyouget

married?Shesawthathismouthneverfullyclosed,thattherewasadiamond-shaped

apertureatthecenter.I’mnotgettingmarried.Yourrelativesdon’tpressureyou?I’mnottheirresponsibility.Theyhavetheirownchildrentoworryabout.Whatwouldyoudoinstead?Icouldteachphilosophyatacollegeoraschool.Andstayhere?Whynot?That’sgood.Foryou, Imean.Whyshouldyou leaveaplaceyou love,and

stopdoingwhatyoulovetodo,forthesakeofaman?Hewas flirtingwithher.She felthim forminganopinionevenashe stood

therelookingather,talkingtoher.Anaspectofher,inhismind,thathealreadypossessed.He’dpluckedit fromherwithoutpermission,a transactionnoothermanhadattempted,onethatshecouldnotobjectto,becauseitwashim.

Afteramoment,pointingtowardtheintersection,hesaid:Ifyoumarriedsomeonewholivedononeoftheseotherthreecorners,ifyou

onlyhadtomovetooneoftheotherbalconies,woulditbeallrightthen?Shecouldn’thelpherself;shesmiledatthis,atfirsthidingthesmilewithher

hand.Thenlaughing,lookingaway.

Theybeganmeetingathiscampus,andathers.Butnow,evenwhentheyhadn’tarrangedameeting, theykeptrunningintoeachother.Hewouldwalk throughthegatesovertoPresidency,watchingasshecamedownthegreatstaircaseafteraclass.Theysatalongtheportico,drapedwithbannerstheStudents’Unionputup.Whenspeechesweredeliveredonthequadrangle,aboutthecontinuingrisein food prices, about the growing population, about the shortage of jobs, theylistened to them together. When marches sprouted along College Street, hebroughtheralong.

He started giving her things to read. From the bookstalls he bought herMarx’s Manifesto, and Rousseau’s Confessions. Felix Greene’s book onVietnam.

Shesawthatsheimpressedhim,notonlybyreadingwhathegaveher,butbytalking to him about it. They exchanged opinions about the limits of political

freedom, and whether freedom and power meant the same thing. Aboutindividualism,leadingtohierarchies.Aboutwhatsocietyhappenedtobeatthemoment,andwhatitmightbecome.

She felt her mind sharpening, focusing. Wrestling with the concretemechanisms of theworld, instead of doubting its existence. She felt closer toUdayanonthedaysshedidnotseehim,thinkingaboutthethingsthatmatteredtohim.

AtfirsttheytriedtokeepthingsasecretfromManash,onlytofindoutthatManash had been quietly plotting it; that he’d been certain the two of themwould get along. He made it easier for Gauri to spend time with Udayan,explainingawaytotherestofthefamilywhereshe’dgone.

Theirpartingswereabrupt, theattentionhepaidhersuddenlycoming toanend because there was somewhere he had to go. Some meeting, some studysession,heneverfullyexplained.Heneverlookedbackatherbutalwayspausedin a spot where she was sure to see him, raising his hand in farewell beforecuppingit tolightacigarette,andthenshewatchedhislonglegscarryinghimawayfromher,acrosscampus,oracrossthewideandbusystreet.

Hetalkedsometimesabouttraveling,goingtooneofthevillageswhereshemighthavebeen raisedhad shenot fled.Where afterNaxalbari, shegathered,lifewasnotsoquietanymore.

Hewanted toseemoreof India,hesaid, thewayChehad traveled throughSouth America. Hewanted to understand the circumstances of its people. HewantedtoseeChinaoneday.

HementionedcertainfriendswhohadalreadyleftCalcutta,toliveamongthepeasants.Would you understand, if I ever needed to do something like that?Udayanaskedher.

She was aware that he was testing her. That he would lose respect if sheturnedsentimental,ifshewasunwillingtofacecertainrisks.Andso,thoughshedidnotwanthimtobeawayfromher,didnotwantanyharmtocometohim,shetoldhimthatshewould.

Withouthimshewasremindedofherselfagain.Apersonmostateasewithherbooks,spendingafternoonsfillinghernotebooksin thecoolhigh-ceilingedreadingroomofPresidency’slibrary.ButthiswasapersonshewasbeginningtoquestionaftermeetingUdayan.ApersonthatUdayan,withhisunsteadyfingers,was firmlypushingaside,wipingclean.So that shebegan to seeherselfmoreclearly,asathinfilmofdustwaswipedfromasheetofglass.

In childhood, aware of her accidental arrival, she had not knownwho shewas,whereortowhomshe’dbelonged.WiththeexceptionofManashshehad

notbeenabletodefineherselfinrelationtohersiblings,nortoseeherselfasapartofthem.Shehadnomemoryofspendingamoment,eveninahouseinsuchanisolatedplace,ever,alonewithhermotherorfather.Alwaysattheendofaqueue, in theshadowofothers,shebelievedshewasnotsignificantenoughtocastashadowofherown.

Aroundmenshe’dfeltinvisible.Sheknewshewasnotthetypetheyturnedtolookatonthestreet,ortonoticeacrosstheroomatacousin’swedding.She’dnotbeenaskedafterandmarriedoffafewmonthslater,assomeofhersistershadbeen.Shewasadisappointmenttoherself,inthisregard.

Aside from her complexion, deep enough to be considered a flaw, perhapstherewasnothingwrongwithher.Andyet,whenever she stopped toconsiderwhatmadeherappearancedistinctive, sheobjected to it, thinking theshapeofherfacewastoolong,thatherfeaturesweretoosevere.Wishingshecouldalterherself,believingthatanyotherfacewouldhavebeenpreferable.

But Udayan regarded her as if no other woman in the city existed. Gaurineverdoubted,whentheyweretogether, thatshehadaneffectonhim.That itexcited him to stand beside her, turning his face toward her, his gaze neverwavering. He noticed the day she switched the parting in her hair, saying itsuitedher.

Oneday,insideoneofthebookshe’dgivenher,therewasanoteaskinghertomeethimatthecinema.Amatineeshowing—ahallclosetoParkStreet.

Shewasafraidtogo,afraidnotto.Itwasonethingtofallintoconversationswith him on the portico, or at the Coffee House, or to walk over to CollegeSquare towatch theswimmers in thepool.Theyhadnotyetstrayedfromthatimmediateneighborhood,wheretheyweresimplyfellowstudents,whereitwasalwaysreasonableforthemtobe.

Theafternoonof thefilmshehesitated,andsheendedupbeingso late thatshedidn’tarriveuntiltheinterval,flustered,worriedthathe’dchangedhismindorhadgivenuponher,almostdaringhimtodothis.Buthehaddaredher,too,toshowup.

Hewasthere,outsidethetheatre,smokingacigarette,standingapartfromthegroups of people already discussing the first part of the film. The sun wasbeatingdownandheliftedhishandassheapproached,anglinghisheadtowardher face, forming a little canopy over their heads. The gesture made her feelalone with him, sheltered in that great crowd. Distinct from the pedestrians,afloatonthecity’sswell.

Shesawnosignofirritationorimpatienceinhisexpressionwhenhespotted

her.Shesawonlyhispleasureinseeingher.Asifheknewshewouldcome;asif he knew, even, that shewoulddeliberate, andbe as ridiculously late as shewas.Whensheaskedwhathadhappenedinthefilmsofar,heshookhishead.

Idon’tknow,hesaid,handinghertheticket.He’dbeenstandingthereallthewhileonthesidewalk,waitingforher.Waiting,untiltheywereinthedarknessofthetheatre,totakeherhand.

Chapter2

In the second year of his Ph.D. Subhash lived on his own, now thatRichard,who’dfoundateachingjobinChicago,wasgone.

In thespringsemester, for threeweeks,heboardedaresearchvesselwithagroupofstudentsandprofessors.Astheshippulledaway, thewatercleavedafoamingtrailthatvanishedevenasitwasbeingformed.Theshorelinereceded,restingcalmlylikeathinbrownsnakeuponthewater.Hesawtheearth’smassshrinking,turningfaint.

Underthesun’sglare,astheypickedupspeed,hefeltthewind’smotiononhis face, thewild turbulenceof theatmosphere.Theydockedfirst inBuzzardsBay.AbargehadhitrocksoffthecoastofFalmouthtwoyearsbefore,runningagroundonafoggynight,spillingnearlytwohundredthousandgallonsoffueloil.ThewindhadpusheditintoWildHarbor.Thehydrocarbonshadkilledoffthemarshgrass.Fiddlercrabs,unabletoburythemselves,hadfrozeninplace.

They lowered nets for trawling fish and coffee cans for sampling thesediment.Theylearnedthatthecontaminationcouldpersistindefinitely.

TheycontinuedontosurveyGeorgesBank,wherethephytoplanktonwasinbloom,thepopulationofdiatomsexplodingingreatswirlsofpeacockblue.Butoncloudydaystheoceanlookedopaque,asdarkastar.

He watched the life that circled the ship, gannets with creamy heads andblack-and-whitewings,dolphinsthatleapedinpairs.Humpbackwhalesspoutedmistsas theybreathed,playfullybreaching in thewater, sometimes swimmingbeneaththeshipwithoutdisturbingit,emergingontheotherside.

SailingevenslightlyeastremindedSubhashofhowfarawayhewasfromhisfamily.Hethoughtofthetimeittooktocrossevenatinyportionoftheearth’ssurface.

Isolatedon the shipwith the scientists andother students and crew, he feltdoublyalone.Unabletofathomhisfuture,severedfromhispast.

Forayearandahalfhehadnotseenhisfamily.Notsatdownwiththem,atthe end of the day, to share ameal. In Tollygunge his family did not have aphoneline.He’dsentatelegramtoletthemknowhe’darrived.Hewaslearningtolivewithouthearingtheirvoices,toreceivenewsofthemonlyinwriting.

Udayan’s lettersno longer referred toNaxalbari,orendedwithslogans.He

didn’tmention politics at all. Instead hewrote about football scores, or aboutthisor that in theneighborhood—acertainstoreclosingdown,afamilythey’dknownmovingaway.ThelatestfilmbyMrinalSen.

HeaskedSubhashhowhisstudiesweregoing,andhowhespenthisdaysinRhode Island. He wanted to know when Subhash would return to Calcutta,askinghim,inoneoftheletters,ifheplannedtogetmarried.

Subhashsavedafewoftheseletters,sinceitnolongerseemednecessarytothrowthemaway.Buttheirblandnesspuzzledhim.Thoughthehandwritingwasthe same, it was almost as if they’d been written by a different person. HewonderedwhatwashappeninginCalcutta,whatUdayanmightbemasking.Hewonderedhowheandhisparentsweregettingalong.

Letters from his parents referred only obliquely to Gauri, and only as anexampleofwhatnottodo.Wehope,whenthetimecomes,youwilltrustustosettle your future, to choose yourwifeand tobepresentat yourwedding.Wehopeyouwillnotdisregardourwishes,asyourbrotherdid.

Hereplied,reassuringhismotherandfatherthathismarriagewasuptothemtoarrange.Hesentaportionofhisstipendtohelppayfortheworkonthehouse,andwrote thathewaseager to see them.Andyet,dayafterday, cutoff fromthem,heignoredthem.

Udayanwasnot alone; he’d remained inTollygunge, attached to theplace,the way of life he’d always known. He’d provoked his parents but was stillprotected by them. The only difference was that he was married, and thatSubhash was missing. And Subhash wondered if the girl, Gauri, had alreadyreplacedhim.

•••

Onecloudydayinsummerhewentdowntothebeachatthefootofthecampus.Atfirsthesawnoonethereapartfromafishermancastingforscupatthetipofthejetty.Nothingbutshallowwavesbreakingoverthegray-and-yellowstones.Thenhenoticedawomanwalking,withachildandajet-blackdog.

Thewomanwas locating sticks on the sand and throwing them to the dog.She wore tennis sneakers without socks, a rubber rain slicker. A cotton skirtbillowedoutaroundherknees.

The boy was holding a bucket, and Subhash watched as they untied theirsneakersandwanderedovertherocksintothetidepools.Theywerelookingforstarfish.Theboywasfrustrated,complainingthathecouldnotfindany.

Subhash rolleduphispants.He removedhis shoes andwaded in, knowing

wheretheyhid.Hepriedoneoffarock,andallowedittorest,stiffbutalive,inhishand.Heturnedhiswristtorevealtheunderside,pointingtotheeyespotsatthetipsofthearms.

DoyouknowwhatwillhappenifIputitforamomentonyourarm?Theboyshookhishead.Itwillpulloffthelittlehairsonyourskin.Doesithurt?Notreally.Letmeshowyou.Wherehaveyoucomefrom?thewomanaskedhim.Herfacewasplainbutappealing,thepaleblueofhereyesliketheliningofa

musselshell.ShelookedabitolderthanSubhash.Herhairwaslong,darkblond,marshgrassinwinter.

India.Calcutta.Thismustbeprettydifferent.Itis.Doyoulikeithere?Noonehadaskedhimthis,untilnow.Helookedoutatthewater,atthesteel

piles of the two bridges stretching across the bay: the lower, cantileveredcenterpiece of the first, and the soaring steel towers of the second. ThesymmetricalriseandfalloftheNewportBridge,recentlycompleted,hadarchedportalsandcablesthatwouldlightupatnight.

He had learned from one of his professors about the bridge’s construction.End toend,hewas told, thewiresofall thesuspendedcableswouldspan justovereight thousandmiles. Itwas thedistancebetweenAmericaand India; thedistancethatnowseparatedhimfromhisfamily.

He saw the small, squared-off lighthouse, with three windows, like threebuttonson theplacketof a shirt, that stoodatDutch Island’s tip.Therewasawoodenpierthatendedwithacoveredhut,whereboatsweremoored,juttingoutatoneendof thebeach.Afewsailboatswereout, specksofwhiteagainst thenavysea.

TherearetimesIthinkIhavediscoveredthemostbeautifulplaceonearth,hesaid.

Hedidn’tbelong,butperhaps itdidn’tmatter.Hewantedto tellher thathehadbeenwaitingallhislifetofindRhodeIsland.Thatitwashere,inthisminutebutmajesticcorneroftheworld,thathecouldbreathe.

HernamewasHolly.Theboy,Joshua,wasnine,andhissummervacationhad

justbegun.Thedog’snamewasChester.TheylivedinMatunuck,closetooneofthesaltponds.Theycametothecampusbeacheverysooftentowalkthedog.They’dgottentoknowitbecauseawomanwhowaslookingafterJoshua,onthedays Holly worked as a nurse at a small hospital in East Greenwich, livednearby.

Shedidn’tmentionwhatherhusbanddid.ButJoshuahadreferredtohiminthe course of the afternoon, askingHolly if his father was going to take himfishing thatweekend.Subhashsupposedheworkedatanofficeat that timeofday.

ThenexttimehenoticedHolly’scarparkedinthelotheventuredouttosayhello.Sheseemedpleasedtoseehim,wavingfromadistance,Chesterboundingaheadofher,Joshuatrailingbehind.

Theybeganwalkingtogether,loosely,astheytalked,upanddowntheshortbeach. Seaweed was strewn everywhere, rockweed with air bladders liketexturedorangegrapes, lonelyscrapsofsea lettuce, tanglednestsofrustykelpcaughtinthewaves.AjellyfishhaddriftedupfromtheCaribbean,spreadlikeaflattenedchrysanthemumonthehardsand.

When he asked her about her background, she said she had been born inMassachusetts,thatherfamilywasFrenchCanadian,thatshehadlivedinRhodeIslandmostofherlife.She’dstudiednursingattheuniversity.Sheaskedabouthis studies there, and he explained that after his course work there was acomprehensiveexamtostudyfor,thenanoriginalpieceofresearchtoconduct,adissertationtosubmit.

Howlongwillallthattake?Anotherthreeyears.Maybemore.Holly knew all about the seabirds. She told him how to distinguish

buffleheadsandpintails,gullsandterns.Shepointedtothesandpiperssprintingto thewater’s edgeandback.Whenhedescribed theheronhe’d seenhis firstautumninRhodeIsland,shetoldhimithadbeenajuvenilegreatbluewithoutitsplumes.

Goingtohercartofetchbinoculars,sheshowedhimhowtomagnifyagroupofmergansers,beatingtheirwingsinasteadfastdirectionoverthebay.

Doyouknowwhatthebabyploversdo?No.They group themselves in the sky because the adults keep calling to each

other.TheyflyallthewayfromNovaScotiatoBrazil,restingonlyoccasionallyonthewaves.

Theysleeponthesea?

Theynavigatetheworldbetterthanwecan.Asifcompasseswerebuiltintotheirbrains.

She was curious about birds in India, and so he described those that shewould not have seen.Mynas that nested in thewalls of buildings, kokils thatcriedthroughoutthecityatthestartofspring.SpottedowletshootingattwilightinTollygunge,tearingapartgeckoesandmice.

Andyou?sheasked.WillyoureturntoCalcuttawhenyoufinish?IfIcanfindworkthere.Forshewasright;itwasassumed,byhisfamily,byhimself,thathislifehere

wastemporary.Whatdoyoumissaboutit?It’swhereIwasmade.Hetoldherhehadparents,abrotherwhowasslightlyyounger.Hetoldher

hehadasister-in-lawnow,awomanhehadyettomeet.Wheredoyourbrotherandhiswifelive,nowthatthey’remarried?Withmyparents.Heexplainedthatdaughtersjoinedtheirin-lawsaftertheymarried,andsons

stayedathome.Thatgenerationsdidn’tseparateastheydidhere.HeknewthatitwasimpossibleforHolly,probablyforanyAmericanwoman,

toimaginethatlife.Butsheconsideredwhathe’ddescribed.Itsoundsbetter,inaway.

OneafternoonHollyspreadabedcover,unpackingcheesesandwiches,sticksofcucumberandcarrot,almondsandslicedfruit.Shesharedthissimplefoodwithhim, and because the light lingered, it became their dinner. In the course ofconversation,whileJoshuawasplayingatadistancefromthem,shementionedthatsheandJoshua’sfatherlivedseparately.Thishadbeenthecasefornearlyayear.

She looked out at the water, her legs folded, her knees bent, her fingersclasped loosely around them.Herhairwas like a schoolgirl’s that day, in twobraidsthattrailedoverhershoulders.

He didn’t want to pry. But without his having to ask she said, He’s withanotherwomannow.

Heunderstoodthatshewasmakingsomethingcleartohim.Thatthoughshewasamother,shebelongedtonooneelse.

ItwasthepresenceofJoshua,alwayswiththem,alwaysbetweenthem,thatcontinued tomotivatehim to seekHollyout. It kept their friendship in check.

Underthebroadsky,onthebeachwithher,hismindemptied.Untilnowhehadworkedthrougheveningsandweekendswithoutabreak.Asifhisparentswerewatchinghim,monitoringhisprogress,andhewasprovingtothemthathewasnotwastinghistime.

Oneparticularlywarmday,whensheworeasheerbutton-downshirt,hesawthecontourofonesideofherbody.Thecurveofherunderarm.

Whensheunbuttonedhershirtandremovedit,revealingthebathingsuittopsheworeunderneath,hesawthatherstomachwassoft.Herroundedbreasts,setwide apart, faced slightly away fromone another.Her shoulderswere spottedwithfrecklesfrommanysummersinthesun.

She lay out on the beachwhile he playedwith Joshua at thewater’s edge.Joshua called him Subhash, just as Holly did. He was a mild-tempered boy,speakingonlywhenspokento,drawntoSubhashbutalsosuspiciousofhim.

Theyformedatentativebond,skippingstones,andplayingwithChester,whoprancedintothewatertowashhimself,shakingoffhisfur,boundingbackwithatennisballinhisteeth.Hollylaywatchingthemthroughhersunglasses,lyingonherstomach,sometimesclosinghereyes,nappingalittle.

When Subhash came back to her, to dry off his quickly tanning skin, sheneither lifted her eyes from the book shewas reading normoved away as hesettledhimselfbesideherontheblanket,closeenoughfor theirbareshouldersnearlytotouch.

Hewasawareof thegreatchasms that separated them. Itwasnotonly thatshewasAmerican,and that shewasprobably tenyearsolder thanhewas.Hewastwenty-seven,andheguessedshewasaboutthirty-five.Itwasthatshehadalready fallen in love, and been married, and had a child, and had her heartbroken.Hehadyettoexperienceanyofthosethings.

Thenoneafternoon,goingdowntomeether,hesawthatJoshuawasnotthere.ItwasaFriday,andtheboywouldbespendingthenightwithhisfather.ItwasimportantforJoshuatocontinuetohavecontactwithhim,shesaid.

It disturbed Subhash to think ofHolly speaking to Joshua’s father,makingthis plan.Behaving reasonably toward amanwho had hurt her. Perhaps evenseeinghim,inthecourseofdroppingJoshuaoff.

When a light rain began to fall soon after the blanket was spread, Hollyinvitedhimtojoinherfordinneratherhome.Shesaidtherewassomestewinthe refrigerator that would be enough for them both. And he accepted, notwantingtopartfromher.

AstherainturnedsteadierhefollowedhertowardMatunuckinRichard’scar.

Hestill thoughtof it thatway,even though,whenRichardmoved toChicago,Subhashhadboughtthecarfromhim.

Afterthehighwaythelandscapeturnedflatterandemptier.Hedrovedownadirtroadlinedwithbulrushes.Thenhearrivedat therestrainedpaletteofsandandseaandsky.

Hepulledbehindher into thedriveway,bleachedshellscracklingunder thetires as he slowed to a stop. The back of the cottage overlooked a salt pond.Therewasnolawnatthefront,justabitofslantedfencing,boundtogetherbyrustedwire.Hereandtherewereothersingle-storycottages,plainlybuilt.

Why are the windows boarded up? he asked, noticing the house that wasclosesttohers.

Incaseofstorms.Noone’slivinginthatonenow.Hegazedattheotherhomesthatwerevisible,allofthemfacingthesea.Who

ownsthese?Richpeople.TheycomedownfromBostonorProvidenceontheweekends,

nowthatit’ssummer.Somestayaweekortwo.They’llallbegonebyfall.Noonerentsthem,whenthey’reempty?Sometimesstudentsdo,becausethey’recheap.InspringIwastheonlyone

outhere.Holly’scottagewastiny:akitchenandasittingareaatthefront,abathroom

andtwobedroomsattheback,theceilingslow.Eventhehomehe’dgrownupinhadfeltmorespacious.She’dopenedthedoorwithoutinsertingakey.

The radio was on, reporting the weather as they walked through the door.Showers that eveningwouldbeheavy at times.Chester greeted themwithhisbarking,wagginghistailandpressinghisbodyagainsttheirlegs.

Didyou forget to shut it off? he askedher, as she turneddown the radio’svolume.

Ikeepiton.Ihatecomingbacktoaquiethouse.He remembered the shortwave radio that he andUdayan had put together,

drawing information from all over the world to another isolated place. Herealized that in some senseHollywasmore alone than hewas.Her isolation,withoutahusband,withoutneighborsaroundher,seemedsevere.

Theroofofthecottagewasasthinasamembrane,thepeltingsoundoftherainlikeanavalancheofgravel.Sandwaseverywhere,betweenthecushionsofthesofa,onthefloor,ontheroundcarpetinfrontofthefireplacewhereChesterlikedtosit.

Hastily she swept it out, just as the dust was swept out twice a day in

Calcutta,thenshutthewindows.Themantelabovethefireplacewaspiledwithstonesandshells,piecesofdriftwood; thereseemedtobe littleelsedecoratingthehouse.

Helookedoutthewindow,seeingtheoceancoveredwithstormclouds, thedarksandatthewater’sedge.

Whybothergoingtothecampusbeach,whenyouhavethis?It’sachangeofscene.Ilovearrivingatthebottomofthathill.Shebusiedherselfinthekitchen.Shewasturningontheoven,fillingthesink

withwater,soakinglettuceleaves.Willyougetafirestarted?Hewenttothefireplaceandlookedatit.Therewerelogstooneside,asetof

iron tools. Some ashes within. He removed the screen. He noticed a book ofmatchesontopofthemantel.

Let me show you, she said, already next to him before he needed to turnaroundandask.

She opened a vent that was inside, then arranged the logs and the thinnersticks.Handinghimoneofthetools,shetoldhimtonudgethemtogetheraftertheflamewas lit.Hesatmonitoring thefire,butshehad lit itperfectly.Therewas nothing to do other than allow it to warm his face and hands as Hollypreparedthemeal.

HewonderedifthiswaswhereshehadlivedwithJoshua’sfather,andifthiswas the home he had left her in. Something told him no. There were onlyHolly’s things, and Joshua’s.Their two raincoats and summer jackets hangingonpegsbythedoor,theirpairsofbootsandsandalslinedupbeneath.

DoyoumindcheckingthewindowoverJoshua’sbed?IthinkIleftitopen.Theboy’sroomwaslikeaship’scabin,constrictedandlow.Hesawthebed

beneaththewindow,coveredwithaplaidquilt,thepillowdampwithrain.On the floor,belowabookcase,wasapartiallycompleted jigsawpuzzleof

horses grazing in a meadow, looking like a frame to a missing image. Hecroucheddownandputahandintothebox,siftingthroughseeminglyidenticalpiecesthatwereneverthelessdistinct.

WhenhestooduphenoticedasnapshotlyingonJoshua’schestofdrawers.Right away Subhash knew itwas Joshua’s father,Holly’s husband.Aman inshorts,barefoot,onabeachsomewhere,holdingasmallerversionofJoshuaonhisshoulders.Hisfacetiltedupathisson,bothofthemlaughing.

Hollycalledhimtodinner.Theyatepiecesofchickencookedinmushroomsandwine,servedwithbreadwarmedintheoveninsteadofwithrice.Thetaste

wascomplex,flavorfulbutwithoutheatofanykind.He pulled out the bay leaf she’d put in. These grow on a tree behind my

family’shome,hesaid.Onlythey’retwicethesize.Willyoubringsomebackforme,whenyougotovisitthem?Hetoldherhewould,butitfeltunreal,inhercompany,thathewouldeverbe

back in Tollygunge,with his family. Evenmore unreal thatHollywould stillcaretospendtimewithhimwhenhereturned.

Shetoldhimshe’dlivedinthecottagesincelastSeptember.Joshua’sfatherhadofferedtomoveoutoftheoldplacethey’dshared,offMinisterialRoad,butshedidn’twanttobethere.Thecottagehadbelongedtohergrandparents.She’dspenttimeinitasayounggirl.

Afterthestewtherewereslicesofanapplecakeandmugsoflemontea.Asthe rain fellharder, lashing thewindowpanes,HollyspokeofJoshua.Shewasworried abouthow the separationwas affectinghim.Sincehis fatherhad left,she said, he’d turned inward, frightenedby things that hadnot frightenedhimbefore.

Whatthings?He’s afraid of sleeping alone. You see how close our rooms are. But he’s

beencoming intomybedatnight.Hehasn’tdone that foryears.He’salwayslovedswimming,butthissummerhe’snervousinthewater,afraidofthewaves.Andhedoesn’twanttogobacktoschoolinthefall.

Heswamatthebeachtheotherday.Maybebecauseyouwerethere.Chesterbegan tobark andHollygotup andclipped the leash tohis collar.

Shethrewonherrainjacket,andpickedupanumbrellabytheentrance.Youstaywhereit’sdry.I’llonlybeaminuteortwo.Whilehewaitedforhertoreturn,hewenttothesinkandwashedthedishes.

Hemarveled at the self-sufficient nature of her life.And hewas also slightlynervous forher, livingalone insucha remoteplace,withoutbothering to lockher door.Therewasnoone tohelpher, apart from thebabysitterwho lookedafterJoshuawhilesheworked.Thoughherparentswerealive,thoughtheylivednearby,inanotherpartofRhodeIsland,theyhadnotcometotakecareofher.

Andyethehimselfdidnot feel completelyalonewithherhere.TheywereaccompaniedbyChester, and Joshua’s clothes and toys.Even a picture of themanshe’donceloved.

That’sthefirstnightinalongtimeIhaven’thadtodothedishesafterdinner,shesaid,joininghimagain.Theplatesandglasseshadbeenputaway,thedish

towelwasdryingonahook.Idon’tmind.You’llbeallright,drivinghomeinthisweather?CanIlendyouajacket?I’llbefine.Letmewalkyouundertheumbrellatoyourcar.He put his hand on the doorknob.But he didn’twant to go; he still didn’t

want to leave her.As he stoodwavering, he felt the side of her face, pressedlightlyagainstthebackofhisshirt.Thenherhand,restingonhisshoulder.Hervoice,askingifhe’dliketostay.

Her bedroom was the mirror image of Joshua’s. But because the bed waslargertherewasroomforpracticallynothingelse.Insidethisroomhewasabletoforgetaboutwhathisparentswouldthink,andtheconsequencesofwhathewasabouttodo.Heforgotabouteverythingotherthanthebodyofthewomaninthebedwithhim,guidinghisfingerstothehollowofherthroat,overtheridgeofhercollarbones,downtowardthesofterskinofherbreasts.

The surface of her skin fascinated him. All the minute markings andimperfections, thepatternsoffrecklesandmolesandspots.Therangeof tonesand shades she contained, not only the inverse shadows from tanning,highlighting portions of her bodyhewas seeing for the first time, but also aninherent,moresubtlemixture,asquietlyvariegatedasahandfulofsand,thathecoulddiscernonlynow,underthelamplight.

She allowed him to touch the slack skin of her belly, the coarse mound,darkerthanherhair,betweenherlegs.Whenhepaused,uncertain,shelookedupathim,incredulous.

Really?Heturnedhisface.Ishouldhavetoldyou.Subhash,itdoesn’tmatter.Idon’tcare.Hefeltherfingersclaspinghiserection,positioningit,drawinghimnear.He

wasembarrassed,exhilarated.Hefeltanddidwhathehadonly imagineduntilnow. He moved inside her, against her, unaware and also aware, with everynerveofhisbeing,ofwherehewas.

Therainhadstopped.Heheardthesoundofwater,fromtheleavesofthetreethatspreadovertheroofofherhouse,asoundthatwaslikesporadicburstsofapplause.Helaybesideher,meaningtogobacktohisapartmentbeforethenextdaybegan,butherealizedafterafewminutesthatHollywasnotsimplybeingquiet.Withoutwarning,shehadfallenasleep.

Itfeltwrongtowakeher,ortogowithouttellingher.Soheremained.Inthe

bed thatwaswarmfrom theheatof theirbodies,hewasunableat first to fallasleep.Hewas distracted by her presence in spite of the intimacy they’d justshared.

InthemorninghewokeuptothesoundofChester’sbreathing,tothesmellofhis fur, his paws clicking softly around the three sidesof thebed.Thedogstoodpatiently,pantingbyHolly’sside.Theroomwaswarmandbright.

She’d been sleeping with her back to Subhash, nestled against him,unclothed. She got out of bed and pulled on the jeans and blouse she’d beenwearingthenightbefore.

I’llmakecoffee,shesaid.Hedressedquickly.Steppingouttousethebathroom,hesawtheopendoor

toJoshua’sroom.Theboy’sabsencehadmadeitpossible.HewastherebecauseJoshuawasnot.

HollycamebackfromtakingChesteroutside,andofferedtomakebreakfast.ButSubhashtoldherhehadworktocatchupon.

ShouldIletyouknow,thenexttimeJoshuagoesovertohisfather’s?He felt uncertain; he saw that the encounter of the night beforemight be a

beginning,notanend.Atthesametimehewasimpatienttoseeheragain.Ifyoulike.Openingthedoor,hesawthatthetidewasin.Theskywasbright,theocean

calm.Nosign,apartfromall theseaweedthathadwashedlikeemptynestsuponthesand,ofthestormtherehadbeen.

Chapter3

Hewanted to tellUdayan. Somehow, hewanted to confess to his brother theprofound step he’d taken. He wanted to describe who Holly was, what shelookedlike,howshelived.Todiscusstheknowledgeofwomenthat theynowshared.Butitwasn’tsomethinghecouldconveyinaletteroratelegram.Notaconversationhecouldimagine,evenifaconnectionwerepossible,takingplaceoverthephone.

Fridayevenings:thiswaswhenhewasabletovisitHollyatthecottageandtospend thenight.Therestof the timehekeptadistance,sometimesmeetingherforasandwichonthebeachbutnothingmore.Formostoftheweekhewasabletopretend,ifheneededto,thathedidnotknowher,andthatnothinginhislifehadchanged.

ButonFridayeveningshedrovetohercottage,turningoffthehighwayontothe long wooded road that gave way to the salt marsh. Through Saturday,sometimesaslateasSundaymorning,hestayed.Shewasundemanding,alwaysateasewithhim.Trusting,eachtimetheyparted,thattheywouldmeetagain.

Theywalkedalongthebeach,onfirmsandribbedbythetide.Heswamwithher in the cold water, tasting its salt in his mouth. It seemed to enter hisbloodstream,intoeverycell,purifyinghim,leavingsandinhishair.Onhisbackhefloatedweightless,hisarmsspread, theworldsilenced.Only thesea’s low-pitchedhum,andthesunglowinglikehotcoalsbehindhiseyes.

Once or twice they did certain ordinary things, as if they were alreadyhusbandandwife.Goingtogethertothesupermarket,fillingthecartwithfood,puttingthebagsinthetrunkofhercar.Thingshewouldnothavedonewithawoman,inCalcutta,beforegettingmarried.

InCalcutta,whenhewasastudent, ithadbeenenoughtofeelanattractiontowardcertainwomen.He’dbeentooshytopursuethem.Hedidn’tcourtHollyashe’dobservedcollegefriends trying to impresswomen theywere interestedin, women who almost always became their wives. As Udayan had surelycourtedGauri.Hedidn’t takeHolly to themoviesor to restaurants.Hedidn’twritehernotes,delivered,soasnottorousesuspicionfromagirl’sparents,bytheaidofafriend,askinghertomeethimhereorthere.

Hollywasbeyondsuchthings.Theonlyplaceitmadesenseforthemtomeet

wasatherhome,whereitwaseasiesttobe,wherehelikedtospendtime,andwhere she saw to their needs. The hours passed with their talking, longconversationsabout their families, theirpasts, thoughshedidn’t talkabouthermarriage.Shenevertiredofaskinghimabouthisupbringing.Themostordinarydetailsofhislife,whichwouldhavemadenoimpressiononagirlfromCalcutta,werewhatmadehimdistinctivetoher.

One evening, as they drove back together from the grocery store, wherethey’d bought corn and watermelon to celebrate the Fourth of July, Subhashdescribed his father setting out eachmorning to themarket, carrying a burlapsackinhishand.Shoppingforwhatwasavailable,whatwasaffordablethatday.Iftheirmothercomplainedthathehadn’tbroughtbackenough,he’dsay,Bettertoeatasmallpieceoffishwithflavorthanalargeonewithout.He’dwitnessedafamineofdevastatingproportions,nevertakingasinglemealforgranted.

Some mornings, Subhash told her, he and Udayan had accompanied theirfathertoshop,ortopickuprationedriceandcoal.Theyhadwaitedwithhiminthelonglines,undertheshadeofhisumbrellawhenthesunwasstrong.

Theyhadhelpedhimtocarrybackthefishandthevegetables,themangoesthattheirfathersniffedandprodded,thathesometimessettofurtherripenunderthebed.OnSundaystheyboughtmeatfromthebutcher,carvedfromahanginggoatcarcass,weighedonthescale,wrappedinapacketofdriedleaves.

Areyouclosetoyourfather?Hollyaskedhim.ForsomereasonhethoughtofthepictureinJoshua’sroom,ofJoshuaontop

ofhis father’s shoulders.Subhash’s fatherhadnotbeenanaffectionateparent,buthehadbeenaconsistentone.

Iadmirehim,hesaid.Andyourbrother?Doyoutwogetalong?Hepaused.Yesandno.Sooftenit’sboth,shesaid.

•••

In her cramped bedroom, setting aside his guilt, he cultivated an ongoingdefianceofhisparents’expectations.Hewasawarethathecouldgetawaywithit,thatitwasmerelytheshoalsofphysicaldistancethatallowedhisdefiancetopersist.

He thought of Narasimhan as an ally now; Narasimhan and his Americanwife.Sometimeshe imaginedwhat itwouldbe like to leada similar lifewithHolly.Tolive therestofhis life inAmerica, todisregardhisparents, tomake

hisownfamilywithher.Atthesametimeheknewthatitwasimpossible.ThatshewasanAmerican

was the least of it. Her situation, her child, her age, the fact that she wastechnically another man’s wife, all of it would be unthinkable to his parents,unacceptable.Theywouldjudgeherforthosethings.

Hedidn’twanttoputHollythroughthat.AndyethecontinuedtoseeheronFridays,forgingthisnewclandestinepath.

Udayanwould have understood. Perhaps hewould even respect him for it.ButtherewasnothingUdayancouldsaythatSubhashdidnotalreadyknow;thathe was involved with a woman he didn’t intend to marry. A woman whosecompany he was growing used to, but whom, perhaps due to his ownambivalence,hedidn’tlove.

And so he divulged nothing about Holly to anyone. The affair remainedconcealed, inaccessible.Hisparents’disapproval threatenedtounderminewhathe was doing, lodged like a silent gatekeeper at the back of his mind. Butwithout his parents there, he was able to keep pushing back their objection,fartherandfarther,likethepromiseofthehorizon,anticipatedfromaship,thatoneneverreached.

OneFridayhewasunabletoseeher;Hollyphonedtosaytherehadbeenalast-minutechangeinplans,andJoshuawasnotgoingtogotohisfather’s.Subhashunderstoodthat theseweretheterms.Andyet, thatweekend,hefoundhimselfwishingtheplanwouldchange.

The followingweekend,when he visited her again, the phone rang as theywerehavingdinner.Shebegantalking,trailingthecordsothatshewasabletositonthesofa,onherown.HerealizeditwasJoshua’sfather.

Joshuahadcomedownwithafever,andHollywastellingherhusbandtoputhimintoalukewarmbath.Explaininghowmuchmedicinetogive.

Subhash was surprised, also troubled, that she could speak to him calmly,without acrimony. The person on the other end of the line remained deeplyfamiliartoher.HesawthatbecauseofJoshua,inspiteoftheirseparation,theirliveswerepermanentlytied.

He sat at the table with his back to her, not eating, waiting for theconversation to end. He looked at the calendar that was on the wall next toHolly’sphone.

The following daywasAugust 15, Indian Independence.A holiday for thecountry,lightsongovernmentbuildings,flaghoistingandparades.Anordinarydayhere.

Hollyhungupthephone.Youlookupset,sheobserved.Issomethingwrong?Ijustrememberedsomething.What’sthat?Itwas his firstmemory,August 1947, though sometimes hewondered if it

wasonly a comforting trickof themind.For itwas anight the entire countryclaimed to remember, and the recollection that was his had always beensaturatedbyhisparents’retelling.

It hadbeen the only thingonhis parents’minds that evening, as fireworkswentoffinDelhi,asministerswereswornin.AsGandhifastedtobringpeacetoCalcutta,asthecountrywasborn.Udayanhadbeenjusttwo,Subhashclosertofour.He remembered theunfamiliar touchof adoctor’shandonhis forehead,the slight slaps on his arms, on the soles of his feet. Theweight of the quiltswhenchillsovertookthem.

He remembered turning to his younger brother, both of them shivering.Heremembered the unfocused glaze in Udayan’s eyes, the flush of his face, thenonsensicalthingshe’dsaid.

My parents were worried that it was typhoid, he told Holly. They wereworried, for a fewdays, thatwemightdie, thewayanotheryoungboy inourneighborhood recently had. Even now, when they talk about it, they soundafraid.Asifthey’restillwaitingforourfeverstobreak.

That’swhathappenswhenyoubecomeaparent,Hollytoldhim.Timestopswhensomethingthreatensthem.Themeaninggoesaway.

Chapter4

One weekend in September, when Joshua was visiting his father, HollysuggestedthatthetwoofthemgotoapartofRhodeIslandhehadn’tseen.TheytooktheferryfromGalileetoBlockIsland,travelingmorethantenmilesouttosea,andwalkedtogetherfromtheharbortoaninn.

Therehadbeenalast-minutecancellation,andsotheyweregivenaroomonthetopfloor,nicerthantheoneHollyhadbooked,withaviewoftheocean,afour-posterbed.Theyhadcometoseethekestrels,startingtoflysouthnowoverthe island. Unpacking their things for theweekend, she presented himwith agift:itwasapairofbinoculars,inabrownleathercase.

Thisisunnecessary,hesaid,admiringthem.Ithoughtitwastimetostoppassingminebetweenus.He kissed her shoulder, her mouth. He had nothing else to give her in

exchange.Hestudiedthelittlecompassthatwasaffixedbetweenthelenses,andplacedthestraparoundhisneck.

The island would soon be shutting down for the season, the touristsdisappearing,onlyoneortworestaurantsremainingopenforthetinypopulationthatneverleft.Theasterwasinbloom,thepoisonivyturningred.Butthesunshoneandtheairwascalm,aperfectlatesummer’sday.

They rented bikes and cycled around. It took him a moment to regain hisbalance.Hehadnotbeenonabicyclesincehewasaboy,sinceheandUdayanhadlearnedtorideon thequiet lanesofTollygunge.Herememberedthefrontwheelwobbling,oneofthemontheseat,theotheronepedalingtheheavyblackbicyclethey’dmanagedtoshare.

FoldedinhispocketwasaletterfromUdayan.Ithadcomethedaybefore.

Asparrowgotintothehousetoday,intotheroomweusedto share. The shutterswere open, itmust have hopped inthroughthebars.Ifounditflappingaround.AndIthoughtof you, thinking how much this nuisance would haveexcitedyou.Itwasasifyou’dcomeback.OfcourseitflewawayassoonasIwalkedin.

Being twenty-six feels fine so far.Andyou, inanothertwoyears,willturnthirty.Anewphaseoflifeforusboth,morethanhalfwaynowtofifty!

I have already grown quite boring, still teaching,tutoring students. Let’s hope they’ll go on to accomplishgreaterthingsthanIdid.Thebestpartofthedayiscominghome toGauri.We read together, we listen to the radio,andsotheeveningspass.

Did you know twenty-six was the age Castro wasimprisoned? By then he’d already led the attack on theMoncadaBarracks.Anddidyouknow,hisbrotherwasinjail with him at the same time? They were kept isolated,forbiddentoseeoneanother.

Speaking of communication, I was reading aboutMarconi theotherday.Hewas just twenty-sevenwhenhewassittinginNewfoundland,listeningfortheletterSfromCornwall.HiswirelessstationonCapeCodlooksclosetowhere you are. It’s in a place calledWellfleet.Have youbeenthere?

TheletterconsoledSubhash,alsoconfusedhim.Invokingcodesandsignals,games of the past, the singular bond he and Subhash had shared. InvokingCastro, but describing quiet evenings at home with his wife. He wondered ifUdayanhad tradedonepassion foranother, andhiscommitmentwas toGaurinow.

HefollowedHollyalongcurvingnarrowroads,pasttheenormoussaltpondthat bisected the island and the glacial ravines. Past rolling meadows andturreted properties. The pastures were barren, with boulders here and there,partiallyframedbystonewalls.Henoticedthattherewerehardlyanytrees.

Quickly they traveled from one side of the island to the other, only aboutthreemilesacross.Thekestrelsglidedoverthebluffandouttosea,theirwingsmotionless, their bodies seeming todrift backwardwhen thewindwas strong.HollypointedtoMontauk,atthetipofLongIsland,visiblethatdayacrossthewater.

Intheafternoontheycooledthemselvesintheocean,walkingdownasteep

set of rickety wooden steps, stripping to their bathing suits and swimming inroughwaves. In spite of thewarmth, the dayswere turning brief again. Theyrodeovertoanotherbeachtowatchthesunsinklikeameltingscarletstainintothewater.

Returning to the town, they saw a box turtle at the edge of the road.Theystopped,andSubhashpickeditup,studyingitsmarkings,thenremovingittothegrassfromwhichithadcome.

We’llhavetotellJoshua,Subhashsaid.Holly said nothing. She’d turned pensive, the glow of twilight tinting her

face, hermood strange.Hewondered if hismentioning Joshua had upset her.Shewasquietatdinner,eatinglittle,sayingthattheirdayinthesunhadleftherwithabitofaheadache.

Forthefirsttimetheykissedeachothergoodnightbutnothingmore.Helaybesideher, listening to thecrashof thesea,watchingawaxingmoonrise intothesky.Helongedforsleep,butitwouldnotimmersehim;thatnightthewatershesoughtforhisreposeweredeepenoughtowadein,butnottoswim.

In themorning she seemed better, sitting across from him at the breakfasttable,hungryfor toast,scrambledeggs.Butas theywaitedfor theferryonthewaybacktothemainland,shetoldhimthatshehadsomethingtosay.

I’veenjoyedgettingtoknowyou,Subhash.Spendingthistime.Theshifthefeltwasinstantaneous.Itwasasifshe’dpickedthemupandput

themofftheprecariouspaththeywereon,justashe’dremovedtheturtlefromthe road thedaybefore.Putting their connection toone anotheroutof harm’sway.

Iwantustoendthisnicely,shecontinued.Ithinkwecan.Heheardher say that shehadbeen speakingwith Joshua’s father, and that

theyweregoingtotrytoworkthingsoutbetweenthem.Heleftyou.He wants to come back. I’ve known him for twelve years, Subhash. He’s

Joshua’sfather.I’mthirty-sixyearsold.Whydidwecomeheretogether,ifyoudon’twanttoseemeagain?Ithoughtyoumightlikeit.Youneverexpectedthistogoanywhere,didyou?

Youandme?WithJoshua?IlikeJoshua.You’reyoung.You’regoingtowanttohaveyourownchildrensomeday.Ina

fewyearsyou’llgobacktoIndia,livewithyourfamily.You’vesaidsoyourself.Shehadcaughthim inhisownweb, tellinghimwhathealreadyknew.He

realizedhewouldnevervisithercottageagain.Thegiftofthebinoculars,sothattheywouldnolongerhavetoshare;heunderstoodthereasonforthis,too.

Hecouldnotblameher;shehaddonehimafavorbyendingit.Andyethewasfuriouswithherforbeingtheonetodecide.

Wecanremainfriends,Subhash.Youcoulduseafriend.He told her he had heard enough, that he was not interested in remaining

friends.He toldher that,when the ferry reached theport inGalilee,hewouldwaitforabustotakehimhome.Hetoldhernottocallhim.

Ontheferrytheysatseparately.HetookoutUdayan’sletter,readingitonceagain.Butwhenhewasfinished,standingonthedeck,hetoreitintopieces,andletthemescapehishands.

HebeganhisthirdautumninRhodeIsland,1971.Once more the leaves of the trees lost their chlorophyll, replaced by the

shades he had left behind: vivid hues of cayenne and turmeric and gingerpounded fresh every morning in the kitchen, to season the food his motherprepared.

Oncemore these colors seemed to have been transported across theworld,appearinginthetreetopsthatlinedhispath.Thecolorsintensifiedoveraperiodof weeks until the leaves began to dwindle, foliage clustered here and thereamongthebranches,likebutterfliesfeedingatthesamesource,beforefallingtotheground.

HethoughtofDurgaPujocomingagaintoCalcutta.AshewasfirstgettingtoknowAmerica, theabsenceof theholidayhadn’tmattered tohim,butnowhewanted to go home. The past two years, around this time, he’d received abatteredparcelfromhisparents,containinggiftsforhim.KurtastoothintowearmostofthetimeinRhodeIsland,barsofsandalwoodsoap,someDarjeelingtea.

He thought of the Mahalaya playing on All India Radio. ThroughoutTollygunge,acrossCalcuttaandthewholeofWestBengal,peoplewerewakingupindarknesstolistentotheoratorioaslightcreptintothesky,invokingDurgaasshedescendedtoearthwithherfourchildren.

Everyyearat this time,HinduBengalisbelieved,shecametostaywithherfather, Himalaya. For the days of Pujo, she relinquished her husband, Shiva,before returning oncemore tomarried life. The hymns recounted the story ofDurga being formed, and theweapons thatwere provided for each of her tenarms: sword and shield, bow and arrow. Axe, mace, conch shell, and discus.Indra’sthunderbolt,Shiva’strident.Aflamingdart,agarlandofsnakes.

This year no parcel came from his family. Only a telegram. The messageconsistedoftwosentences,lifeless,driftingatthetopofasea.Udayankilled.Comebackifyoucan.

PartIII

Chapter1

Heleftbehindthebriefwinterdays,theobscureplacewherehe’dgrievedalone.Where another Christmaswas coming, where in December the doorways andwindowsofsmallshopsandhomesweredecoratedwithbeadedframesoflight.

He took a bus toBoston and boarded a night flight toEurope.The secondflight involved a layover in the Middle East. He waited in the terminals, hewalkedfromgatetogate.AtlasthelandedinDelhi.FromthereheboardedanovernighttraintoHowrahStation.

AshetraveledhalfwayacrossIndia,fromcompanionsonthetrain,heheardabitaboutwhathadbeentakingplaceinCalcuttaduringthetimehe’dbeenaway.InformationthatneitherUdayannorhisparentshadmentionedinletters.EventsSubhashhadnotcomeacrossinanynewspaperinRhodeIsland,orheardontheAMradioinhiscar.

By1970,peopletoldhim,thingshadtakenaturn.BythentheNaxaliteswereoperatingunderground.Memberssurfacedonlytocarryoutdramaticattacks.

They ransacked schools and colleges across the city. In the middle of thenighttheyburnedrecordsanddefacedportraits,raisingredflags.TheyplasteredCalcuttawithimagesofMao.

Theyintimidatedvoters,hopingtodisrupttheelections.Theyfiredpipegunsonthestreets.Theyhidbombsinpublicplaces,sothatpeoplewereafraidtositinacinemahall,orstandinlineatabank.

Then the targets turned specific. Unarmed traffic constables at busyintersections. Wealthy businessmen, certain educators. Members of the rivalparty,theCPI(M).

The killings were sadistic, gruesome, intended to shock. The wife of theFrenchconsulwasmurderedinhersleep.TheyassassinatedGopalSen,thevice-chancellor of Jadavpur University. They killed him on campus while he wastaking his evening walk. It was the day before he planned to retire. Theybludgeonedhimwithsteelbars,andstabbedhimfourtimes.

They took control of certain neighborhoods, calling themRedZones.TheytookcontrolofTollygunge.Theysetupmakeshifthospitals,safehouses.Peoplebegan avoiding these neighborhoods.Policemen started chaining their rifles totheirbelts.

Butthennewlegislationwaspassed,andanoldlawwasrenewed.Lawsthatauthorizedthepoliceandtheparamilitarytoenterhomeswithoutawarrant, toarrestyoungmenwithoutcharges.TheoldlawhadbeencreatedbytheBritish,tocounterIndependence,tocutoffitslegs.

After that, thepolice started to cordonoff and search theneighborhoodsofthecity.Sealingexits,knockingondoors, interrogatingCalcutta’syoungmen.ThepolicehadkilledUdayan.ThismuchSubhashwasabletosurmise.

He had forgotten the possibility of somany human beings in one space. Theconcentrated stench of so much life. He welcomed the sun on his skin, theabsence of bitter cold. But it was winter in Calcutta. The people filling theplatform,passengersandcoolies,andvagrantsforwhomthestationwasmerelyashelter,werebundledinwoolencapsandshawls.

Onlytwopeoplehadcometoreceivehim.Ayoungercousinofhisfather’s,BirenKaka,andhiswife.Theywerestandingbyafruitvendor,unabletosmilewhen they spottedhim.Heunderstood this diminishedwelcome, but he couldnotunderstandwhy,afterhe’dtraveledformorethantwodays,afterhe’dbeenawayformorethantwoyears,hisparentswereunwillingtocomeeventhisfarto acknowledge his return. When he’d left India his mother had promised ahero’swelcome,agarlandofflowersdrapedaroundhisneckwhenhesteppedoffthetrain.

Itwashere,at thestation, thatSubhashhad last seenUdayan.He’darrivedlateontheeveningofhisdeparture,notridingwithSubhashandhisparentsandotherrelativeswho’dformedasmallcaravanfromTollygunge,butassuringhimthathe’dmeetupwiththemontheplatform.Subhashwasalreadyseatedonthetrain, he had already said his good-byes,whenUdayanput his headup to thewindow.

Heextendedhishandthroughthebars,reachingforSubhash’sshoulderandpressing it, thenslappinghis face lightly.Somehow,at the finalmoment, theyhadfoundoneanotherinthatgreatcrowd.

He pulled some green-skinned oranges from his book bag, giving them toSubhashtoeatonthejourney.Trynottoforgetuscompletely,hesaid.

You’ll lookafter them?Subhashasked, referring to theirparents.You’ll letmeknowifanythinghappens?

What’sgoingtohappen?Wellthen,ifyouneedanything?Comebacksomeday,that’sall.

Udayan remained close, leaning forward, his hand on Subhash’s shoulder,sayingnothingelse,untiltheenginesounded.Hismotherbeganweeping.Evenhisfather’seyesweredampasthetrainbegantopullaway.ButUdayanstoodsmilingbetweenthem,hishandraisedhigh,hisgazefixedasSubhashretreatedfartherandfartherawayfromthem.

As theycrossedHowrahBridge the lightwasstillgray.On theotherside, themarketshadjustopened.Thesidewalkswerelinedwithbaskets,displayingthemorning’svegetables.Theytraveledthroughthebroadheartofthecity,towardDalhousie, down Chowringhee. A city with nothing, with everything. By thetimetheywereapproachingTollygunge,crossingPrinceAnwarShahRoad,thedaywasbustlingandbright.

The streets were as he remembered. Crowded with cycle rickshaws, thesquawkingoftheirhornssoundingtohisearslikeaflockofagitatedgeese.Thecongestionwasof adifferentorder, thatof a small townasopposed toacity.Thebuildingslower,spacedfartherapart.

Hesawthetramdepotcomeintoview,thestallswherepeoplesoldbiscuitsandcrackersinglassjars,andboiledaluminumkettlesoftea.Thewallsofthefilmstudios,theTollyClub,werecoveredwithslogans.Make1970sthedecadeofliberation.Riflesbringfreedom,andfreedomiscoming.

AstheyturnedbeforethesmallmosqueoffBaburamGhoshRoad,Subhashfelt his prolonged journey ending too soon. The taxi fit but just barely,threatening to scrape the walls on either side. He was assaulted by the sour,septicsmellofhisneighborhood,ofhischildhood.Thesmellofstandingwater.Thestinkofalgae,ofopendrains.

As they approached the two ponds, he saw that the small home he’d leftbehindhadbeenreplacedbysomethingimpressive,ungainly.Somescaffoldingwasstillinplace,buttheconstructionlookedcomplete.Hesawpalmtreesrisingbehind the house. But the mango tree that had spread its dark branches andleavesovertheoriginalroofwasgone.

He stepped across a slab set over the gutter that separated his family’spropertyfromthestreet.Apairofswingingdoorsledtothecourtyard.Mildewcoated thewalls. But it was still awelcoming space,with a tubewell in onecorner, and terra-cotta pots containing dahlias, and themarigold and basil hismotherusedforprayers.Avinewithatangleofyellowbrancheswasinfloweratthattimeofyear.

ThiswastheenclosurewhereheandUdayanhadplayedaschildren.Wherethey had drawn and practiced sums with bits of coal or broken clay. Where

Udayan had run out the day they’d been told to stay in, falling off the plankbeforetheconcretehaddried.

Subhash saw the footprints and walked past them. He looked at the upperportionofthehouse,risingoutofwhathadfirstbeenthere.Longterraces,likeairy corridors, ran from front to back down one side. Theywere enclosed bygrillesforgedinatrefoilpattern.Theemeraldpaintwasglossyandbright.

Through one of the grilles he saw his parents, sitting on the top floor. Hestrainedtoseetheirexpressionsbutcouldmakeoutnothing.Nowthathewassoclose,partofhimwantedtoreturntothetaxi,whichwasbackingoutslowly.Hewantedtotellthedrivertotakehimsomewhereelse.

HepressedthebuzzerthatUdayanhadinstalled.Itstillworked.Hisparentsdidnotstandorsayhisname.Theydidnotcomedownstairs to

greet him. Instead his father lowered a key on a string through the ironwork.Subhash waited to retrieve it, and opened a heavy padlock at the side of thehouse. Finally he heard his father clearing his throat, seeming to loosen thesecretionsofalongsilence.

Lockthegatebehindyou,heinstructedSubhash,beforeretractingthekey.Subhash climbed a staircase with smooth black banisters, sky-blue walls.

BirenKaka and hiswife followed behind.When he saw his parents, standingtogetherontheterrace,hebentovertotouchtheirfeet.Hewasanonlyson,anexperiencethathadleftnoimpressioninthefirstfifteenmonthsofhislife.Thatwastobegininearnestnow.

At first hisparents looked the same tohim.Theoily sheen tohismother’shair,thepallidcastofherskin.Thelean,stoopingframeofhisfather,thesheercottonofhiskurta.Thedownwardturntohismouththatmighthaveconveyeddisappointment,butsuggestedafixedamiabilityinstead.Thedifferencewasintheireyes.Callousedbygrief,bluntedbywhatnoparentshouldhaveseen.

In spiteof thepicture thathung inhisparents’new room,which they tookhim to see, he could not believe thatUdayanwas nowhere. But herewas theproof.Thephotohadbeentakennearlytenyearsagobyarelativewhoownedacamera,oneoftheonlypicturesofthebrothersthatexisted.Itwasthedaytheyhadgotten the results of their higher secondary exams, the dayhis father saidhadbeentheproudestofhislife.

HeandUdayanhadposedsidebysideinthecourtyard.Subhashsawaninchofhisown shoulder, pressedupbesideUdayan’s.The restofhim, inorder tomakethedeathportrait,hadbeencutaway.

He stood before the image and wept, his head cradled in his arm, in anawkwardembraceofhimself.Buthisparents,beyondtheshockofit,observed

himastheymightanactoronastage,waitingforthescenetoend.

From the terracehehadanopenviewof theplacewherehe andUdayanhadbeenraised.Lowerrooftopsoftinortile,withsquashvinestrailingoverthem.The tops of walls, dotted white, splattered with excrement from crows. Twooblongpondsontheothersideof thelane.Thelowland, lookingtohimlikeamudflatafterthetide.

Hewent downstairs, to the ground floor, to the part of the house thatwasunchanged,totheroomheandUdayanhadonceshared.Hewasstruckbyhowdarktheroomwas,howsmall.Therewasthestudytablebeneaththewindow,theshelvessetintothewall,thesimplerackwherethey’ddrapedtheirclothes.Thebedthey’dsleptontogetherhadbeenreplacedbyacot.Udayanmusthaveused the room to tutor students. He saw textbooks on the shelves, measuringinstrumentsandpens.Hewonderedwhathadhappenedtotheshortwave.Allthepoliticalbooksweregone.

He unpacked his belongings and bathedwithwater that the pump releasedtwice a day from the corporation tank. The water, too rich with iron, had ametallicsmell.Itlefthishairstiff,hisskintackytothetouch.

He’dbeentoldtogoupstairstoeathislunch.Thatwaswherethekitchenwasnow.Onthefloorofhisparents’bedroom,whereUdayan’sportraitwas,plateshadbeen set out forhis father, forBirenKakaandhiswife, forSubhash.Hismotherwouldeatafterservingthem,asshealwaysdid.

Hesatwithhisbacktotheportrait.Hecouldnotbeartolookatitagain.Hewasravenousforthesimplemeal:dalandslicesoffriedbittermelon,rice

and fish stew. Sweet pabda fish from the river, their cooked eyes like yellowpebbles.

Again thebroadplatesofheavybrass.The freedom toeatwithhis fingers.Drinkingwaterwaspouredfromablackclayurninthecorneroftheroom.Thecupheavyinhishand,therimslightlytoowideforhismouth.

Whereisshe?heasked.Who?Gauri.Hismotherladledthedalontohisrice.Shetakeshermealsinthekitchen,she

said.Why?Sheprefersit.He didn’t believe her.He didn’t saywhat came to hismind. ThatUdayan

wouldhavehatedthemforsegregatingher,forobservingsuchcustoms.Isshetherenow?Iwouldliketomeether.She’sresting.She’snotfeelingwelltoday.Haveyoucalledadoctor?Hismother lookeddown,preoccupiedwith the foodshewas serving to the

others.There’snoneedforthat.Isitserious?Finallysheexplainedherself.Sheisexpectingachild,shesaid.

After lunch he went out, walking past the two ponds. There were scatteredclumpsofwaterhyacinthinthelowland,andstillenoughwatertoformpuddleshereandthere.

Henoticeda small stonemarker thathadnotbeen therebefore.Hewalkedtoward it. On it wasUdayan’s name. Beneath that, the years of his birth anddeath:1945–1971.

Itwasamemorialtablet,erectedforpoliticalmartyrs.Herewherethewatercameandwent,whereitcollectedandvanished,waswherehisbrother’spartycomradeshadchosentoputit.

SubhashrememberedanafternoonplayingfootballwithUdayanandafewoftheotherneighborhoodboys,inthefieldontheothersideofthelowland.He’dtwistedhisankleinthemiddleofthegame.He’dtoldUdayantokeepplaying,thathe’dmanageonhisown,butUdayanhadinsistedonaccompanyinghim.

HeremembereddrapinganarmoverUdayan’sshoulder,leaningonhimashelimpedback,theswollenankleturningheavywithpain.HerememberedUdayanteasinghimeventhenfortheclumsymovethathadledtotheinjury,sayingtheirsidehadbeenwinninguntilthen.Andatthesametimesupportinghim,guidinghimhome.

He returned to the house, intending to rest briefly, but fell into a deep sleep.Whenhewokeupitwaslate,pastthehourhisparentsnormallyatedinner.He’dsleptthroughthemeal.Thefanwasn’tmoving;thecurrenthadgone.Hefoundaflashlightunderthemattress,switchediton,andwentupstairs.

Thedoortohisparents’bedroomwasclosed.Goingtothekitchentoseeiftherewasanythinglefttoeat,hesawGaurisittingonthefloor,withacandlelitbesideher.

Herecognizedheratonce,fromthesnapshotUdayanhadsent.Butshewasnolongertherelaxedcollegegirlwhohadsmiledforhisbrother.Thatpictureofherhadbeeninblackandwhite,butnowtheabsenceofcolor,eveninthewarmlightofthecandle,wasmoreprofound.

Herlonghairwaspulledbackaboveherneck.Shesatwithherheaddown,herwristsbare,dressedinasariofcrispwhite.Shewasthin,withoutatraceofthe life she was carrying. She wore glasses, a detail withheld from thephotograph.Whenshelookedupathim,hesawinspiteoftheglassesanotherthingthephotohadnotfullyconveyed.Thefrankbeautyofhereyes.

Hetookherinbutdidnotspeaktoher,watchinghereatsomedalandrice.She could have been anyone, a stranger. And yet she was now a part of hisfamily,themotherofUdayan’schild.Shewasdraggingafewgrainsofsaltwithherindexfingerfromthelittlepileattheedgeofherplateandmixingitintoherfood.Hesawthatthefishhehadbeenservedatlunchhadnotbeengiventoher.

IamSubhash,hesaid.Iknow.Idon’tmeantodisturbyou.Theytriedtowakeyoufordinner.I’mwideawakenow.Shestartedtogetup.Letmefixaplateforyou.Finishyourmeal.Icangetitmyself.Hefelthereyesonhimashescannedtheshelveswithhisflashlight,retrieved

adish,uncoveredthepotsandpansthathadbeenleftforhim.Yousoundjustlikehim,shesaid.He sat down beside her, the candle between them, facing her. He saw her

handrestingoverherplate,thetipsofherfingerscoatedwithfood.Isitbecauseofmyparentsthatyou’renoteatingfish?Sheignoredhisquestion.Youhavethesamevoice,shesaid.

Quickly he turned passive, waking up in his box of white mosquito netting.Waitingforhisteatobehandedtohiminthemorning,waitingforhisdiscardedclothes tobewashedandfolded,forhismeals tobeserved.Heneverrinsedaplate or cup, knowing the houseboy would come to take them away. Coarsecrystals of sugar studded his breakfast toast,which hewashed downwith hottoo-sweettea,tinyantsarrivingtohaulawaythecrumbs.

Thelayoutofthehousewasdisorienting.Thewhitewashwassofreshthatitrubbed off on his hand when he touched the walls. In spite of the new

construction,thehousefeltunwelcoming.Therewasmorespacetowithdrawto,tosleepin,tobealonein.Butnoplacehadbeendesignatedtogathertogether,nofurnituretoaccommodateguests.

The terraceon the topfloorwaswherehisparentspreferred tosit, theonlypartofthehousetheyseemedfullytopossess.Itwasherethat,afterhisfatherreturned fromwork, they took their evening tea, on a pair of simple woodenchairs.At that height themosquitoeswere fewer, andwhen the current failedtherewasstillsomebreeze.Hisfatherdidn’tbothertounfoldthenewspaper.Hismotherhadnosewinginherlap.Until itgrewdark, throughthepatternofthetrefoilgrille, theylookedoutat theneighborhood; thisseemedtobetheironlypastime.

If thehouseboywasoutonanerrand, itwasGauriwhoservedtea.Butsheneverjoinedthem.Afterhelpinghismotherwiththemorningchoresshekepttoherownroom,onthesecondfloorofthehouse.Henoticedthathisparentsdidnot talk to her; that they scarcely acknowledged her presencewhen she cameintoview.

Belatedly he was presented with his gifts for Durga Pujo. There was graymaterialfortrousers,stripedmaterialforshirts.Twosetsofeach,forhewasalsogiven Udayan’s share. More than once, offering him a biscuit, asking if heneededmoretea,hismothercalledhimUdayaninsteadofSubhash.Andmorethanonceheanswered,notcorrectingher.

He struggled to interactwith them.Whenheaskedhis fatherhowhisdayswereattheoffice,hisfatherrepliedthattheywereasthey’dalwaysbeen.Whenheaskedhismotheriftherehadbeenmanyordersthatyear,toembroidersarisforthetailorshop,shesaidhereyescouldnolongertakethestrain.

His parents asked no questions about America. Inches away, they avoidedlookingSubhashintheeye.Hewonderedwhetherhisparentswouldaskhimtoremain in Calcutta, to abandon his life in Rhode Island. But there was nomentionofthis.

Nor was there mention of the possibility of their arranging a marriage forhim.Theywereinnopositiontoplanawedding,tothinkabouthisfuture.Anhour often passed without their speaking. The shared quiet fell over them,bindingthemmoretightlythananyconversationcould.

Again it was assumed that he would ask little of them, that somehow hewouldseetohisownneeds.

In the early evening, always at the same time, his mother gathered a fewflowers from thepots in the courtyard and left thehouse.From the terracehesawher,walkingpasttheponds.

Shestoppedatthemarkerbytheedgeofthelowland,rinsingthestonecleanwithwatershedrewfromasmallbrassurn,theoneshehadusedtobathehimand Udayan when they were small, and then she placed the flowers on top.Withoutasking,heknew that thiswas thehour; that thishadbeen the timeofday.

On the family radio they listened to the news of East Pakistan turning intoBangladeshafterthirteendaysofwar.ForMuslimBengalisitmeantliberation,butforCalcuttatheconflicthadmeantanothersurgeofrefugeesfromacrosstheborder.CharuMajumdarwasstillinhiding.HewasIndia’smostwantedman,abountyoftenthousandrupeesonhishead.

Silently they listened to the reports, but his father hardly seemed to payattention.Thoughthecombingraidshadended,hisfatherstillkeptthekeytothehouseunderhispillowwhenheslept.Sometimes,atrandom,sittingatthetopofthepadlockedhouse,heshoneaflashlightthroughthegrille,toseeifsomeonewasthere.

TheydidnottalkofUdayan.Fordayshisnamedidnotescapetheirlips.ThenoneeveningSubhashasked,Howdidithappen?Hisfather’sfacewasimpassive,itwasasifhehadn’theard.Ithoughthe’dquittheparty,Subhashpressed.Thathe’ddriftedawayfromit.

Hadhe?Iwasathome,hisfathersaid,notacknowledgingthequestion.Whenwereyouhome?Thatday.Iopenedthegateforthem.Iletthemin.Who?Thepolice.Finallyhewasgettingsomewhere.Someexplanation,someacknowledgment.

Atthesametimehefeltworse,nowthathissuspicionhadbeenconfirmed.Whydidn’tyoutellmehewasindanger?Itwouldnothavemadeadifference.Well,tellmenow.Whydidtheykillhim?Hismotherreactedthen,glaringatSubhash.Shehadasmallface,withjust

enoughspaceforwhatitcontained.Stillyouthful,herdarkhairdecoratedwithitsbrightcolumnofvermillion,tosignifythatshehadahusband.

Hewasyourbrother,shesaid.Howcanyouasksuchathing?

Thenextmorning,hesoughtGauriout,knockingonthedoorofherroom.Her

hairhadjustbeenwashed.Shewaswearingitloosetoletitdry.Inhishandwasapaperbackbookhe’dbought forheratUdayan’s request.

One-DimensionalMan,byHerbertMarcuse.Hegaveittoher.Thisisforyou.FromUdayan.He’daskedme.Shelookeddownatthecover,andthenattheback.Sheopeneditandturned

tothebeginning.Foramomentitseemedshe’dbeguntoreaditalready,herfacesettlingintoaplacidexpressionofconcentration,forgettingthathewasthere.

Standingatherdoorway,hefeltthathewastrespassing.Heturnedtoleave.Youarekindtobringit,shesaid.Itwasnotrouble.Hewanted to talk to her. But there was nowhere in the housewhere they

mighthaveaconversationalone.Shallwegoforawalk?Notnow.Shesteppedtoonesideandpointedtoachairintheroom.Hehesitated,thenentered.Itwasdim,untilGauripushedopentheshuttersof

thetwowindows,admittingastarkwhiteglow.Asquareofsunlightfellontothebed,acalmbrightpatchcontainingtheverticalshadowsofthewindowbars.

The bed was low to the floor, with slender posts. There was also a shortarmoire,andasmalldressingtablewithabench.Insteadofpowdersandcombstherewerenotebooks,fountainpens,bottlesofink.Theroomsmelledsharplyofteak,emanatingfromthefurniture.Hecouldsmell thefragranceofherfreshlywashedhair.

Thelightisnice,hesaid.Onlynow. In a fewminutes the sunwill be toohighand the anglewill be

lost.Heglancedatasetofshelvesbuiltintoonewall,whereshestoredherbooks.

Wedgedamongthemwastheshortwaveradio.Hepulleditout,notbotheringtoturniton,butfiddlinginstinctivelywithoneofthedials.

Weputthistogether.Hetoldme.Doyoulistentoit?Hewastheonlyonewhocouldgetittowork.Wouldyoulikeitback?Heshookhishead,andreplaceditontheshelf.She perched on the edge of the bed. He saw other books spread open,

facedown, covered in smooth brown paper. She had written the titles at thecenter, in her own hand. He watched as she retrieved an old section of

newspaper and began to wrap the cover of the book he’d given her. He andUdayanusedtodothistogether,afterbuyingtheirnewschoolbooksfortheyear.

Noonedoesthatoverthere.Whynot?Idon’tknow.Maybethecoversaremoredurable.Ormaybetheydon’tmind

themlookingold.Wasithardtofind?No.Wheredidyougetit?Inthecampusbookstore.Isitfarfromwhereyoulive?Justaroundthecorner.Youcanwalkthere?Yes.Thepaperfeelsdifferent.Smooth.Henodded.Doyoustayatahostel?Ihavearoominahouse.Isthereamesshall?No.Whocooksforyou,then?Ido.Doyoulikelivingonyourown?UnexpectedlyhethoughtofHolly,andthedinnersatherkitchentable.That

briefturbulenceinhislifefelttrivialnow.LikestoneshewouldstoptogatherinRhodeIsland,thathewouldbrieflyclaspandthentossbackintotheseawhenhewalkedalongthebeach,he’dlethergo.

Still, he wondered nowwhat she would havemade of this sad and emptyhouse, this swampy enclave south of Calcutta where he’d been raised. HewonderedwhatshewouldhavemadeofGauri.

He asked Gauri about her studies, and she told him she’d completed herbachelor’s in philosophy earlier in the year. It had taken longer than it shouldhave. It had been difficult, because of the unrest. She said that she’d beenconsideringamaster’sprogram,beforeUdayanwaskilled.Before she learnedshewaspregnant.

DidUdayanknowhewasgoingtobeafather?

No.Her waist was still narrow. But Udayan’s ghost was palpable within her,

preservedinthisroomwhereshespentallher time.Whenshespokeofhimitwasanevocationofhim.Shehadnotshutdownashisparentshad.

Whenwillthebabybeborn?Insummer.Howisitforyouhereinthehouse?Withmyparents?Shesaidnothing.Hewaited,thenrealizedhewasstaringather,distractedby

asmalldarkmoleonthesideofherneck.Helookedaway.I can takeyou somewhere else, he suggested.Wouldyou like to visit your

familyforawhile?Yourauntsanduncles?Sheshookherhead.Whynot?For the first time a smile nearly came to her face, the uneven smile he

remembered from the photograph, slightly favoring one side of her mouth.BecauseIranoffandmarriedyourbrother,shesaid.

Evennowtheydon’twanttoseeyou?She shrugged. They’re nervous. I don’t blame them. I might compromise

theirsafety,evenyourparents’safety,whoknows?Butsurelythere’ssomeone?Mybrothercametoseemeafterithappened.Hecametothefuneral.Heand

Udayanwerefriends.Butit’snotuptohim.Canyoutellmesomethingelse?Whatdoyouwanttoknow?Iwanttoknowwhathappenedtomybrother,hesaid.

Chapter2

ItwastheweekbeforeDurgaPujo.ThemonthofAshvin,thefirstphaseofthewaxingmoon.

Atthetramdepot,Gauriandhermother-in-lawhiredacyclerickshawtotakethemhome.Theysettledthemselvesonthebenchoftherickshaw,packetsandbagson their lapsandheapedat their feet.Theywere returning fromadayofshopping,alittlelaterthanthey’dintended.

The packets contained gifts for extended family, also for themselves. Newsaris forGauri and hermother-in-law,Punjabis andpajamas for her father-in-law,shirtandtrousermaterialtoclotheUdayanthefollowingyear.Newsheetsto sleep on, new slippers.Towels to dry their bodies, combs to untangle theirhair.

As they approached the mosque at the corner her mother-in-law told thedrivertoslowdownandturnleft.Butthedriverstoppedpedaling,tellingthemthathewasunwillingtotraveloffthemainroad.

Pointingtoallthebagsandpackets,hermother-in-lawofferedtopaymore.Butstill thedriver refused.Heshookhishead,waitingfor themtodisembark.Sotheyfinishedthejourneyonfoot,carryingthethingsthey’dbought.

The lane hooked to the right, past the pandal in their enclave, the deitiesadornedbut unattended.No familieswerewalking about.Soon the twopondsacrossfromtheirhousecameintoview.

On the bank of the first pond Gauri saw a van belonging to the CentralReserve Police. Policemen and soldiers stood here and there, in their khakiuniforms and helmets. Not many, but enough of them to form a looseconstellationwherevershelooked.

Noonestoppedthemfromwalkingthroughtheswingingwoodendoorsintothecourtyard.Theysawthattheirongate,locatedatthesideofthehouse,wasopen.Thekeywasdanglinginthepadlock,openedinhaste.

They removed their street slippers and set down their bags. They began toclimbthefirstsetofsteps.Halfwayup,Gaurisawherfather-in-lawdescending,his hands raised over his head. He hesitated before lowering each foot, as ifafraidoflosinghisbalance.Asifhe’dneverwalkeddownasetofstepsbefore.

Anofficer followedhim.Hewaspointingarifleathisback.Gauriandher

mother-in-lawwereinstructedtoturnaround,towalkbackdownstairs.Sotherewasnoopportunitytogofurtherintothehouse,toseetheroomsthathadbeenoverturned. Clothes knocked off the lines strung along the terracewhere theyhad been hung to dry that morning, wardrobe doors flung open. Pillows andquiltspulledoffthebeds,coalsdumpedfromthecoalbasket,lentilsandgrainstossedoutofGlaxo tins in thekitchen.As if theywere looking for a scrapofpaperandnotaman.

The three of them—her father-in-law, her mother-in-law and Gauri—wereorderedtoexit thehouse, towalkthroughthecourtyard, tostepoverthestoneslabandbackontothestreet.Theyweretoldtoproceedinsinglefile,past thetwoponds, toward the lowland.The rains had been heavy, and it had floodedagain.Waterhyacinthshroudedthesurfacelikeamoth-eatencloak.

Gauri felt people in the surrounding homes taking inwhatwas happening.Watchingthroughchinksintheirshutters,standingstillindarkenedrooms.

They were arranged in a row. They stood close together, their shoulderstouching.Thegunwasstilltrainedonherfather-in-law.

Sheheardaconchshellblowing,theringingofabell.Thesoundscarriedinfromanotherneighborhood.Somewhere,insomehouseortemple,someonewaspraying,givingofferingsattheendofanotherday.

WeareunderorderstolocateandarrestUdayanMitra,saidthesoldierwhoseemedtobecommandingtheothers.Heannouncedthisthroughamegaphone.Ifanyoneinthislocalityknowswhereheishiding,ifanyoneisharboringhim,youarerequiredtostepforward.

Noonesaidanything.MysonisinAmerica,hermother-in-lawsaidquietly.Aliethatwasalsothe

truth.The officer ignored her.He stepped over toGauri.His eyeswere a lighter

brown than his skin.He studied her, pointing his gun at her,moving it closeruntilshewasnolongerabletoseeit.Shefeltthetip,acoldpendantatthebaseofherthroat.

Youarethewifeofthisfamily?ThewifeofUdayanMitra?Yes.Whereisyourhusband?Shehadnovoice.Shewasunabletospeak.We know he is here. We have had him followed. We have searched the

house,wehaveblockedoffthemeansofegress.Heiswastingourtime.Gauriwasawareofapainfulcurrenttravelingupanddownthebacksofher

legs.Whereishe?theofficerrepeated,pressingthegunagainstherthroatalittle

harder.Idon’tknow,shemanagedtosay.Ithinkyouarelying.Ithinkyoumustknowwhereheis.Behindthewaterhyacinth,inthefloodwaterofthelowland:thiswaswhere,

iftheneighborhoodwasraided,Udayanhadtoldherhewouldhide.Hetoldherthat there was a section where the growth was particularly dense. He kept akerosene tin behind the house, to help him over the backwall. Evenwith aninjuredhandhecouldmanageit.He’dpracticedit,lateatnight,afewtimes.

Wethinkhemightbehidinginthewater,thesoldiercontinued,notremovinghiseyesfromher.

No,shesaidtoherself.Sheheardthewordinherhead.Butthensherealizedthathermouthwasopen,likeanidiot’s.Hadshesaidsomething?Whisperedit?Shecouldnotbesure.

Whatdidyousay?Isaidnothing.Thetipofthegunwasstillsteadyatherthroat.Butsuddenlyitwasremoved,

theofficertippinghisheadtowardthelowland,steppingaway.He’sthere,hetoldtheothers.Againtheofficerbeganspeakingthroughamegaphone.UdayanMitra, step forward, surrender yourself, he said, thewords at once

distorted and piercing, audible throughout the enclave. We are prepared toeliminatethemembersofyourfamilyifyoudon’tdoaswesay.

Hepaused,thenadded,Onememberforeachfalsestep.Atfirstnothinghappened.Onlythesoundofherownbreathing.Someofthe

soldiers were wading into the water, aiming rifles. One of them fired a shot.Then, from somewhere in the lowland, she heard the sound of the water’ssurfacebreaking.

Udayan appeared. Amid the hyacinth, in water up to his waist. Bent over,coughing,gaspingforair.

His right hand was bandaged, concealed by layers of gauze. His hair wasstickingtohisscalp,theshirthewaswearingwasstickingtohisskin.Hisbeardandmoustacheneededtrimming.Heraisedhisarmsoverhishead.

Good.Walktowardusnow.Hesteppedthroughtheweeds,outofthewater,untilhestoodonlyafewfeet

away.Hewas shivering, struggling to regulate his breathing.She saw the lips

that never fullymet, leaving the small diamond-shaped gap at the center.Thelipswereblue.Shesawflecksofalgaecoatinghisneck,hisforearms.Shecouldnottellifitwaswaterorperspirationdrippingdownthesidesofhisface.

Hewastoldtobenddownandtouchhisparents’feet.Hewastoldtoaskfortheir forgiveness. He had to do this with his left hand. He stood before hismotherandbentdown.Forgiveme,hesaid.

What arewe to forgive? her father-in-law asked, his voice cracking,whenUdayanbentbeforehim.Heappealedtotheofficers.Youaremakingamistake.

Yoursonhasbetrayedhiscountry.Itishewhohasmadethemistake.ThecurrentinGauri’slegsintensified,radiatingallthewaytoherfeet.She

felt a tingling sensation spreading from the base of her neck across her scalp.Shethoughtthatherlegswouldbuckle,therewasnostrengthinthem.Nothingwassupportingher.Butshecontinuedtostand.

Hishandswereboundbyarope.Shesawhimwincewhentheydidthis,theinjuredhandtwitchinginpain.

Thisway,theofficersaid,pointingwithhisgun.Udayanpaused,andglancedather.Helookedatherfaceashealwaysdid,

absorbingitsdetailsasifforthefirsttime.Theypushedhimintothevanandslammedthedoorshut.Gauriandherin-

lawswereorderedback into thehouse.Oneof thesoldiersescorted them.Shewondered which prison they would take him to.What they would do to himthere.

Theyheardthevanstarting.Butinsteadofreversingandheadingoutoftheenclave, toward themain road, it traveled over the damp grass that edged thelowland,thetiresleavingthicktracks.Overtowardtheemptyfieldthatwasontheothersideofit.

Inside the house they climbed to the third floor, to the terrace. They couldmakeoutthevan,andUdayanstandingnexttoit.Itwouldhavebeenimpossiblefor anyoneelse in theirneighborhood towitnesswhatwashappening.But thetopfloorofthehouse,recentlycompleted,affordedthemthisview.

Theysawoneof thesoldiersundoing the ropearoundhiswrists.TheysawUdayanwalkingacross the field, away from theparamilitary.Hewaswalkingtowardthelowland,backtowardthehouse,armsraisedoverhishead.

Gauri remembered all the times she’dwatched him fromher grandparents’balconyinNorthCalcutta,crossingthebusystreet,comingtovisither.

Foramomentitwasasiftheywerelettinghimgo.Butthenagunwasfired,the bullet aimed at his back. The sound of the shot was brief, unambiguous.Therewasasecondshot,thenathird.

Shewatchedhisarmsflapping,hisbody leapingforward,seizingupbeforefalling to theground.Therewas theclean soundof the shots, followedby thesoundofcrows,coarselycalling,scattering.

Itwasn’tpossibletoseewherehe’dbeenwounded,whereexactlythebulletshadgone.Itwastoodistanttoseehowmuchbloodhadspilled.

Thesoldiersdraggedhisbodyby the legs, then tossedhiminto thebackofthevan.

They heard the doors slam shut, the engine starting up again. The vancontainingthebody,drivingaway.

In their bedroom, under the mattress, forgotten among folded sections ofnewspaperthey’dnotbotheredtotoss,wasadiarythepolicehaddiscovered.Itcontainedalltheprooftheyneeded.Amongtheequationsandnotesonroutineformulasandexperimentswasapageof instructions forhowtoput togetheraMolotovcocktail,ahomemadebomb.Notesonthedifferenceineffectbetweenmethanol and gasoline. Potassium chlorate versus nitric acid. Storm matchesversusakerosenewick.

In thediary therewasalsoamapUdayanhadsketchedof the layoutof theTollyClub.Thelocationsandnamesofthebuildings,thestables,thecaretaker’scottage. The arrangement of the driveway, the configuration of the walkingpaths.

Certain times of day had been jotted down, a schedule ofwhen the guardsmovedaround,whenemployeeswentonandoffduty.Whentherestaurantsandbars opened and closed, when the gardeners clipped and watered the grass.Variousplaceswhereapersonmightenterandexitthepremises,targetswhereonemightthrowanexplosive,orleaveatimeddevicebehind.

A few months ago he’d been brought in for questioning. It had becomeroutinebythen,for thecity’syoungmen.At the timetheybelievedwhathe’dtoldthem.Thathewasahighschoolteacher,married,livinginTollygunge.NotiestotheCPI(ML).

Hewasaskedifhe’dknownanythingaboutanincidentofvandalismintheschool’slibrary:whohadbrokenintoitonenighttoslashtheportraitsofTagoreandVidyasagarhangingon thewalls.At the time theywere satisfiedwithhisanswers.Concludingthathe’dhadnothingtodowithit,theyaskedhimnothingelse.

Thenonenight,aboutamonthbeforehewaskilled,hedidnotcomehome.He returned early the next morning, not entering through the courtyard, notringing the bell.Hewent around to the back, climbingover thewall thatwas

shoulderhigh.Hewaitedinthegarden,behindtheshedfilledwithcoalandbrokenwoodto

light the stove.He tossedupbits of terra-cotta froma broken flowerpot, untilGauriopenedtheshutterstotheirbedroomandlookeddown.

Hisrighthandwasbandaged,hisarminasling.Heandhissquadmembershadbeen trying to assemble a pipebomb,using a firecracker as an explosive.Udayan,with the slight tremor thathadnever fully lefthis fingers, shouldnothavebeentheonetoattemptit.

Theblasthadoccurredataremotelocation,atasafehouse.He’dmanagedtogetaway.

Hetoldhisparents ithadhappenedinthecourseofaroutineexperimentatschool.Thatabitofsodiumhydroxidehadspilledonhisskin.Hetoldthemnottoworry,thatthehandwouldhealinafewweeks.ButhetoldGauriwhathadreallyhappened.Thetwocomradeswho’dbeenhelpinghimhadsteppedawayin time,butnotUdayan, andunderhisbandage therewasnowauselesspaw.Thebandagewouldcomeoff,butthefingersweregone.

By then, in the course of raids in Tollygunge, the police had discoveredammunitioninthefilmstudios.Inmakeuprooms,ineditingrooms.Theywereconducting searches at random, harassing youngmen on the streets.Arrestingthem, torturing them. Filling themorgues, the crematoriums. In themornings,dumpingcorpsesonthestreets,asawarning.

For twoweeksUdayanwasgone.He toldhisparentshewassimply takingprecautions,thoughbythenthey,too,musthaveknown.AndhetoldGaurithathewasafraid,thattheinjurytohishandmadehimconspicuous,thatthepolicemightputitalltogethernow.

Gaurididnotknowwherehewas,whetheritwasonesafehouseorseveral.Occasionally therewasanote, retrievedat the stationer’son themain road.Asign that hewas still alive, a request for fresh clothes, his thyroidpills.Therewasstillenoughofanetworkintheneighborhoodtoarrangeforthis.Attheendofthetwoweeks,becausetherewasnootherplacetoshelterhim,hereturnedtotheirenclave.

Oncehewashomeagainhewasunabletoleave.Hisparents,anxiousforhisreturn,preferredhimtherethananywhereelse.Theymadesurenoonesawhim.Noneighbor,noworkman,novisitortothehouse.Thehouseboywassworntosecrecy.Theygotridofhisthings,asifhewerealreadydead.Hisbookshidden,hisclothesstoredinatrunkunderthebed.

He kept to the back rooms. Never showing his face from a terrace or awindow.Neverspeakingaboveawhisper.Hisonlyfreedomwastogouptothe

rooftopinthemiddleofthenight,tositagainsttheparapetandsmokeunderthestars.Becauseofhishandheneededhelpdressingandbathing.Hewas likeachild,needingtobefed.

He had trouble hearing, asking Gauri to repeat herself. There had beendamagetooneofhiseardrumsfromtheexplosion.Hecomplainedofdizziness,a high-pitched sound that would not go away. He said he could not hear theshortwave,whenshecouldhearitperfectlywell.

Heworried that hemight not be able to hear the buzzer, if it rang, or theapproachof amilitary jeep.He complainedof feeling alone even though theyweretogether.Feelingisolatedinthemostbasicway.

Nearlyaweekpassed.Perhapsthepolicehadnotconnectedthedots,perhapsthey’d lost track of him. Perhaps they would be diverted by the approachingfestival,hesaid.Hewastheonewho’dconvincedGauriandhismothertoleavethe house for the day, to dowhat they had put off. To distract themselves, toappearnormaltotheirneighbors,todosomeholidayshopping.

The bodywas not returned to them. Theywere never toldwhere it had beenburned.Whenherfather-in-lawwenttothepolicestation,seekinginformation,seeking some explanation, they denied any knowledge of the incident. Aftertakinghiminfullview,hiscaptorshadleftnotrace.

Fortendaysafterhisdeaththerewererulestofollow.Shedidnotwashherclothesorwearslippersorcombherhair.Sheshutthedoorandtheshutterstopreservewhateverinvisibleparticlesofhimfloatedintheatmosphere.Shesleptonthebed,onthepillowUdayanhadusedandthatcontinuedtosmellforafewdaysofhim,untilitwasreplacedbyherownodor,hergreasyskinandhair.

No one bothered her. She was aware of holding her body very still, as ifposingforaphotographthatwasnevertaken.Inspiteofthestillness,shefeltattimesasifshewerefalling,thebedseemingtogiveway.Shewasunabletocry.Therewereonlythetearsdisconnectedtofeeling,thatgatheredandsometimesfellfromthecornersofhereyesinthemorning,aftersleep.

The days of Pujo arrived and began to pass: Shashthi, Saptami, Ashtami,Navami. Days of worship and celebration across the city. Of mourning andseclusioninsidethehouse.Thevermillionwaswashedcleanfromherhair,theironbangleremovedfromherwrist.Theabsenceoftheseornamentsmarkedherasawidow.Shewastwenty-threeyearsold.

Afterelevendaysapriestcameforthefinalrites,andacooktopreparetheceremonialmeal. Inside the house,Udayan’s portraitwas propped against thewallinaframe,behindglass,wreathedwithtuberoses.Shewasunabletolookat

hisfaceinthephotograph.Shesatfortheceremony,herwristsbare.Ifanythinghappenstome,don’t let themwastemoneyonmyfuneral,he’d

once told her. But a funeral took place, the house filled with people who’dknownhim, familymembersandpartymemberscoming topay their respects.Toeatdishesmadeinhishonor,theparticularfoodsthathehadloved.

Afterthemourningperiodendedherin-lawsbegantoeatfishandmeatagain,butnotGauri.Shewasgivenwhitesaristowearinplaceofcoloredones,sothatsheresembledtheotherwidowsinthefamily.Womenthreetimesherage.

Dashamicame:theendofPujo,thedayofDurga’sreturntoShiva.Atnighttheeffigiesthathadstoodinthesmallpandalintheirneighborhoodweretakentotherivertobeimmersed.Itwasdonewithoutfanfarethisyear,outofrespectforUdayan.

ButinNorthCalcutta,belowthebalconywheretheyhadfirstspokentooneanother,theprocessionswouldcontinuethroughoutthenight.Peoplelineduponthe sidewalks for a final glimpse, the noise so great it would have beenimpossibletosleep.Shewillcomeback,shewillreturntous,peoplechantedastheymarchedonthestreet,accompanyingthegoddesstotheriver,biddingheranotheryear’sfarewell.

One morning, after the first month had passed, she was unable to go to thekitchentohelphermother-in-lawwiththeday’spreparations,asshewasonceagainexpected todo.Feelingdrainedofenergy,dizzywhenshe tried tostandup,sheremainedinbed.

Fiveminutes passed, another ten. Hermother-in-law entered the room andtoldher itwas late.Sheopened the shutters and lookeddownatGauri’s face.Sheheldacupofteainherhandsbutdidnotofferitrightaway.Foramomentsheonlystoodthere,staringather.Gaurisatupslowly,totaketheteafromherhands.

I’llbeupstairsinamoment.Don’tbothertoday,hermother-in-lawsaid.Whynot?Youwon’tbeofhelp.Sheshookherhead,confused.An intelligent girl. This is what he told us after hemarried you. And yet,

incapableofunderstandingsimplethings.Whathaven’tIunderstood?Her mother-in-law had already turned to leave the room. At the door she

paused.Carefulfromnowon,nottoslipinthebathroom,oronthestairs.Fromnowon?You’regoingtobeamother,Gauriheardhersay.

Fromthebeginningoftheirmarriagehedidnottouchherforoneweekoutofeverymonth.Hehadaskedhertokeeptrackofherperiodsinthepagesofherdiary,tellinghimwhenitwassafe.

Aftertherevolutionwassuccessful,he’dtoldher,they’dbringchildrenintothe world. Only then. But in the final weeks before his death, when he washidingatthehouse,theyhadbothlosttrackofthedays.

She had been born with a map of time in her mind. She pictured otherabstractionsaswell,numbersandthelettersofthealphabet,bothinEnglishandinBengali.Numbersandletterswerelikelinksonachain.Monthswerearrayedasifalonganorbitinspace.

Eachconceptexistedinitsowntopography,three-dimensional,physical.Sothateversinceshewasachild itwas impossibleforher tocalculateasum, tospellawordshewasunsureof, toaccessamemoryorawaitsomething in thecomingmonths,withoutretrievingitfromaspecificlocationinhermind.

Her strongest image was always of time, both past and future; it was animmediate horizon, at once orienting and containing her. Across the limitlessspectrumofyears, thebrief tenancyofherown lifewassuperimposed.To therightwas the recent past: the year she’dmetUdayan, and before that, all theyearsshe’dlivedwithoutknowinghim.Therewastheyearshewasborn,1948,prefacedbyalltheyearsandcenturiesthatcamebefore.

To the leftwas the future, theplacewhereherdeath,unknownbut certain,wasanendpoint.Inlessthanninemonthsababywouldcome.Butitslifehadalreadystarted,itsheartalreadybeating,representedbyaseparatelinecreepingforward. She saw Udayan’s life, no longer accompanying her own as she’dassumed it would, but ceasing in October 1971. This formed a grave in hermind’seye.

Only thepresentmoment, lackinganyperspective,eludedhergrasp. Itwaslikeablindspot,justoverhershoulder.Aholeinhervision.Butthefuturewasvisible,unspoolingincrementally.

Shewantedtoshuthereyestoit.Shewishedthedaysandmonthsaheadofher would end. But the rest of her life continued to present itself, timeceaselesslyproliferating.Shewasmadetoanticipateitagainstherwill.

Therewastheanxietythatonedaywouldnotfollowthenext,combinedwith

thecertaintythatitwould.Itwaslikeholdingherbreath,asUdayanhadtriedtodointhelowland.Andyetsomehowshewasbreathing.Justastimestoodstillbutwasalsopassing,someotherpartofherbodythatshewasunawareofwasnowdrawingoxygen,forcinghertostayalive.

Chapter3

ThedayafterspeakingtoGauri,Subhashwentout,alone, intothecityfor thefirst time. He took the material his parents had given him, his share andUdayan’s,toamen’stailoringshop.Hedidn’tneednewshirtsandtrousers,andyethefeltobligated,notwantingthematerialtogotowaste.Thenewsthattherewas nowhere to have clothes tailored inRhode Island, thatAmerican clothingwasallready-made,hadcometohisparentsasasurprise.Itwasthefirstdetailofhislifetherethey’dopenlyreactedto.

HetookthetramtoBallygunge,walkingpastthehawkerswhocalledouttohim.Hefoundthesmallshopownedbydistantrelatives,whereheandUdayanalways went together, once a year, to be measured. A long counter, a fittingroomin thecorner,a rodwhere the finishedclothingwashung.Heplacedhisorder,watching the tailor sketch thedesignsquickly in anotebook, clipping atriangleofthematerialandstaplingittothecornerofeachreceipt.

Therewas nothing else he needed, nothing from the city hewanted. AfterhearingwhatGaurihadtoldhim,afterpicturingit,hecouldfocusonlittleelse.

He got on a bus, riding with no destination in mind, getting out close toEsplanade.He saw foreignerson the streets,Europeanswearingkurtas, beads.ExploringCalcutta, passing through.Thoughhe looked like anyotherBengalihefeltanallegiancewiththeforeignersnow.Hesharedwiththemaknowledgeofelsewhere.Anotherlifetogobackto.Theabilitytoleave.

Therewere hotels hemight have entered in this part of the city, to have awhiskeyorabeer, tofall intoaconversationwithstrangers.Toforgetthewayhisparentsbehaved,toforgetthethingsGaurihadsaid.

He stopped to light a cigarette, Wills, the brand Udayan smoked. Feelingtired,hestoodinfrontofastorethatsoldembroideredshawls.

Whatwouldyouliketosee?theownerasked.HewasfromKashmir,hisfacepale,hiseyeslight,acottoncaponhishead.

Nothing.Comehavealook.Haveacupoftea.He had forgotten about such gestures of hospitality from shopkeepers. He

enteredandsatonastool,watchingasthewoolenshawlswerespreadoutonebyoneona largewhitecushionon the floor.Thegenerosityof theeffort, the

faithimplicitinit,touchedhim.Hedecidedtobuyoneforhismother,realizingonlynowthathe’dbroughthernothingfromAmerica.

I’ll take this, he said, fingering a navy-blue shawl, thinking she wouldappreciatethesoftnessofthewool,theintricacyofthestitch.

Whatelse?That’sall,hesaid.ButthenhepicturedGauri.Herecalledherprofileasshe’d

toldhimaboutUdayan.Thewayshe’dstaredstraightaheadatnothing, tellinghimwhathe’dwantedtoknow.

It was thanks to Gauri that he knew what had happened: that she and hisparentshadwatchedUdayandie.Heknewnowthathisparentshadbeenshamedbeforetheirneighbors.UnabletohelpUdayan,unableintheendtoprotecthim.Losinghiminanunthinkableway.

Hesiftedthroughthechoicesathisfeet.Ivory,gray,abrownthatwaslighterthantheteahe’dbeengiventodrink.Thesewereconsideredappropriateforhernow.Butavivid turquoiseonewithaborderofminuteembroiderycaughthiseye.

He imagined it wrapped around her shoulders, trailing over one side.Brighteningherface.

Alsothisone,hesaid.

Hisparentswereon their terrace,waiting.Theyaskedwhathad takenhim solong.Theysaiditstillwasn’tsafe,towandersolateonthestreets.

Thoughtheirconcernwasreasonableitannoyedhim.I’mnotUdayan,hewastemptedtosay.Iwouldneverhaveputyouthroughthat.

Hegavehismother theshawlhe’dbought forher.Thenheshowedher theoneforGauri.

I’dliketogiveherthis.Youshouldknowbetter,shesaid.Stoptryingtobefriendher.Hewassilent.Iheardthetwoofyoutalkingyesterday.I’mnotsupposedtotalktoher?Whatdidshetellyou?Hedidn’tsay.Insteadheasked,Whydon’tyouevertalktoher?Nowitwashismotherwhowassilent.You’vetakenawayhercoloredclothes,thefishandmeatfromherplate.Theseareourcustoms,hismothersaid.It’sdemeaning.Udayanwouldneverhavewantedhertolivethisway.

He was not used to quarreling with his mother. But a new energy flowedthroughhimandhecouldnotrestrainhimself.

Doesitmeannothing,thatshe’sgoingtogiveyouagrandchild?Itmeanseverything.It’stheonlythinghe’sleftus,hismothersaid.AndwhataboutGauri?Shehasaplacehereifshechooses.Whatdoyoumean,ifshechooses?Shecouldgosomewheretocontinueherstudies.Shemightpreferit.Whatmakesyouthinkthat?She’stoowithdrawn,tooalooftobeamother.Histempleswerethrobbing.Haveyoudiscussedanyofthiswithher?There’snopointinworryingheraboutitnow.Hesaw thatalready,coldly, sittingon the terrace,hismotherhadplotted it

out.Buthewasjustasappalledathisfather,forsayingnothing,forgoingalongwithit.

Youcan’tseparatethem.ForUdayan’ssake,accepther.Hismotherlostherpatience.Shewasangrywithhim,too.Shutyourmouth,

shesaid,hertoneinsulting.Don’ttellmehowtohonormyownson.

Thatnight,underthemosquitonetting,Subhashwasunabletosleep.Perhaps he would never fully know what Udayan had done. Gauri had

conveyedherversiontohim,andhisparentsrefusedtodiscussit.He supposed they’dbeen lenient regardingUdayan, as they’d alwaysbeen.

Intuitingthathewasinoverhishead,butneverconfrontinghim.Udayanhadgivenhis lifetoamovementthathadbeenmisguided, thathad

caused only damage, that had already been dismantled. The only thing he’dalteredwaswhattheirfamilyhadbeen.

He had kept Subhash, and probably to a great degree also his parents,deliberately in the dark. The more his involvement had deepened, the moreevasive he’d turned.Writing letters as if themovement no longermattered tohim.HopingtothrowSubhashoffthetrailashe’dputtogetherbombs,ashe’dsketchedmapsoftheTollyClub.Ashe’dblownthefingersoffhishand.

Gauri was the one he’d trusted. He’d inserted her into their lives, only tostrandherthere.

Like the solution to an equation emerging bit by bit, Subhash began toperceiveaturnthingsmighttake.HewasalreadyeagertoleaveCalcutta.Therewasnothinghecoulddoforhisparents.Hewasunabletoconsolethem.Though

he’d returned to standbefore them, in the end it hadnotmattered that hehadcome.

ButGauriwasdifferent.Aroundher,hefeltasharedawarenessofthepersonthey’dbothloved.

He thought of her remaining with his parents, living by their rules. Hismother’scoldnesstowardGauriwasinsulting,buthisfather’spassivitywasjustascruel.

And it wasn’t simply cruelty. Their treatment of Gauri was deliberate,intended to drive her out.He thought of her becoming amother, only to losecontrolofthechild.Hethoughtofthechildbeingraisedinajoylesshouse.

TheonlywaytopreventitwastotakeGauriaway.Itwasallhecoulddotohelp her, the only alternative he could provide.And the onlyway to take herawaywastomarryher.Totakehisbrother’splace,toraisehischild,tocometoloveGauriasUdayanhad.To followhim inaway that feltperverse, that feltordained.Thatfeltbothrightandwrong.

Thedateofhisdeparturewasapproaching;soonenoughhewouldbeontheplaneagain.Therewasnoone there forhim inRhode Island.Hewas tiredofbeingalone.

HehadtriedtodenytheattractionhefeltforGauri.Butitwaslikethelightofthefirefliesthatswamuptothehouseatnight,randompointsthatsurroundedhim,thatglowedandthenrecededwithoutatrail.

Hementioned nothing to his parents, knowing that theywould only try todissuadehim.Heknewthesolutionhe’darrivedatwouldappallthem.Hewenttoherdirectly.He’dbeenafraidofhowhisfamilymightreacttoHolly.Buthewasnolongerafraid.

Thisisforyou,hesaid,standinginherdoorway,givinghertheshawl.Sheliftedthecoveroftheboxandlookedatit.I’dlikeforyoutowearit,hesaid.Hewatched her step into the room and open herwardrobe. She placed the

shawl,stillfoldedinthebox,inside.Whensheturnedtofacehimagain,heobservedthatamosquitohadlandedat

theveryedgeofherforehead,closetothehairline.Hewantedtoreachoverandbrushitaway,butshestood,unbothered,perhapsunaware.

Ihatehowmyparentstreatyou,hesaid.She was silent. She sat down at her desk, in front of the book and the

notebookspreadthere.Shewaswaitingforhimtogo.Helosthisnerve.Theideawasridiculous.Shewouldnotweartheturquoise

shawl, shewould never agree tomarry him and go toRhode Island. ShewasmourningforUdayan,carryinghischild.Subhashknewhewasnothingtoher.

The following afternoon, at a time no one was expected, the buzzer rang.Subhashwassittingon the terrace, reading thepapers.Hisfatherwasatwork,hismotherhadgoneoutonanerrand.Gauriwasinherroom.

Hewentdownthestaircasetoseewhoitwas.Hefoundthreemenstandingontheothersideofthegate.Twopolicemencarryingguns,andaninvestigatorfromtheIntelligenceBureau.Theinvestigatorintroducedhimself.HewantedtospeaktoGauri.

She’ssleeping.Gowakeher.Heunlocked thegate and took them to the second floor.Heasked them to

waitonthelanding.ThenhewalkeddownthecorridortoGauri’sroom.Whensheopenedthedoor,shewasnotwearingherglasses.Hereyeslooked

tired.Her hairwasdisheveled, thematerial of her sariwrinkled.Thebedwasunmade.

Hetoldherwhohadcome.I’llstaywithyou,hesaid.She tiedbackherhairandputonherglasses.She remade thebedand told

him shewas ready. Shewas composed, betraying none of the nervousness hefelt.

The investigator stepped into the room first. The policemen followed,standing in the doorway.Theywere smoking cigarettes, allowing the ashes tofallontothefloor.Oneofthemhadalazyeye,sothatheseemedtobelookingatbothGauriandSubhashatthesametime.

Theinvestigatorwasobservingthewalls,theceiling,takingincertaindetails.HepickeduponeofthebooksonGauri’stable,thumbingthroughafewpages.Hetookanotepadandpenoutofhisshirtpocket.Hemadesomenotes.Thetipsofsomeofhisfingershadlosttheirpigment,asifspottedwithbleach.

You’rethebrother?heasked,notbotheringtolookupatSubhash.Yes.TheoneinAmerica?Henodded,buttheinvestigatorwasalreadyfocusedonGauri.Youmetyourhusbandinwhatyear?Nineteensixty-eight.WhileyouwereastudentatPresidency?Yes.

Youweresympathetictohisbeliefs?Inthebeginning.Areyoucurrentlyamemberofanypoliticalorganization?No.I’dliketogooversomephotographs.They’reofsomepeopleyourhusband

knew.Allright.Hetookanenvelopeoutofhispocket.Hebeganhandingherpictures.Small

snapshotsSubhashwasunabletosee.Doyourecognizeanyofthesepeople?No.You’venevermetthem?Yourhusbandneverintroducedyoutothem?No.Lookcarefully,please.Ihave.The investigator put the snapshots back into the envelope, mindful not to

smudgethem.DidheevermentionsomeonenamedNirmalDey?No.Youarecertain?Yes.GopalSinha?Subhashswallowed,andglancedather.Shewaslying.Evenheremembered

Sinha,themedicalstudent,fromthemeetinghe’dattended.SurelyUdayanhadmentionedhimtoGauri.

Orhadhe?Perhaps,forthesakeofprotectingher,he’dbeendishonestwithher,too.Subhashhadnowayofknowing.AsvividasheraccountofUdayan’sfinaldaysandmomentshadbeen,certaindetailsremainedvague.

The investigator took a few more notes, then wiped his face with ahandkerchief.MayItroubleyouforsomewater?

Subhashpoured it forhim, fromtheurn in thecornerof the room,handinghimthestainless-steelcupthatwaskept,overturned,besideit.Hewatchedtheinvestigatordrainthecup,thensetitdownonGauri’sdesk.

We’llreturnifwehavefurtherquestions,theinvestigatorsaid.Thepolicemensteppedontheircigarettestoputthemout,andthenthegroup

turned back toward the staircase. Subhash followed, seeing them out of thehouse,lockingthegatebehindthem.

WhendoyoureturntoAmerica?theinvestigatorasked.Inafewweeks.Whatisyoursubject?Chemicaloceanography.You’renothinglikeyourbrother,heremarked,thenturnedtogo.

•••

Shewaswaitingforhimontheterrace,sittingononeofthefoldingchairs.You’reallright?heasked.Yes.Howlongbeforetheycomeback?Theywon’tcomeagain.Howcanyoubesure?Sheraisedherhead,thenhereyes.BecauseIhavenothingelsetotellthem,

shesaid.You’recertain?Shecontinuedtolookathim,herexpressionneutral,composed.Hewantedto

believeher.Buteven if therewasanythingelse shehad to tell,heunderstoodthattherewasnothingelseshewaswillingtosay.

You’renotsafehere,hesaid.Evenifthepoliceleaveyoualone,myparentswon’t.

Whatdoyoumean?Hepaused,thentoldherwhatheknew.Theywantyououtofthishouse,Gauri.Theydon’twanttotakecareofyou.

Theywanttheirgrandchildtothemselves.After she had absorbed this, he said the only things he could think of, the

mostobviousoffacts:thatinAmericanooneknewaboutthemovement,noonewouldbotherher.Shecouldgoonwithherstudies.Itwouldbeanopportunitytobeginagain.

Because she said nothing to interrupt him, hewent on, explaining that thechildneededafather.InAmericaitcouldberaisedwithouttheburdenofwhathadhappened.

He toldherheknewshe still lovedUdayan.He toldhernot to thinkaboutwhat peoplemight say, how his parentswould react. If shewentwith him toAmerica,hepromisedher,itwouldallceasetomatter.

She’drecognizedmostofthepeopleinthephotographs.TheywereallUdayan’scomrades, party members from the neighborhood. She remembered some ofthem from a meeting she’d gone to once, before it got too dangerous. She’drecognizedChandra,awomanwhoworkedatthetailorshop,andalsothemanfromthestationer’s.She’dpretendednotto.

Among the names the investigator had gone over, there was only one thatUdayan had nevermentioned.Only one, truthfully, she did not know.NirmalDey.Andyetsomethingtoldhershewasnotinignoranceofthisman.

Youdon’thavetodothis,shesaidtoSubhashthefollowingmorning.It’snotonlyforyou.Hewouldn’thavewantedthis.Iunderstand.I’mnottalkingaboutourgettingmarried.What,then?Intheendhedidn’twantafamily.Hetoldmethedaybeforehedied.And

yet—Shestoppedherself.What?Heoncetoldme,becausehegotmarriedbeforeyou,thathewantedyoutobe

thefirsttohaveachild.

PartIV

Chapter1

Hewasthere,standingbehindaropeattheairport,waitingforher.Herbrother-in-law,herhusband.Thesecondmanshehadmarriedintwoyears.

The same height, a similar build. Counterparts, companions, though she’dneverseenthemtogether.Subhashwasamilderversion.ComparedtoUdayan’s,hisfacewasliketheslightlyflawedimpressionthemanatImmigrationhadjuststampedintoherpassport,indicatingherarrival,stampedoverasecondtimeforemphasis.

Hewaswearingcorduroypants,acheckeredshirt,azipperedjacket,athleticshoes. The eyes that greeted her were kind but weak; the weakness, shesuspected,thathadledhimtomarryher,andtodoherthefavorhe’ddone.

Herehewas, toreceiveher, toaccompanyherfromnowon.Nothingabouthimhadchanged;attheendofhervoyage,therewasnothingtogreetherbuttherealityofthedecisionshe’dmade.

Butshesawhimregisteringtheobviouschangeinher.Fivemonthspregnantnow, her face and hips fuller, her waist thick, the child’s presence obviousbeneaththeturquoiseshawlhe’dgivenher,drapedaroundherforwarmth.

Sheenteredhiscarandsatbesidehim,tohisright,hertwosuitcasesstackedintheircanvasslipcoversonthebackseat.Shewaitedwhilehestartedtheengineandletitrunforabit.Heunpeeledabananaandpouredhimselfsometeafromaflask.Sheputherlipstotheothersideofthecapwhenheoffered,swallowingahottastelessliquid,likewetwood.

Howdoyoufeel?Tired.Again the voice, also Udayan’s. Almost the exact pitch and manner of

speaking.Thiswasthedeepestandmoststartlingproofoftheirfraternity.ForamomentsheallowedthisisolatedaspectofUdayan,preservedandreplicatedinSubhash’sthroat,totravelbacktoher.

Howaremyparents?Thesame.Theheat’sarrivedinCalcutta?Moreorless.Andthesituationgenerally?

Somewouldsaybetter.Othersworse.ThiswasBoston,hetoldher.RhodeIslandwassouthofhere.Theyemerged

fromatunnelthatwentbelowariver,passingbyaharbor,andthenthecityfellaway.Hedrovemorequicklythanshewasusedto,moreconsistentlythancarscould travel on Calcutta streets. The continuous movement sickened her. Shehadpreferredbeingontheplane,detachedfromtheearth,theillusionofsittingstill.

Along the side of the road were gray-and white-skinned trees that lookedincapableofeverproducingleaforfruit.Theirbrancheswerecopiousbutthin,densenetworksshecouldsee through.Onsometrees,afewleavesstillclung.Shewonderedwhytheyhadnotfallenliketheothers.

Amongthetrees,hereandthere,werepatchesofsnow.Shewouldrememberthesmoothpitchoftheroads,theflat,squared-offshapesofthecars.Andallthespace between and around things—the cars traveling in two directions, theinfrequentbuildings.Thebarrenbutdenselygrowingtrees.

Heglancedather.Isitwhatyouexpected?Ididn’tknowwhattoexpect.Again the child was stirring and shifting. It was unaware of its new

surroundings, and of the astonishing distance it had traveled. Gauri’s bodyremaineditsworld.Shewonderedifthenewenvironmentwouldaffectitinanyway.Ifitcouldsensethecold.

Shefeltasifshecontainedaghost,asUdayanwas.Thechildwasaversionofhim,inthatitwasbothpresentandabsent.Bothwithinherandremote.Sheregarded itwith a sort of disbelief, just as she still did not really believe thatUdayanwasgone,missingnownotonlyfromCalcuttabutfromeveryotherpartoftheearthshe’djustflownacross.

AstheplanewaslandinginBoston,she’dmomentarilyfearedthattheirchildwoulddissolveandabandonher.She’dfearedthatitwouldperceive,somehow,thatthewrongfatherwaswaitingtoreceivethem.Thatitwouldprotestandstopforming.

AfterenteringRhodeIslandsheexpected tosee theocean,but thehighwaymerely continued. They approached a small city called Providence. She sawhilly streets, buildings close together, peaked rooftops, an ornatewhite dome.Sheknewthatthewordprovidencemeantforesight,thefuturebeheldbeforeitwasexperienced.

Itwas themiddle of the day, the sun directly overhead.Abright blue sky,transparentclouds.Atimeofdaylackingmystery,onlyanassertionofthedayitself.Asiftheskywerenotmeanttodarken,thedaynotmeanttoend.

Ontheplanetimehadbeenirrelevantbutalsotheonlythingthatmattered;itwastime,notspace,she’dbeenawareoftravelingthrough.She’dsatamongsomanypassengers,captive,awaitingtheirdestinations.Mostofthem,likeGauri,freedinanatmospherenottheirown.

ForafewminutesSubhashturnedonthecarradio,listeningtoamanreportlocalnews,theweatherforecast.She’dhadanEnglisheducation,she’dstudiedatPresidency,andyetshecouldbarelyunderstandthebroadcast.

Eventually she saw horses grazing, cows standing still. Homes with glasswindowsshuttighttoblockoutthecold.Wallslowenoughtostepover,formingboundaries,madeoflargeandsmallstones.

Theyreachedatrafficlightswayingonawire.Whiletheywerestopped,hepointed left. She saw a wooden tower, rising like an internal staircase to anonexistentbuilding.Over the topsofpine trees, in thedistance,at last,wasathindarkline.Thesea.

Mycampusisthatway,hesaid.Shelookedat theflatgrayroad,with twoongoingstripespainteddownthe

middle.Thiswas the placewhere she could put things behindher.Where herchildwouldbeborn,ignorantandsafe.

She thought Subhash would turn left, where he told her his campus waslocated.Butwhen the light turnedgreen,andhepushed thegearshift forward,theyturnedright.

The apartment was on the ground floor, facing the front: a little grass, apathway, thenastripofasphalt.On theothersideof theasphaltwasa rowofmatchingapartmentbuildings, lowandlongandfacedwithbricks.Thetwoofthemwereposedlikebarracks.AttheendoftheroadwasthelotwhereSubhashparkedhiscarandtookoutthegarbage.Asmallerbuildinginthelotwaswhereonedidthelaundry.

Themaindoorswerealmostalways leftopen,held inplaceby large rocks.Thelocksontheapartmentdoorswereflimsy,littlebuttonsonknobsinsteadofpadlocks and bolts. But she was in a place where no onewas afraid to walkabout, where drunken students stumbled laughing down a hill, back to theirdormitoriesatallhoursofthenight.Atthetopofthehillwasthecampuspolicestation.But therewerenocurfewsor lockdowns.Studentscameandwentanddidastheypleased.

The neighbors were other graduate student couples, a few families withyoungchildren.Theyseemednottonoticeher.Sheheardonlyadoorshutting,orthemuffledringofsomeoneelse’stelephone,orfootstepsgoingupthestairs.

Subhashgaveherthebedroomandtoldherhewouldsleeponthesofa,whichunfoldedandbecameabed.Throughthecloseddoorshelistenedtohismorningroutine.Thebeepsofhisalarmclock,theexhaustfaninthebathroom.Whenthefanwasswitchedoffsheheardagentleswishingofwater,arazorbladescrapinghisface.

Noonecametopreparethetea,tomakethebeds,tosweepordusttherooms.On the stove he cooked breakfast on a coil that reddened at a button’s touch.Oatmealandhotmilk.

Whenitwasfinishedsheheardthespoonmethodicallyscrapingthebottomof the pan, then thewater he immediately ran tomake it easier to clean. Theclinkofthespoonagainstthebowl,andatthesametime,inaseparatepan,therattleoftheeggheboiledandtookawayforhislunch.

She was thankful for his independence, and at the same time she wasbewildered.Udayanhadwanteda revolution,butathomehe’dexpected tobeserved;hisonly contribution tohismealswas to sit andwait forGauriorhermother-in-lawtoputaplatebeforehim.

Subhashacknowledgedherindependencealso.Heleftherwithafewdollars,thetelephonenumbertohisdepartmentwrittenonaslipofpaper.Akeytothemailbox,andasecondkeytothedoor.Afewminuteslatercamethesoundshewaited for before getting up: the chain on the inside of the apartment, like anugly broken bit of a necklace, sliding open, and then the door shutting firmlybehindhim.

Inawayithadbeenanotherflauntingofconvention,perhapssomethingUdayanmight have admired. When she’d eloped with Udayan, she’d felt audacious.AgreeingtobeSubhash’swife,tofleetoAmericawithhim,adecisionatoncecalculatedandimpulsive,feltevenmoreextreme.

And yet, withUdayan gone, anything seemed possible. The ligaments thathadheldherlifetogetherwerenolongerthere.Theirabsencemadeitpossibletocoupleherself,howeverprematurely,howeverdesperately,withSubhash.She’dwantedtoleaveTollygunge.Toforgeteverythingherlifehadbeen.Andhehadhanded her the possibility. In the back of hermind she told herself she couldcomeonedaytolovehim,outofgratitudeifnothingelse.

Herin-lawshadaccusedGauri,assheknewtheywould,ofdisgracingtheirfamily.Hermother-in-lawhadlashedout,tellinghershe’dneverbeenworthyofUdayan.Thatperhapshewouldstillbealive,ifhe’dmarriedanothersortofgirl.

TheyhadaccusedSubhashalso,ofwronglytakingUdayan’splace.Butintheend,afterdenouncingbothofthem,theyhadnotforbiddenit.Theyhadnotsaid

no.Perhapstheyappreciated,asGauridid,thattheywouldnolongerhavetoberesponsibleforher,thattheywouldbefreefromoneanother.Andso,thoughinone way she’d burrowed even more deeply into their family, in another wayshe’dsecuredherrelease.

Againithadbeenaregistrywedding,againinwinter.Manashhadcome.Herin-laws,therestofthefamilyonherside,hadrefused.Thepartyhadopposedit,too. Like her in-laws, they expected her to honor Udayan’s memory, hismartyrdom.Not knowing shewas carryingUdayan’s child,Gauri notwantinganyone to know this, they had cut their ties with her. They had deemed hersecondmarriageunchaste.

She hadmarried Subhash as ameans of staying connected toUdayan.Butevenasshewasgoingthroughwithitsheknewthatitwasuseless,justasitwasuselesstosaveasingleearringwhentheotherhalfofthepairwaslost.

She’d worn an ordinary printed silk sari, with only her wristwatch and asimple chain. Put up her hair by herself. It was the first time she’d left theneighborhood, the first timesince the shoppingexpeditionwithhermother-in-lawthatshewassurrounded,invigoratedbythecity’senergy.

Thesecondtime,therewasnolunchafterward.Nocottonquilt liketheoneunderwhichsheandUdayanhadfirstlainashusbandandwife,inthehouseinChetla, the coolness of that evening driving them into each other’s arms, themodestythathadcheckedherdesirequicklygivingway.

AftertheregistrationSubhashtookhertoapplyforherpassport,andthentothe American consulate for her visa. The person in charge of the applicationcongratulatedthem,assumingthattheywerehappy.

IspentmysummersinRhodeIslandwhenIwasakid,hesaid,afterlearningwhereSubhashlived.HisgrandfatherhadtaughtliteratureatBrownUniversity,whichwasalsoinRhodeIsland.HetalkedtoSubhashaboutthebeaches.

You’ll love it there, he said to Gauri. He would try to speed up Gauri’sapplication.Hewishedthemallthebest.

Afewdays laterSubhashwasgone.Againshewasalonewithher in-laws.Againtheylivedwithherwithoutspeakingtoher,alreadyactingasifshewerenotthere.

On theeveningofher flight,Manashcame toaccompanyher to theairportandseeheroff.Shebentdownbeforeherin-lawsandtookthedustfromtheirfeet.Theywerewaitingforhertogo.Shesteppedthroughtheswingingwoodendoorsof thecourtyard,over theopendrain, intoa taxi thatManashhadcalledfromthecorner.

SheleftTollygunge,whereshehadneverfeltwelcome,whereshehadgone

onlyforUdayan.Thefurniturethatbelongedtoher,theteakbedroomset,wouldstand unused in the small square room with strong morning light, the roomwheretheyhadunwittinglymadetheirchild.

HerfinalglimpseofCalcuttawasofthecitylateatnight.Theyspedpastthedarkened campuswhere she had studied, the shuttered bookstalls, the familieswho slept shrouded during those hours on the streets. She left behind thedesertedintersectionbelowhergrandparents’flat.

As they approached the airport, fog began to accumulate on VIP Road,turningimpenetrable.Thedriversloweddown,thenstopped,unabletocontinue.Theyseemedtobeenvelopedinthethicksmokeofaragingfire,buttherewasnoheat,onlythemistofcondensationthattrappedthem.

This was death, Gauri thought; this vapor, insubstantial but un-yielding,drawingeverything toahalt.Shewascertain thiswaswhatUdayansawnow,whatheexperienced.

She began to panic, thinking she would never get out. Inch by inch theymovedon, thedriverpressingonhishorntoavoidacollision,until finally thelightsoftheairportcameintoview.ShehuggedManashandkissedhim,sayingshewouldmiss him, only him, and then she gathered together her things andpresentedherdocumentsandboardedtheplane.

Nopolicemanorsoldierstoppedher.NoonequestionedheraboutUdayan.Noonegavehertroubleforhavingbeenhiswife.Thefoglifted,theplanewasclearedfortakeoff.Noonepreventedherfromrisingabovethecity,intoablackskywithoutstars.

Thecalendaron thekitchenwallshowedaphotographofa rocky island,withspaceforalighthouseandnothingmore.ShesawsomethingcalledSt.Patrick’sDay.The twentiethofMarch,whatwouldhavebeenUdayan’s twenty-seventhbirthday,wasofficiallythefirstdayofspring.

But the cold in Rhode Island was still severe in the mornings, thewindowpaneslikesheetsoficewhenshetouchedthem,milkywithfrost.

OneSaturday,Subhashtookhershopping.Musicplayedinalarge,brightlylitstore.Nooneofferedtohelpthem,orseemedtocareiftheyspentmoneyornot.Heboughtheracoat,apairofboots.Thicksocks,awoolenscarf,acapandgloves.

But these thingswere not used.Apart from that one trip to the departmentstore, shedidnotventureout.She stayed indoors, resting, reading thecampuspaper Subhash brought home with him each day, sometimes turning on thetelevisiontowatchitsinsipidshows.Youngwomeninterviewingbachelorswho

wanted to date them. A husband andwife, pretending to bicker, then singingromanticsongs.

He suggested things she coulddo thatwerenearby: amovie at the campusfilmhall,alecturebyafamousanthropologist,aninternationalcraftfairat thestudentunion.Hementionedthebetternewspapersonecouldreadatthelibrary,themiscellaneous items thebookstoresold.TherewereafewmoreIndiansoncampus than when he’d first arrived. Some women, wives of other graduatestudents,shemightbefriend.Whenyou’reready,hewouldsay.

UnlikeUdayan’s,Subhash’scomingsandgoingswerepredictable.Hecamehomeeveryeveningatthesametime.Ontheoccasionsshecalledhimathislab,tosay that theyhad runoutofmilkorbread,hepickedup thephone.Hehadtaught himself to cook dinner so she didn’t interfere.Hewould leave out theingredientsinthemorning,icypacketsfromthefreezerthatslowlymeltedandrevealedtheircontentsduringthecourseoftheday.

The cooking smells no longerbotheredher as theydid inCalcutta, but shesaid they did, because this provided an excuse to remain in the bedroom. Forthough shewaited all day forSubhash to comeback to the apartment, feelinguneasywhen hewasn’t there, once he did, she avoided him.Afraid, now thattheyweremarried,ofgettingtoknowhim,oftheirtwolivescombining,turningclose.

Eventuallyhewouldknock,sayinghernametosummonher to the table. Itwould all be ready: two plates, two glasses ofwater, twomounds of soft riceaccompaniedbywhateverhehadmade.

WhiletheyatetheywatchedWalterCronkiteathisdesk,reportingthenightlynews.ItwasalwaysthenewsofAmerica,ofAmerica’sconcernsandactivities.Thebombs that theyweredroppingonHanoi, the shuttle theywerehoping tolaunch into space. Campaigns for the presidential election that would be heldlaterintheyear.

She learned the names of the candidates: Muskie, McCloskey,McGovern.Thetwoparties,DemocraticandRepublican.TherewasnewsofRichardNixon,whohadvisitedChinathemonthbefore,shakinghandswithMaoforthewholeworld to see.Therewasnothing aboutCalcutta.What had consumed the city,whathadalteredthecourseofherlifeandshatteredit,wasnotreportedhere.

Onemorning,settingdownthebookshewasreadingandturningherheadtothewindow, she saw the sky, gray and lusterless. It was raining. It fell steadily,drearily.Alldayshestayedin,butforthefirsttimeshefeltconfined.

Intheafternoon,aftertherainended,sheputonherwintercoatoverhersari,

herboots,herhatandgloves.Shewalkedalongthedampsidewalk,upthehill,turningby the studentunion.She sawstudentsgoing inandout,men in jeansand jackets,women in dark tights and shortwool coats, smoking, speaking tooneanother.

She crossed the quadrangle, past the lampposts with their rounded whitebulbs on iron poles. It was milder than she expected, the gloves and hatunnecessary,theairfreshaftertherain.

Ontheothersideofthecampussheenteredalittlegrocerystorenexttothepostoffice.Amongthesticksofbutterandcartonsofeggsshefoundsomethingcalledcreamcheese,whichcameinasilverwrapping,lookinglikeabarofsoap.She bought it, thinking it might be chocolate, breaking the five-dollar billSubhash left for her each day, filling the deep pocket of her coat with thechange.

Insidethewrapperwassomethingdense,cold,slightlysour.Shebrokeitintopieces and ate it on its own, standing in the parking lot of the grocery. Notknowing it was intended to be spread on a cracker or bread, savoring theunexpectedtasteandtextureofitinhermouth,lickingthepaperclean.

Shebegantoexploreotherpartsofthecampus,wanderinginandoutofvariousdepartmentalbuildings,groupedaroundthequadrangle:theschoolofpharmacy,foreign languages, political science and history. The buildings had names:Washburn,Roosevelt,Edwards.Anyonecouldwalkin.

Shefoundclassroomsandtheofficesofprofessors liningthehalls.Bulletinboardsannouncingupcominglecturesandconferences,displaycaseswithbooksthatprofessorsat theuniversityhadpublished.Therewasnoguardpreventingher, questioning her. No armed soldiers sitting on sandbags, as they had formonthsoutsidethemainbuildingatPresidency.

The dayRobertMcNamara had visitedCalcutta, a year after theNaxalbariuprising,communistprotestersattheairportforcedhimtotakeahelicopterintothecenterofthecity.Theywouldnotlethiscarpass.She’dbeenonhercampusthatday.As thehelicopterwas flyingoverCollegeStreet, studentshadhurledstonesfromtheroofofoneofthecampusbuildings.Theyhadlockedthevice-chancellorofCalcuttaUniversityintohisoffice.She’dseentramsbeingburned.

Onedayshefoundthephilosophydepartment.Shecameuponalargelecturehall with rows of descending seats. The doors were still open as studentscontinuedfilingin.Shetookaseatattheveryback,highenoughsothatshewaslookingdownatthetopoftheprofessor’shead.Closeenoughtothedoorsothatshecouldslipout ifsheneededto.Butafterher longwalk,feelingheavy,she

wasgratefultositdown.Peering at the syllabus of the student next to her, she saw that it was an

undergraduatecourse,anintroductiontoancientWesternphilosophy.Heraclitus,Parmenides,Plato,Aristotle.Thoughmostof thematerialwasfamiliar,shesatfor the full class period. She listened to a description of Plato’s doctrine ofrecollection,inwhichlearningwasanactofrediscovery,knowledgeaformofremembering.

The professor was dressed casually, in a sweater and jeans. He smokedcigarettesashelectured.Hehadathickbrownmoustache,longhairlikemanyofthemalestudents.Hehadnotbotheredtocalltheroll.

Students around her were also smoking, or knitting. A few had their eyesclosed. There was a couple at the back, with their legs pressed together, theboy’sarmdrapedaround thegirl’swaist, stroking thematerialofher sweater.ButGaurifoundherselfpayingattention.Eventually,wantingtotakenotes,shesearchedinherbagforasheetofpaperandapen.Findingnopaper,shewrotehernotes in themarginsof thecampusnewspapershe’dbeencarryingaround.Later,onapadshefoundintheapartment,shecopiedoverwhatshe’dwritten.

Surreptitiously,twiceaweek,shebeganattendingtheclass.Shewrotedownthe titles of the texts on the reading list and went to the library, borrowingSubhash’scardtocheckoutafewbooks.

She’dintendedtoremainanonymous,togounnoticed.Butonedaywhileshewasimmersedinthelecture,herhandshotup.TheprofessorwasspeakingaboutAristotle’srulesofformallogic,aboutthesyllogismsusedtodistinguishavalidthoughtfromaninvalidone.

What about dialectical reasoning? One that acknowledged change andcontradiction,asopposedtoanestablishedreality?DidAristotleallowforthat?

He did. But no one paidmuch attention to those concepts until Hegel, theprofessorsaid.

He’d replied as if Gauri were any legitimate member of the class. Andspontaneously he altered the course of the lecture, building on her question,accommodatingthepointshe’dmade.

Shemadealittleroutineofit,followingthewaveofstudentsaftertheclassletouttoeatherlunchatthecafeteriaofthestudentunion,orderingFrenchfriesatthegrill,breadandbutterandtea,sometimestreatingherselftoadishoficecream.

Atoneendofthecafeteria,presidingoverthespace,agiantclockwasbuiltintothebrickwall.Therewerenonumbers,nosecondhand,justpiecesofmetalsuperimposed onto the surface, the giant hour and minute hands joining and

separatingthroughouttheday.She kept to herself. Shewas Subhash’swife instead ofUdayan’s. Even in

RhodeIsland,evenonthecampuswherenooneknewher,shewaspreparedforsomeonetoquestionher,tocondemnherforwhatshe’ddone.

Still, she liked spending time in the company of people who ignored butsurroundedher.Whowent to the terrace tounwindand talkand smoke in thesun, or who gathered indoors, in the lounges and game rooms, watchingtelevision,orplayingpool.Itwasalmostlikebeinginacityagain.

The lounge of the women’s bathroom was an oasis: a vast private spacecarpetedinwhite,withmirroredcolumns,andsofastositon,eventoliedownon, with standing ashtrays in between. It was like a waiting room in a trainstation,orthereceptionareaofahotel,largerandmoreaccommodatingthantheapartmentwheresheandSubhashlived.Hereshesometimessat,resting,leafingthrough the campus newspaper, observing theAmericanwomenwho came totouchuptheirlipstickorleanovertodrawabrushthroughtheirhair.

Thepaperwasdedicatedsometimestospecialissues,onthesubjectsofwhatitmeant tobeablackpersoninAmerica,orawoman,orahomosexual.Longarticlesfocusedonformsofexploitation,individualidentities.ShewonderedifUdayanwouldhavescornedthemforbeingself-indulgent.Forbeingconcernedlesswith changing the lives of others thanwith asserting and improving theirown.

When’syourbabydue?astudentsittingbesideherinthelounge,smokingacigarette,askedheroneday.

Afewmoremonths.You’reinmyancientphilosophyclass,right?Shenodded.Ishouldhavedroppedit.Thestuff’sovermyhead.Thestudentseemedsoatease,wearinglongsilverearrings,agauzyblouse,a

skirtthatstoppedatherknees.Herbodywasunencumberedbytheyardsofsilkmaterial that Gauri wrapped and pleated and tucked every morning into apetticoat.Thesewerethesarisshe’dwornsinceshestoppedwearingfrocks,atfifteen.What she’dwornwhilemarried toUdayan,andwhat shecontinued towearnow.

Ilikeyouroutfit,thegirlsaid,gettinguptogo.Thankyou.Butwatching thegirlwalkaway,Gauri feltungainly.Shebegan towant to

lookliketheotherwomenshenoticedonthecampus,likeawomanUdayanhadneverseen.

Aprilcame,studentswelcomingthesunshine,gatheringonthequadrangleandalongtheledgeofthestudentunion,whiteblossomsfillingthetrees.OnFridayafternoons she saw undergraduates lined up outside the union, with smallsuitcases or backpacks, sacks of dirty laundry. They boarded enormous silverbussesthattookthemawayfortheweekend.TheywenttoBoston,orHartford,orNewYorkCity.Shegatheredthattheywenthometoseetheirparents,ortovisittheirboyfriendsandgirlfriends,stayingawayuntilSundaynight.

Though she had no one to see off, she liked to observe this ritual egress,watching the driver place the passengers’ luggage into the belly of the bus,watchingthestudentssettleintotheirseats.Shewonderedwhattheplacestheyweregoingtowerelike.

Yougettingon?oneofthemaskedheronce,offeringtohelpher.Sheshookherhead,steppingawayfromthecrowd.

Thehealthserviceat theuniversity referredher toanobstetrician in the town.Subhashdroveher there, sitting in thewaiting roomwhileasilver-hairedmannamed Dr. Flynn examined her. His complexion was pink, looking tenderdespitehisyears.Asanursestoodinthecorneroftheroomheexploredtactfullyinsideher.

Howareyoufeeling?Fine.Sleepingatnight?Yes.Eatingfortwo?Feelingkicksthroughouttheday?Shenodded.That’sonlythestartofthetroublethey’llgive,hesaid,smiling,tellingherto

comebackamonthlater.Whatdidhesay?Subhashasked,whentheappointmentwasover,andthey

wereinthecaragain.SheconveyedwhatDr.Flynnhadsaid, that thebabywasnowabouta foot

long,thatitweighedaroundtwopounds.Itshandswereactive,itseyessensitiveto light. The organs would continue to develop: the brain and the heart, thelungs,preparingforlifeoutsideofher.

Subhashdrove to thesupermarket, tellingher theyneededa few things.Heaskedhertojoinhim,butshetoldhimshe’dwaitinthecar.Heleftthekeyinthe ignition, so that she could listen to the radio. She opened up the glove

compartment,wonderingwhatwaskeptinside.ShefoundamapofNewEngland,aflashlight,anicescraper,aninstruction

manual to thecar.Thensomethingelsecaughthereye. Itwasawoman’shairelastic,amalleableredringfleckedwithgold.Onethatshedidnotrecognizeasherown.

She understood that there had been someone before her, an American. Awomanwho’donceoccupiedtheseatshewasinnow.

Perhaps it had not worked out for whatever reason. Or perhaps Subhashcontinuedtoseeher,togetfromherwhatGaurididnotgive.

Shelefttheelasticwhereshefoundit.Shefeltnoimpulsetoaskhimaboutit.Shewasrelievedthatshewasnottheonlywomaninhislife.Thatshe,too,

was a replacement. Though shewas curious, she felt no jealousy. Instead shewasthankfulthathewascapableofhidingsomething.

It validated the step she’d taken, inmarrying him. Itwas like a highmarkafteradifficultexam.Itjustifiedthedistanceshecontinuedtomaintainfromhernewhusband.Itsuggestedthatmaybeshedidn’thavetolovehim,afterall.

Oneweekendhetookhertotheocean,toshowherwhathadgivenhislifehereitsfocus.Graysand,finerthansugar.Whenshebentovertotouchit,itspilledinstantlyfromherfingers.Itwaslikewater,roughlyrinsingherskin.Grassgrewsparsely on the dunes.Gray-and-white birds paced stiffly, like oldmen, alongtheshore,orbobbedinthesea.

Thewaveswere low, thewater reddishwhere theybroke.Sheremovedhershoes,asSubhashdid,steppingoverhardstones,overseaweed.Hetoldherthetidewascomingin.Heindicatedtherocks,juttingout,thatwouldbesubmergedinanotherhour’stime.

Let’swalkabit,hesuggested.Butthewindpickedupandopposedthem,andshestoppedafterafewpaces,

feelingtoocumbersometogoon,toochilled.Children were scattered here and there on the beach, bundled in jackets,

climbingtherocks,runningonthesand.Itwasstill toocoldtoswim,buttheydug trenches and craters, lying flat, legs spread. They decorated piles ofmudwithstones.Watchingthem,shewonderedifherchildwouldplaythisway,dosuchthings.

Haveyouthoughtofaname?heasked.Itwasasifhe’dreadhermind.Sheshookherhead.DoyoulikeBela?

Shewasbotherednotbythenamebutbythefactofhissuggestingit.Butitwastrue,shehadnotthoughtofone.

Maybe,shesaid.Ican’tthinkofanyboys’names.Idon’tthinkitwillbeone.Whynot?Ican’timagineit.Doesithelpatall,Gauri?What?Beinghere?Anyofthis?Atfirstshedidn’tanswer.Thenshesaid,Yes,ithelpstobeaway.Your brother was supposed to be here, she added. This child should have

beenhisresponsibility,whetherhewanteditornot.I’llmakeitmine,Gauri.I’vepromisedyouthat.Shewasunable toexpresshergratitude forwhathe’dundertaken.Shewas

unabletoconveythewayshewasabetterpersonthanUdayan.Shewasunabletotellhimthathewasprotectingher,forreasonsthatwouldcausehimtoregardherdifferently.

She looked back at the set of footprints they hadmade in the damp sand.Unlike Udayan’s steps from childhood, which endured in the courtyard inTollygunge, theirs were already vanishing, washed clean by the encroachingtide.

Chapter2

He’dbegunthenewsemestertwoweekslate,catchinguponhisclasses,movingintoafurnishedapartmentreservedformarriedstudentsandtheirfamilies.He’dbought sheets to fit thedoublemattress, andbycallingpeoplewhoadvertisedthingsforsaleonbulletinboardshe’dsetupahouseholdforGauri.Heacquiredafewmoredishesandpans,apottedjadeplant,ablack-and-whitetelevisiononawobblycart.

Allhe sawofherbodywereglimpseswhen shecameoutof thebathroomafter a shower. After Richard, he was used to sharing a space with anotherperson while keeping to himself. In the evenings he removed the clothes hewouldwearthenextdayfromthedrawersinthebedroom,sothathewouldnotdisturbherinthemornings.

At night he was sometimes aware of her door opening. She went to thebathroom,shegotherselfaglassofwater.Heheldhisbodystillasthestreamofherurine fell. In the lightofearlymorning,hesawherhairunsprungfromitscustomaryknot,tensile,suspendedlikeaserpentfromthebranchofatree.Shewalkedthroughthelivingroomasifitwereempty,asifhewerenotthere.

He trusted that things would change, after the baby came. That the childwouldbringthemtogether,firstasparents,thenashusbandandwife.

Once,inthemiddleofthenight,heheardherlockedinsideanightmare.Heranimal whimpering startled him; it was the sound of a scream stifled by aclenched jaw, a closedmouth.An articulate butwordless fury.He lay on thesofa,listeningtohersuffer,listeningtoherrelivinghisbrother’sdeath,perhaps.Waitingforherterrortopass.

HeranintoNarasimhan,andbecauseNarasimhanasked,hetoldhimhisnews.That he was nearly finished with his course work, that later in the spring hewouldtakehisqualifyingexam.ThathisbrotherhaddiedinIndia.Thathehadawifenow,thatshewasexpecting.Hedidnotrevealtheconnection,thathehadmarriedhisbrother’swife.

Hewasunwell?Hewaskilled.How?

Theparamilitaryshothim.HewasaNaxalite.I’msorry.It’saterriblelosstobear.Butnowyou’llbeafather.Yes.Listen,it’sbeentoolong.Whydon’tyouandyourwifecometodinnerone

day?

Hehadthedirectionswrittenonthebackofanenvelope.Hegotalittlelostonunfamiliarroads.Thehousewasinthewoods,downashadeddirtpath,withoutaproperlawn,withnootherhomesinview.

They were one of a number of Indian couples at the university thatNarasimhan and Kate had invited. A few of them already had children, whowent off to playwithNarasimhan’s boys, running along a deck thatwrappedaroundtwosidesofthehouse.SubhashandGauriwereintroducedtotheothercouples, mostly graduate students in engineering, in mathematics, and theirwives.Anumberofthewomenhadbroughtofferingsofdishesthey’dcooked,dalsandvegetablesandsamosas,tastyaccompanimentstothelasagnaandsaladthatKatehadserved.

The guests filled a large wood-paneled living room, standing and sitting,talking,holdingtheirplates.Bookscrowdedtheshelves,plantshunginwovenslingsfromtheceiling,recordalbumswerestackedbesidetheturntable.Therewerenocurtains in thewindows,onlyviewsof the treesoutside.Onthewallswereabstractpaintings,boldblotsofcolorthatKatehadproduced.

HewasrelievedtoseeGaurimixingwiththeotherwomen.Shewaswearingapretty sari.The childwasbeginning tooverwhelmher.He saw someof thewomenputting theirhandsonherbelly.Heheard themtalkingaboutchildren,aboutrecipes,aboutorganizingaDiwalifestivaloncampusthefollowingyear.Hewasgratefultohavearrivedwithher,andtoknowthathewouldbeleavingwithher.Thattheyweregreetedandregardedasone.

No one questioned that Gauri was his wife, or that hewas soon to be thefatherofherchild.Thegroupwishedthemwell,andtheyweresentoffwithanassortment of objects Narasimhan’s sons had once used, which Kate had setaside: a folding playpen, towels and blankets, caps and pajamas that seemedmeantfordolls.

Inthecaragain,GauriwasquietasSubhashretracedthedrive.Onthewaythereshe’dreadoneofherbooks.Butnowthatitwasdarkshehadnothingtodistracther.

Thewomenseemedfriendly.Whowerethey?

Idon’trememberthenames,shesaid.Theenthusiasmshe’dmusteredinthecompanyofothershadbeendiscarded.

Sheseemedtired,perhapsannoyed.Hewonderedifshehadnotreallyenjoyedherself,ifshe’donlybeenpretending.Still,hepersisted.

Shouldweinviteafewofthemtoourplace,sometime?It’suptoyou.Theymightbehelpful,afterthebabycomes.Idon’tneedtheiradvice.Imeantascompanions.Idon’twanttospendmytimewiththem.Whynot,Gauri?Ihavenothingincommonwiththem,shesaid.

Afewdayslater,hecamehometotheapartmentanddidnotseehersittinginthe living room as she usually was at that time, reading a book on the sofa,takingnotes,drinkingacupoftea.

Heknockedonthedoortothebedroom,openingitpartwaywhenshedidnotanswer.Theroomwasdark,buthedidn’tseeherrestingonthebed.Hecalledout her name, wondering if she’d gone for a walk, though it was close todinnertime, getting dark, and she’d mentioned nothing about going out whenhe’dcalledafewhoursago,tocheckinonher.

Hewenttothestovetoputwateronfortea.Hewonderedifshe’dlefthimanote somewhere. A moment of panic flickered through him, wondering ifsomethinghadhappenedtothebaby.Hecheckedthebathroom.Hereturnedtothebedroom,thistimeturningonthelight.

On the dressing table was a pair of scissors that he normally kept in thekitchendrawer,alongwithclumpsofherhair.Inonecornerofthefloor,allofher saris, and her petticoats and blouses, were lying in ribbons and scraps ofvariousshapesandsizes,as ifananimalhadshredded thefabricwith its teethandclaws.Heopenedherdrawersandsawtheywereempty.Shehaddestroyedeverything.

Afewminuteslaterheheardherkeyinthelock.Herhairhungbluntlyalongherjawbone,dramaticallyalteringherface.Shewaswearingslacksandagraysweater.Theclothescoveredherskin,buttheyaccentuatedthecontoursofherbreasts,thefirmswellofherstomach.Theshapeofherthighs.Hedrewhiseyesawayfromher,thoughalreadyavisionhadentered,ofherbreasts,exposed.

Wherewereyou?

Itookabusfromtheunion,intotown.Iboughtafewthings.Whydidyoucutoffyourhair?Iwastiredofit.Andyourclothes?Iwastiredofthose,too.Hewatchedasshewentintothebedroom,notapologizingforthespectacular

messshe’dmade,justputtingawaythenewclothesshe’dbought,thenthrowingtheoldthingsintogarbagebags.Forthefirsttime,hewasangryather.Buthedidn’t dare tell her that what she’d done was wasteful, or that he found itdisturbing.Thatsuchdestructivebehaviorcouldn’thavebeengoodforthechild.

Thatnight,asleeponthecouch,hedreamedofGaurifor thefirst time.Herhairwas cut short. Shewore only a petticoat and a blouse.Hewas under thedining tablewithher.Hewasastrideher,unclothed,making love toherasheused tomake love toHolly.His body combining on the hard tiled floorwithhers.

Hewokeup,confused,stillaroused.Hewasaloneonthecouchinthelivingroom,Gauri asleepbehind thebedroomdoor.Theyweremarried, shewashiswifenow,andyethefeltguilty.

Heknew that itwas still toosoon.That itwaswrong toapproachheruntilafter the baby was born. He had inherited his brother’s wife; in summer hewould inherit his child. But the need for her physically—waking up from thedream,intheapartmentinwhichtheywerelivingbothtogetherandseparately,hecouldnolongerdenythathe’dinheritedthatalso.

Chapter3

Assummerapproachedshebeganspendingmoretimeatthelibrary,whichwasair-conditioned. A place where she was expected to be anonymous andindustrious,concentratingonthepagesbeforeher,nothingmore.

Athersidewasalongrectangularwindow,fromfloortoceiling,lookingoutatthecampus.Sunlightstreamedinovertreetopsthathadturnedgreenandlushinamatterofweeks.Fromherdeskshecouldsee thesurroundingwoodsandfields. The quadrangle was demarcated now by lengths of white rope, wherewhite folding chairs were being arranged in rows for the commencementceremony.

In June there was no one. After classes finished and the undergraduatesvanished, hardly a sound.Only themelodic chime of the campus clock in itsstone tower, reminding her that another hour had passed. In the library, thesqueaking rubberwheels of awooden cart, stopping here and there so that anabsentbookcouldbereturnedtoitsplace.

Oftenshehadawholefloorof the library toherself.Theatmosphere, in itsorderandcleanliness,waslikethatofahospital,onlybenign.Thestairwellrosethroughthecenterofthebuilding.Theshallowsteps,coatedwithrubber,easytoclimb,seemeddisconnectedfromoneanother,leadingallthewaytothetop.

She sat close to the philosophy section, browsing randomly in the stacks,readingHobbes,HannahArendt,takingnotes,alwaysreturningthebookstothespotswheretheybelonged.Shewassteadiedbythequietbuzzofthelights,thefluorescent panels above her like giant versions of the ice cube trays in thefreezer.Hemmedinfromthewaistupbythethreesidesofthecarrel,facingtheblankwhiteenclosure,thehardwoodofthechairpressingintothesmallofherback.Thebabynestledinsideher,providingcompanybutalsoleavingherbe.

By July,withinminutes of stepping outside, for the briefwalk back to theapartment, shewascoated insweat, feeling it travelingdown thecenterofherback. The air was heavy with humidity, the sky sometimes threatening butrefusingtoreleaserain.Thepurityoftheheatseemedtosilenceothersounds.

Shehadgrownup insuchweather.Buthere,where justmonthsago itwascold enough for her to see her breathwhen shewalked outside, it came as ashock,assomethingalmostunnatural.

Because the semester had ended, certain campus buildings, certaindormitoriesandadministrativeoffices,wereclosed.Oftenshewasabletowalkthroughcampus,fromthelibrarybacktotheapartment,andnotcrosspathswithanyone. As if a strike were in effect, or a curfew in place. She heard themechanical shriekof the locusts that lived in the trees.Their risingsoundwaslike an intermittent siren, the only element of distress in that otherwiseuneventfulplace.

Thecontractionsbeganinthelibrary,threedaysbeforeDr.Flynnhadpredicted.A pressure between her legs, the baby’s head like a ball of lead suddenly tentimes itsweight. She returned to the apartment and packed her bag.Then shewaitedforSubhash,knowinghewouldbehomesoonenough.

The cramps caused her to double over, clutching the towel bar in thebathroomsothatitthreatenedtoloosenfromthewall.Heputhisarmaroundherwhenhecame,escortinghertothecar,standingwithherwhenshewasforcedtostopbecauseofacontraction,allowinghertoclampherhandaroundhiswrist.

Graspingthedashboard,asiftopushitaway;thiswastheonlywayshecouldbear theridetothehospital,herbodythreateningtosplitapartunlesssheheldherselfinthatposition.

Nowtheskyreleasedahotpouringsummerrain.ItforcedSubhashtoslowdown,unabletoseemorethanafewfeetinfrontofhimthroughthewindow,inspite of thewindshieldwipers pumping back and forth. She imagined the carspinningoutofcontrol,skiddingintotheoppositelaneofoncomingcars.

Sherememberedthefogonthewaytotheairport,thenightshewasleavingCalcutta.Thatnightshehadbeendesperatetomovethroughit,togetout.Now,inspiteof thepain, inspiteof theurgency,partofherwanted thecar tostop.Partofherwantedthepregnancysimplytocontinue,forthepaintosubsidebutforthebabynottobeborn.Todelay,ifonlyforalittlelonger,itsarrival.

ButSubhashleanedforwardinhisseatanddroveon,sendingupgreatspraysofwaterfromtherollingtiresofthecar,untilthesmallbrickhospital,setonahilltop,cameintoview.

Itwasagirl,asshewascertainitwouldbe.Shewasrelievedthatherhopehadbeenfulfilled,andthatayoungversionofUdayanhadnotcomebacktoher.AndinawayitwasbettertogivethechildanameSubhashhadthoughtof,togranthimthatclaim.

As she’dpushed she’dclenchedher teeth,herbodyconvulsed,but shehadnotscreamed. Itwaseight in theevening,still lightoutside,no longerraining.The cord was clipped and suddenly the child was no longer a part of Gauri.

Otherswerebundlingher,cleaningandweighingandwarmingher.Alittlelater,when Subhash was called up from the waiting room, Bela was placed in hisarms.

She dreamed of gulls on the beach inRhode Island, screeching and attackingone another, blood and feathers, dismemberedwings on the sand.Again, as itwas afterUdayan’sdeath, therewas an acute awareness of time, of the futurelooming, accelerating.Thebaby’s lifetime, so scant, alreadyoutdistancingandoutpacingherown.Thiswasthelogicofparenthood.

After bringing her home they tended to her, Subhash in his way, Gauri inhers.AtfirstapartofherresistedsharingBelawithhim, includinghimin theexperiencethathadbeensolelyhers.Itwasonethingforhimtobeherhusband,another to be Bela’s father. For his name to be on the birth certificate, afalsehoodnoonequestioned.

Seekingonlythemilkfromherbody,Belarested,burrowedagainstGauri’sbreast.Herchild’smindcontainednothing.Herheartwassimplyaninstrumentforpumpingblood.

Shedemandedlittle,andyetshedemandedeverything.Theawarenessofherwasall-consuming.ItabsorbedeveryparticleinGauri’sbody,everynerve.Butthenurse in thehospitalhadbeen right, shecouldnotdo itallbyherself,andeverytimeSubhashtookover,sothatshecouldgetsomerestortakeashowerordrinkacupof teabeforeit turnedcold,everytimehepickedBelaupwhenshecriedsothatGaurididnothaveto,shecouldnotdenythereliefshefeltatbeingallowed,howeverbriefly,tostepaside.

Framedbetweentwopillowsarrangedoneithersideofher,Belaslept.Whenshe was awake, she would slowly twist her neck and her cloudy eyes wouldintently search thecornersof the room,as if already sheknew that somethingwasmissing.

Whenshewassleeping,shebreathedwithherwholebody,likeananimaloramachine.This fascinatedGauribut alsopreoccupiedher: thegrandeffort ofeachbreath,oneafterthenextforaslongasshewouldlive,drawnfromtheairsharedbyeveryoneelseintheworld.

Whilepregnant shehad felt capable.ButnowGauriwas awareofhow theslightestoversightonherpartcouldcauseBelatobedestroyed.Carryingheroutof the hospital, through the lobby that led to the parking lot, where peoplestreamedbybrisklywithoutaglance,shehadfeltterrified,awarethatAmericawas justasdangerousaplaceasany.Aware that therewasnoone,other thanSubhash,toprotectBelafromharm.

Shebegantoimaginescenarios,unbiddenbutpersistent.GrotesqueimagesofBela’s head snapping back, her neck breaking. When Bela fell asleep at herbreast, Gauri imagined falling asleep also, forgetting to unlatch her from hernipple,Bela’scapacitytobreatheputtoanend.Atnight,alonewithherinthebedroom,GauristartedtoworrythatBelawouldfalltothefloor,orthatGauriwouldrollontopofher,crushingher.

Thedaytheytookherforawalkthroughcampus,Gauristoodontheterraceof the student union,withBela in her arms,waiting forSubhash tobuy someCoca-Colas.At first she stood at the edge of the terrace, but then she backedaway,afraidof losingcontrolofhermuscles, afraidofdroppingherdaughter.Standingstillonasultrylatesummer’sday,withoutatraceofbreeze,shewasneverthelessafraidthatasuddenwindwouldpryBelafromhergrasp.

Later thatevening, in theapartment,knowingsheshouldn’t,wanting toseewhatwouldhappen,she loosenedhergripeversoslightlybehindBela’sneck,relaxing her own shoulders. But Bela’s instinct for survival was reflexive.Instantlyshestirredfromadeepsleep,protesting.

TherewasonlyonewayforGauritominimizetheseimages,toridhermindoftheseimpulses.TohandleBelaless,toaskSubhashtoholdherinstead.

Sheremindedherselfthatallmothersneededassistance.SheremindedherselfthatBelawasherchildandUdayan’s;thatSubhash,forallhishelpfulness,fortherolehe’ddeftlyassumed,wassimplyplayingapart.I’mhermother,shetoldherself.Idon’thavetotryashard.

Heenteredthebedroomwithoutknockingnow,theminuteBelawokeupinthemiddleofthenightandcried.Pickingherup,walkingheraroundtheapartment.Hewas unprepared for how small shewas.Her onlyweight seemed to comefromtheblanketswrappedaroundher,nothingmore.

Already,sheseemedtoberecognizinghim.Toaccepthim,andtoallowhimtoignoretherealitythathewasanuncle,animposter.Shereactedtothesoundofhisvoiceasshelayinaflatcradleheformedbycrossingoneofhislegsandrestinghis ankle on topof theopposite knee. In that nest of his folded limbs,cushionedagainsthisthigh,shelaycontentedly,seekinghimwithhereyes.Hefeltpurposefulasheheldher,essentialtothelifeshe’dbegun.

OnenightheswitchedoffthetelevisionandenteredthebedroomwithBela.Gauriwas turned away fromhim, asleep.Heperchedon theother sideof thebed,thenleanedback,placingBela’smoistblackheadonhischest,quietingher.HeextendedhislegsonthebedsothatBelacouldstretchout.

He remained on top of the covers, his eyes open in the dark.ThoughBela

rested on top of his body, his awareness of Gauri, no longer pregnant, wasgreater. His curiosity, his desire for her, had only intensified. For now hemarveled at how she had produced the child that lay against him, trusting,tranquil,hercheekturnedtooneside.

WhenheopenedhiseyesBelawasnolongeronhischestbutbesidehim,inGauri’s arms, feeding. The room was dark, the blinds down. Birds werechirping.Hisbodywaswarm,stillclothed.

Whattimeisit?Morning.Hehadfallenasleep;theyhadpassedthenightinthesamebed.Lyingnextto

herontopofasharedsheet,withBelabetweenthem.Whenherealizedwhathadhappenedhesatup,apologizing.Gaurishookherhead.ShewaslookingdownatBela,butthensheturnedher

facetohim.Sheputoutahand,notusingittotouchhim,butofferingittohim.Stay.She told him it hadbeen reassuring, havinghimwith her in the room.She

saidthatshewasready,thatithadbeenlongenough.

Her altered appearance made it easier: her shortened hair, her face that wasturning gaunt again after the baby’s birth, the slacks and tops she now woreexclusively.AlsotheeffectsofBela’sbirth,theshadowsthatwerebeneathhereyes,thesmellofmilkonherskin,sothatherbodywasmarkedlessbythefactofUdayanimpregnatingher,andmorebytheinfanttheynowshared.

At first she expressed no obvious desire, only a willingness. And yet thiscombinationofindifferenceandintentexcitedhim.TheysetuptheplaypenforBela,andwhenshewasinit,asleep,thebedwastheirs.

Shelayonherstomach,oronherside.Herbacktohim,herheadturned,hereyesclosed.Hepushed thematerialofhernightgownup toherwaist.Hesawthetaperingshapeofit.Thelongstraightvalleybisectingherback.

Insideofher,surroundedbyher,heworriedthatshewouldneveraccepthim,thatshewouldneverfullybelongtohim,evenashebreathedinthesmellofherhair,andclaspedherbreastinhishand.

Herskinwasuniform,thecoloreven.Notanlines,notablemishorafleckofvariationastherehadbeen,everywhere,onHolly’sbody.Nonicksonhercalvesfrom shaving, not the prickly texture he expected to find on her buttocks andthighs.Itwasalmostdisturbinginitssoftness,likeanunderbellythatoughtnottobeexposed.

Andyet itdidnotbruise fromhisweight,didnot reddenor swell from thepressure of his teeth or hands. The briny odor between her legs, transferredtemporarilytohisfingerswhenheprobedher,wasabsentthefollowingmorningwhenhesoughtitagain.

Shedidnotspeaktohim,butafter thefirstfewtimesshebeganto takehishandandputitwheresheneededittobe.Shebeganturningtohim,kneelinguponthebed,facinghim.Shereachedthemomentwhenherbreathingquickenedandwasaudible,herskinglowing,herbodytenselyheld.

Itwastheonlymomenthefeltnopartofherresistinghim.Shewatchedashefinishedupoutsideher,wipingwhatspilledon thesurfaceofherabdomen,orwatchingashedirectedtheproofofhisdesireintohiscuppedhand.Sheborehisweightwhenhecollapsedontopofher,whenhehadnothingmoretogive.

Chapter4

At four Bela was developing a memory. The word yesterday entered hervocabulary,thoughitsmeaningwaselastic,synonymouswithwhateverwasnolongerthecase.Thepastcollapsed,innoparticularorder,containedbyasingleword.

It was the English word she used. It was in English that the past wasunilateral; in Bengali, the word for yesterday, kal, was also the word fortomorrow.InBengalioneneededanadjective,orreliedonthetenseofaverb,todistinguishwhathadalreadyhappenedfromwhatwouldbe.

TimeflowedforBelaintheoppositedirection.Thedayafteryesterday,shesometimessaid.

Pronouncedslightlydifferently,Bela’sname,thenameofaflower,wasitselfthewordforaspanof time,aportionof theday.Shakalbelameantmorning;bikelbela,afternoon.Ratrirbelawasnight.

Bela’s yesterday was a receptacle for anything her mind stored. Anyexperience or impression that had come before. Her memory was brief, itscontentslimited.Lackingchronology,randomlyrearranged.

So that one day she told Gauri, who was combing a stubborn knot out ofBela’sthickhair:

Iwantshorthair,likeyesterday.IthadbeenmanymonthsagothatBela’shairwasshort.Andatfirst,thiswas

whatGauritoldher.Sheexplainedthatittookmorethanadayforhairtogrowlong again. She told Bela that her hair had been short perhaps one hundredyesterdaysago,notone.

ButforBela,threemonthsagoandthedaybeforewerethesame.ShewasfrustratedwithGauriforcontradictingher.Disappointmenttraveled

likeadarkcloudacrossherface.TherewasnoobvioustraceinitofGauriorofUdayan.Howwasitthatherforeheadwasfaintlyconvex,thattheinnercornersofhereyesdippeddown?Theplacementoftheeyeswasdistinctive.Gauriwasaware of the contrast of her own toffee skin to Bela’s lighter complexion, acreamyfairnessshehadreceivedfromGauri’smother-in-law.

Whereismyotherjacket?Belaaskedanotherday,asGaurihandedheranewone.Theywereontheirwaytoschool.

Which?Theyellowonefromyesterday.It was true, there had been a yellow one the previous spring, with a hood

trimmedinfur.Toosmallforhernow,givenawaytoachurchoncampusthattookinusedclothes.

Thatwaslastyear’sjacket.Itfityouwhenyouwerethree.YesterdayIwasthree.ShewaswaitingforBelatostopmarchingthiswayandthatinthecorridor.

TostandstillsothatGauricouldputherarmsintothesleevesofthejacket,sothat they could be on their way.When Bela resisted, she gripped her by theshoulders.

Thathurt.Youhurtme.Bela,we’reinahurry.The jacketwasonnow,unfastened.Belawanted topullup thezipper.Her

fumblingattempttodothiswasdelayingthemfurther,andafteramomentGauricouldnotbearit,shepriedBela’sfingersaway.

Babaletsmedoitmyself.Yourfather’snothere.She tuggedthezippershutat thebaseofBela’s throat,perhapsabitharder

than she should have, almost catching the skin. She chided herself for beingimpatient. Shewonderedwhen her daughter would know the fullmeaning ofwhatGaurihadjustsaid.

AfterdroppingoffBelasheboughtacupofcoffeeatthestudentunion.Everysummerandagaineverywinter,at thestartofeachterm,hundredsofstudentsstoodinlonglines,registeringforclasses.FromtimetotimeGauriwouldpickup a catalogue abandoned on the floor. She looked at the offerings in thephilosophy department, circling classes that appealed to her. She rememberedsitting in on the ancient philosophy class, secretly, after she’d first arrived inRhodeIsland.

Therewerenoclasses that termduringthe timeBelawasatschool. InsteadGauri walked over to the library, to sit and read. The effort of concentrationeliminated, if only for an hour or two, the obligation of anything else. Iteliminatedherawarenessofthosehourspassing.

Shesawtime;nowshesoughttounderstandit.Shefillednotebookswithherquestions,observations.Did itexist independently, in thephysicalworld,or inthe mind’s apprehension? Was it perceived only by humans? What caused

certainmomentstoswelluplikehours,certainyearstodwindletoanumberofdays?Didanimalshavea senseof itpassing,when they lostamate,orkilledtheirprey?

In Hindu philosophy the three tenses—past, present, future—were said toexistsimultaneouslyinGod.Godwastimeless,buttimewaspersonifiedasthegodofdeath.

Descartes,inhisThirdMeditation,saidthatGodre-createdthebodyateachsuccessivemoment.Sothattimewasaformofsustenance.

On earth time was marked by the sun and moon, by rotations thatdistinguisheddayfromnight, thathadledtoclocksandcalendars.Thepresentwasaspeckthatkeptblinking,brighteninganddiminishing,somethingneitheralivenordead.Howlongdiditlast?Onesecond?Less?Itwasalwaysinflux;inthetimeittooktoconsiderit,itslippedaway.

InoneofhernotebooksfromCalcuttawerejottingsinUdayan’shand,onthelaws of classical physics.Newton’s theory that timewas an absolute entity, astreamflowingatauniformrateofitsownaccord.Einstein’scontribution,thattimeandspacewereintertwined.

He’d described it in terms of particles, velocities. A system of relationsamong instantaneous events. Something called time reversal invariance, inwhich there was no fundamental distinction between forward and backward,whenthemotionsofparticleswerepreciselydefined.

Thefuturehauntedbutkeptheralive;itremainedhersustenanceandalsoherpredator.Eachyearbeganwithanunmarkeddiary.Aversionofaclock,printedandbound.Sheneverrecordedherimpressionsinthem.Insteadsheusedthemtowriteroughdraftsofcompositions,orworkoutsums.Evenwhenshewasachild, each page of a diary she had yet to turn, containing events yet to beexperienced, filled her with apprehension. Like walking up a staircase indarkness.WhatproofwastherethatanotherDecemberwouldcome?

Mostpeople trustedin thefuture,assumingthat theirpreferredversionof itwouldunfold.Blindlyplanningfor it,envisioning things thatweren’t thecase.Thiswas theworking of thewill. Thiswaswhat gave theworld purpose anddirection.Notwhatwastherebutwhatwasnot.

The Greeks had had no clear notion of it. For them the future had beenindeterminable.InAristotle’steaching,amancouldneversayforcertainiftherewouldbeaseabattletomorrow.

Willfullyanticipating, in ignoranceand inhope—thiswashowmostpeoplelived.Herin-lawshadexpectedSubhashandUdayantogrowoldinthehousetheyhadbuiltforthem.TheyhadwantedSubhashtoreturntoTollygungeand

marrysomeoneelse.Udayanhadgivenhislifeforthefuture,expectingsocietyitselftochange.Gaurihadexpectedtostaymarriedtohim,notforlessthantwoyearsbut always. InRhode Island,SubhashwasexpectinghimandGauri andBelatocarryonasafamily.ForGauritobeamothertoBela,andtoremainawifetohim.

AttimesGauriderivedcomfortfromBela’sversionofhistory.AccordingtoBela,Udayanmightstillhavebeenlivingthedaybefore,andGaurimightstillbemarriedtohim,whenreallyalmostfiveyearshadpassedsincehewaskilled.Almostfiveyears,she’dbeenmarriedtoSubhash.

What she’d seen from the terrace, theevening thepolicecame forUdayan,nowformedaholeinhervision.Spaceshieldedhermoreeffectivelythantime:thegreatdistancebetweenRhodeIslandandTollygunge.Asifhergazehadtospananoceanandcontinentstosee.Ithadcausedthosemomentstorecede,toturnlessandlessvisible,theninvisible.Butsheknewtheywerethere.Whatwasstored in memory was distinct from what was deliberately remembered,Augustinesaid.

Bela’sbirth,on theotherhand, remained itsownyesterday forGauri.Thatsummereveningformedavividtableauthatseemedjusttohaveoccurred.Sherecalledtherainonthewaytothehospital,thefaceofthenursewho’dstoodatherside,theviewofthemarinaoutthewindow.Thefeelofthehospitalgownagainst her skin, a needle inserted into the top of her hand. Just yesterday, itseemed,shehadheldBelaandlookedatherforthefirsttime.Sherememberedtheballastofpregnancy,suddenlymissing.She rememberedastonishment thatsuchaspecific-lookingbeing,containedforsolongwithinher,hademerged.

Atnoonshewentback to thenursery school to fetchBela, aduty thatwasalways hers, never Subhash’s.He had a postdoc inNewBedford, nearly fiftymiles away. It was understood that he left the house at a certain hour, andreturnedatacertainhour,andthatGauriwasresponsibleforBelaallthehoursinbetween.

ShewouldfindBelasitting inhercubby,anenclosure that looked toGaurilikea tinyuprightcoffin.Her jacketon,waiting, linedupwithherclassmates.ShedidnotrushintoGauri’sarmslikesomeoftheotherchildren,seekingpraiseforthecrinkledpaintingsthey’dmade,theleavesthey’dgatheredandgluedontosheetsofpaper.Shewalkedover,herpacemeasured,askingwhatGauriwouldmakeherforlunch,sometimesaskingwhySubhashhadn’tcome.Reportsofheractivitiesatschool,detailsthatoverflowedfromthemouthsofherclassmatesassoonastheysawtheirparents,werekepttoherself.

Together they returned to their apartment building. In the lobby Gauri

unlockedthemailboxlabeledMitrathatsheandSubhashshared.In Calcutta the names were painted onto wooden boxes with the careful

strokesofafinebrush.Buthere theywerehastilyscribbled,oneor twoof thescuffedmetaldoors leftblank.Shepulledout thebills,an issueofascientificjournalthatSubhashsubscribedto.Couponsfromagrocerystore.

Therewasseldomanythingaddressedtoher.OnlyanoccasionalletterfromManash.She resisted reading them,givenwhat they remindedherof.ManashandUdayan,studyingtogetherinhergrandparents’flat,andUdayanandGauri,getting to know one another as a result. A time she’d crushed between herfingertips,leavingnosubstance,onlyaprotectiveresidueontheskin.

FromManash, also from international papers that came to the library, shereceivedsomenews.Atfirstshetriedtopicturewhatmightbehappening.Butthe pieces were too fragmentary. The blood of toomany, dissolving the verystain.

KanuSanyalwasalivebut inprison.CharuMajumdarhadbeenarrested inhishideout,put into the lockupatLalBazar.Hehaddied inpolicecustody inCalcutta,thesamesummerBelawasborn.

So many of Udayan’s comrades were still being tortured in prisons.SiddharthaShankarRay, thecurrentchiefminister inCalcutta,wasbackedbyCongress.Hewasrefusingtoholdenquiriesonthosewhohaddied.

Newsofthemovementhadbynowattractedtheattentionofsomeprominentintellectuals in theWest.SimonedeBeauvoir andNoamChomskyhad sent aletter toNehru’sdaughter,demandingtheprisoners’release.But inthefaceofrising protest, against corruption, against failed government policies, IndiraGandhi had declared the Emergency. Censoring the press, so that what washappeningwasnotbeingtold.

Evennow,part ofGauri continued to expect somenews fromUdayan.ForhimtoacknowledgeBela,andthefamilytheymighthavebeen.Attheveryleasttoacknowledgethattheirlives,awareofhim,unawareofhim,hadgoneon.

Chapter5

Ithadbeentwoyearssincehe’dwrittenanddefendedhisthesis,ananalysisofeutrophicationintheNarrowRiver.Nineteenseventy-six,theyearofAmerica’sbicentennial.Sevenyearssincehe’dfirstarrived.

InalmostfiveyearshehadnotreturnedtoCalcutta.ThoughhisparentswrotenowofwantingtomeetBela,Subhashtoldthemthatshewastooyoungtomakesuchalongjourney,andthatthepressuresofhisworkweretoogreat.Hesentpictures from time to time, and he still sent his parents money, now that hisfatherhadretired.Hesensedthattheyhadsoftened,buthewasnotreadytofacethemagain.Inthismatter,heandGauriwereallied.

Buthismotivationwashisown.Hedidn’twanttobearoundtheonlyotherpeopleintheworldwhoknewthathewasnotBela’sfather.Theywouldremindhim of his place, they would regard him as her uncle, they would neveracknowledgethathewasanythingmore.

He was finishing up his postdoc in New Bedford. He’d been invited toparticipate in an environmental inventory. In the evenings, to earn some extramoney,hetaughtachemistryclassatacommunitycollegeinProvidence.

He’dconsideredmovingtosouthernMassachusettstobeclosertohiswork.Buthisfellowshipwouldendsoon,andhe’dalreadyfoundalargerapartmentinRhodeIsland,onethatwasstillwalkingdistancefromthemaincampus.Therewas the possibility of a lab in Narragansett hiring him. Now that Bela wasattendingtheuniversitynurseryschool,nowthatlifetherehadbecomefamiliartohim,itfeltsimplertostay.

Ittookhimaboutanhourtoreturn,drivingpastthemillsandfactoriesinFallRiver,pastTiverton,crossing theseriesofbridgesover thebay.Hecrossed tothemainland,thenanothertenminutesorsotothequietleafycomplex,behindarow of fraternities, where they lived. Each evening when he saw Bela, sheseemedslightlyaltered—herbonesandteethmoresolid,herhuskyvoicehavingturnedmoreemphaticinthehoursthathe’dbeenaway.

She’d begun towrite her name, to spread the butter on her toast.Her legsweregrowinglong,thoughherbellywasstillrounded.Herbackwassoftwithhair, an elegant line of it running along the length of her spine. There was aperfectloopofitatthecenter,likethewhorlsofherfingertips,orinthebarkof

atree.Wheneverhetracedit,ashewashedBelainthesoapytubbeforebed,thehairsrearrangedthemselves,andthepatterndissolved.

Thoughshe’dlearnedtotieherlacesshecouldnottellherleftfootfromherright. Other gestures of her infancy lingered—the way she reached out andopened and closed her fistwhen shewanted something.A glass ofwater, forexample,thatwasoutofreach.

Shewasafraidof thunder,andevenwhentherewasnone,sometimeswokeup in themiddle of the night, calling out for him, or simplywalking into theroom he shared with Gauri and tucking herself beside him in bed. In themornings,onthevergeofwaking,shewouldlieonherstomach,legstuckedin,crouchedoverlikealittlefrog.

Everynight,atBela’sinsistence,helaywithheruntilshefellasleep.Itwasareminderoftheirconnectiontoeachother,aconnectionatoncefalseandtrue.Andsonightafternight,afterhelpingherbrushherteethandchangingherintoherpajamas,heswitchedoffthelightandlaybesideher.Belainstructedhimtoturnandfaceher,tolockeyeswithhersothattheirbreathmingled.Lookatme,Baba, she whispered, with an intensity, an innocence, that overwhelmed him.Sometimessheheldhisfaceinherhands.

Doyouloveme?Yes,Bela.Iloveyoumore.Morethanwhat?Iloveyoumorethanyouloveme.That’simpossible.That’smyjob.ButIloveyoumorethananybodylovesanybody.Hewonderedhowsuchpowerfulemotions,suchsuperlativedevotion,could

existinsuchasmallchild.Patientlyhewaiteduntilsheloweredhereyelidsandbecamestill.Herbodyalwaystwitchingalittle;thiswasthesignthatdeepsleep,withinseconds,wasnear.

Every night, though the same thing happened, it came as a shock. A fewminutesagoBelawouldhavebeenleapingoffthebed,herlaughterfillinguptheroom.Butwhensheclosedhereyesthatcessationofactivityfeltasunsettling,asfinal,asdeath.

Somenightshe,too,fellasleepbrieflybesideBela.Carefullyheremovedherhands from the collar of his shirt, and adjusted theblanket on topof her.Herhead was thrust back on the pillow, in a combined posture of pride andsurrender. He’d experienced such closeness with only one other person.WithUdayan. Each night, extracting himself from her, for a moment his heart

stopped,wonderingwhatshewouldsay,thedayshelearnedthetruthabouthim.

OnSaturdays he andBelawent to the supermarket; thiswas their time alonetogetheroutsidetheapartment,atimehelookedforwardtomorethananyotherinthecourseoftheweek.Shenolongerfitintotheseatatthefrontofthecart,andnowshehungontothebackashesteered,hoppingofftohelphimchoosetheapples,aboxofcereal,ajarofjam.

Faster, shewould insist, andsometimes, if theaislewasempty,heobliged,sprintingforward,playingalong.InthissenseUdayanhadmarkedher,leavingbehindanexuberantreplicaofhimself.AndSubhashlovedthisabouther; thattherewassuchaliberaloutpouringofwhoshewas.

Standing with him at the deli, she ate little cubes of cheese speared ontotoothpicks, the spoons of potato salad set out on trays, pink wedges of ham.Therewasacafeteriaatthebackofthesupermarket,andherehetreatedhertoahotdogandacupofpunch,aplateofonionringstoshare.

Oneday,crossingtheparkinglotafterthey’dfinishedshopping,pushingthecartfilledwithbrownpaperbags,hesawHolly.

Bela was still clinging to the back of the cart, facing him. It was a coldautumnday,theskybright,thewindofftheoceanstrong.

For somanyyearshehadbeencareful toavoidplaceswherehemight runintoher,no longervisiting thesaltpondthatwasclosest toherhouse,makingsurehercarwasnotparkedatthebeachwherethey’dfirstmet.

But nowhe sawher, in a place he came everyweekwithout fail. ShewasaccompaniednotbyJoshuabutbyaman.HehadhisarmaroundHolly’swaist.

Themanwasherhusband,thesamefaceinthephotographinJoshua’sroom.Oldernow,goinggray,hishairlinereceding.

She appeared relaxed with this man who had once forsaken her, who hadbetrayed her. She was unaware of Subhash. He heard her laughter as theycrossed the parking lot, and saw her tossing back her head. He’d been in histwenties when he knew her. She would be over forty now; Joshua would befourteen, old enough to stay at home by himself while his mother and fatherwentshopping.

The years between them hadn’t mattered to Subhash. But he wondered ifshe’dbrokenitoffbecauseofthis;becausehe’dbeenimmature,innopositiontoreplacethemannowoncemoreatherside.

Theybeganwalking together toward the supermarket,Holly slowingdown,seeinghim,wavingnowinrecognition,stillapproaching.Herblondhairwascut

differently, in layers around her face.Wearing clogs, flared trousers, a cowl-neckedsweater,clothingforcolderweather.Otherwiseshewasunchanged.

Whatareyoulookingat,Baba?Nothing.Let’sgo,then.Hewasunabletomoveforward.Anditwastoolatetoavoidhernow.Bela stepped off the back of the cart and stood next to him. He felt her

leaningagainsthiship.Hesmoothedherhair,andsoughtthewarmthatthebaseofher throat.Her facewas still small enough forhim to cupmostof it inhishand.

Subhash,Hollysaid.Youhavealittlegirl.Yes.Ihadnoidea.ThisisKeith.ThisisBela.Theyshookhands.Subhashwondered ifKeithknewabout the timeheand

Hollyhadspenttogether.HollywastakingBelain,admiringher.Howlonghaveyoubeenmarried?Aboutfiveyears.Youdecidedtostayhere,afterall.Idid.Joshuaiswell?Uptohereonme,shesaid,indicatinghisheightwithherhand.She reached out, touching his arm for an instant. She looked genuinely

pleased to see him, to havemetBela.He rememberedhowmuch she’d lovedlistening to him talk about his childhood, about Calcutta. What had sheremembered?He’dnevertoldherthatUdayanwasdead.

Goodtorunintoyou,Subhash.Takecare.Thoughjealousyshouldnothaveflared,hefelt itsholdastheywalkedpast

him,ashepushedthecart loadedwithgroceriestowardhiscar.Hesawthat ithadnotsimplybeenforJoshuathatshe’dforgivenherhusband.Thattheylovedoneanotherstill.

SubhashandGaurisharedabedatnight,theyhadachildincommon.Almostfiveyearsagotheyhadbeguntheirjourneyashusbandandwife,buthewasstillwaiting to arrive somewhere with her. A place where he would no longerquestiontheresultofwhatthey’ddone.

Sheneverexpressedanyunhappiness,shedidnotcomplain.Butthesmiling,carefreegirl in thephotographUdayanhad sent, thathadbeenSubhash’s firstimpression of her, that he had also hoped to draw out—that part of her he’d

neverseen.And another thingwasmissing, something that troubled him evenmore to

admit.Hehatedthinkingaboutit.Hehatedrememberingtheterriblepredictionhismotherhadmade.

But somehow his mother had known. For the tenderness Subhash felt forBela, that was impossible for him to ration or restrict, was not the same onGauri’send.

Though she cared forBela capably, though shekept her clean and combedand fed, she seemed distracted.Rarely did Subhash see her smilingwhen shelooked into Bela’s face. Rarely did he see Gauri kissing Bela spontaneously.Instead, from the beginning, itwas as if she’d reversed their roles, as if Belawerearelative’schildandnotherown.

On the beach with Bela, he was aware of families who traveled to RhodeIslandtoreinforcetheircloseness.Forsomanyitseemedasacredrite.

SubhashandGaurihadnevergoneonvacationtogether,withBela.Subhashhadneversuggestedit,perhapsbecauseheknewthattheideawouldn’tappealtoGauri.Hespenthis timeoffwithBela,drivingwithherhereand therefor theday.Hecouldn’t imagine the threeof themexploringanewplace together,orrentingacottagewithanotherfamily,assomeofhiscolleaguesdid.

He’dhopedthatbynowGauriwouldbereadytohaveachildwithhim,andtogiveBelaacompanion.He’dgonesofarastosuggestitoneday,sayinghedidnotwanttodenyBelaasibling.Hebelieveditwouldcorrecttheimbalance,iftheywerefourinsteadofthree.Thatitwouldcloseupthedistance.

Shetoldhimshewouldthinkaboutitinanotheryearortwo;thatshewasnotyetthirty,thattherewasstilltimetohaveachild.

And so he continued hoping, though everymonth, in themedicine cabinet,wasanewpacketofbirth-controlpills.

At times he feared that his one act of rebellion,marrying her, had alreadyfailed. He’d expected more resistance from her then, not now. He wonderedsometimesifsheregrettedit.Ifthedecisionhadbeenmadeinerror,inhaste.

She’s Udayan’s wife, she’ll never love you, his mother had told him,attemptingtodissuadehim.Atthetimehe’dstooduptoher,convinceditcouldbe otherwise, and that he couldmake Gauri happy. He’d been determined toprovehismotherwrong.

In order tomarry Gauri he’d compromised his ties to his parents, perhapspermanently, he did not know. But hewas a father now.He could no longerimaginealifeinwhichhehadnottakenthatstep.

Chapter6

Playwithme,Belawouldsay.IfSubhashwasnot thereshesoughtoutGauri’scompanionship, instructing

her to siton the floor inBela’s room.Shewantedher tomovepiecesalongaboard,orhelptodressandundressherdolls,tuggingtheclothesonandofftheirunyielding plastic limbs. She spread dozens of identical cards facedown, amemorygameinwhichtheyweresupposedtolocatematchingpairs.

At timesGauri capitulated, holding on to a book shewas reading, stealingglanceswhileitwasBela’sturn.Sheplayed,butitwasneverenough.

You’renotpayingattention,Belaprotested,whenGauri’smindstrayed.Shesatonthecarpet,consciousofBela’sreproach.Sheknewthatasibling

mightrelieveheroftheresponsibilitytoentertainBelathisway.Sheknewthatthiswaspartlywhatmotivatedpeopletohavemorethanonechild.

Shedidnot tellSubhash,whenhebrought itupwithher,what shealreadyknew: that though she had become awife a second time, becoming amotheragain was the one thing in her life she was determined to prevent fromhappening.

She slept with him because it had become more of an effort not to. Shewanted to terminate the expectation she’d begun to sense from him. Also toextinguishUdayan’sghost.Tosmotherwhathauntedher.

NothingintheirlovemakinghadremindedherofUdayan,sothat,intheend,thefactthattheyhadbeenbrotherswasnotsostrange.Therewasthefocusofseekingpleasure,andthenumbingeffect,oncetheywerefinished,removingallspecific thoughts from her brain. It ushered in the solid, dreamless sleep thatotherwiseeludedher.

Hisbodywasadifferentbody,morehesitantbutalsomoreattentive.Intimeshecametorespondtoit,eventocraveit,asshehadcravedoddcombinationsoffoodwhenshewaspregnant.WithSubhashshelearnedthatanactintendedtoexpresslovecouldhavenothingtodowithit.Thatherheartandherbodyweredifferentthings.

She’dseensignsinthestudentunionadvertisingbabysitters,servicesprovidedby students and professors’ wives. She began writing down some names and

phonenumbers.She askedSubhash if they couldhire somebody, togiveher time to take a

surveyofGermanphilosophythatmettwiceaweek.ThoughBelawasfivenow,inkindergarten, she still attended school foronlyhalf theday.Gauri said thatthis was a reasonable solution, given that Subhash was busy, given that theyknewnooneelsewhocouldhelp.

Hetoldherno.Notforthemoneyitwouldcostbutonprinciple,notwantingtopayastrangertocareforBela.

It’scommonhere,shesaid.You’rehomewithher,Gauri.Thoughhehadencouragedhertovisitthelibraryinhersparetime,toattend

lectures now and again, she realized that he didn’t consider this her work.Thoughhe’dtoldher,whenheaskedhertomarryhim,thatshecouldgoonwithherstudiesinAmerica,nowhetoldherthatherpriorityshouldbeBela.

She’snotyourchild,shewantedtosay.Toremindhimofthetruth.Butofcourseitwasnotthetruth.AtBela’sballetrecitalafewweeksbefore,

GaurisawthechangeinherassoonasSubhash,arrivingafewminuteslate,hadtaken his place and waved; Bela filling with the awareness of him, her chintuckedintohershoulder,bashfullyperformingonlyforhim.

Afewdayslatershebroughtitupagain.Thisisimportanttome,shesaid.Willingtocompromise,hetoldherhewouldtrytorearrangehisschedule.He

begantoleaveearlieroncertainmornings,andreturn,afewdaysaweek,bylateafternoon.Sheregisteredfortheclassandwenttothebookstore,fillingabasketwith books.On the Genealogy of Morals. The Phenomenology of Mind. TheWorldasWillandIdea.Sheboughtapacketofpensandadictionary.Awire-boundnotebookbearingtheuniversity’sseal.

•••

WithBela,shewasawareoftimenotpassing;oftheskyneverthelessdarkeningattheendofanotherday.Shewasawareoftheperfectsilenceintheapartment,repletewiththeisolationsheandBelashared.WhenshewaswithBela,eveniftheywere not interacting, it was as if theywere one person, bound fast by adependencethatrestrictedhermentally,physically.Attimesitterrifiedherthatshefeltsoentwinedandalsosoalone.

Onweekdays,assoonasshepickedupBelafromthebusstopandbroughtherhome,shewentstraighttothekitchen,washingupthemorningdishesshe’d

ignored, then getting dinner started. Shemeasured out the nightly cupof rice,lettingitsoakinapanonthecounter.Shepeeledonionsandpotatoesandpickedthroughlentilsandpreparedanothernight’sdinner,thenfedBela.Shewasneverable to understand why this relatively unchallenging set of chores felt sorelentless.Whenshewasfinished,shedidnotunderstandwhytheyhaddepletedher.

ShewaitedforSubhashtotakeover,toallowhertoleave,toattendherclassor to studyat the library.For therewasnoplace towork in theapartment,nodoorshecouldshut,nodeskwhereshecouldkeepherthings.

ShebegrudgedSubhash’sabsencewhenhewasatwork,hisabilitytocomeand go and nothing more. She resented the few moments of the morning heenjoyedwithBela,beforeleavingforhislab.

She resented him for going away for two or three days, to attendoceanographyconferencesor toconductresearchatsea.Duetonofaultofhisown,whenhedidappear, sometimesshewasbarelyable to stand thesightofhim,ortotoleratethesoundofthevoicethat,inthebeginning,haddrawnhertohim.

She began to eat dinner early,withBela, leaving Subhash’s portion on thestove.Sothatalmostassoonashewasthere,Gauriwasabletopackuphertotebag and go. She felt the fresh air of early evening on her face. Bright inspringtime,darkandcoldinfall.

Atfirstitwasjusttheeveningsshehadclass,butthenitwaseveryeveningoftheweek that she spent at the library, away from them.Happy to spend timewithBela,Subhash lethergo.Andso she felt antagonizedbyamanwhodidnothingtoantagonizeher,andbyBela,whodidnotevenknowthemeaningoftheword.

Butherworstnemesisresidedwithinher.ShewasnotonlyashamedofherfeelingsbutalsofrightenedthatthefinaltaskUdayanhadleftherwith,thelongtaskofraisingBela,wasnotbringingmeaningtoherlife.

In the beginning she’d told herself that it was like a thing misplaced: afavorite pen that would turn up a few weeks later, wedged between the sofacushions, or discreetly sitting behind a sheaf of papers. Once found, it wouldnever be lost sight of again. To look for such amisplaced item onlymade itworse.Ifshewaitedlongenough,shetoldherself,thereitwouldbe.

Butitwasnotturningup;afterfiveyears,inspiteofallthetime,allthehoursshe and Bela spent together, the love she’d once felt for Udayan refused toreconstituteitself.Insteadtherewasagrowingnumbnessthatinhibitedher,thatimpairedher.

Shewasfailingatsomethingeveryotherwomanonearthdidwithouttrying.Thatshouldnothaveprovedastruggle.Evenherownmother,whohadnotfullyraisedher,hadlovedher;ofthattherehadbeennodoubt.ButGaurifearedshehadalreadydescendedtoaplacewhereitwasnolongerpossibletoswimuptoBela,toholdontoher.

Nor was her love for Udayan recognizable or intact. Anger was alwaysmounted to it, zigzagging through her like some helplessly mating pair ofinsects. Anger at him for dying when he might have lived. For bringing herhappiness, and then taking it away. For trusting her, only to betray her. Forbelievinginsacrifice,onlytobesoselfishintheend.

Shenolongersearchedforsignsofhim.Thefleetingawarenessthathemightbeinaroom,lookingoverhershoulderassheworkedatherdesk,wasnolongeracomfort.Certaindaysitwaspossiblenottothinkofhim,torememberhim.NoaspectofhimhadtraveledtoAmerica.ApartfromBela,he’drefusedtojoinherhere.

Thewomen in thephilosophydepartmentweresecretaries.Theprofessor,andthe other students in her class,weremen. Itwas a small group, seven peopleincludingtheprofessor.Quicklytheygrewtoknowoneanotherbyname.Theyliked to argue about antipositivism, about praxis. About immanence and theabsolute.TheyneversolicitedGauri’sopinion,butasshebegantocontributetothediscussiontheylistened,surprisedthatsheknewenough,attimes,toprovethemwrong.

Her professor, Otto Weiss, was a short man with a thick accent, a slowmannerofspeaking,wirespectacles,rust-coloredcurlsonhishead.Hedressedmoreformally than theotherprofessors.Alwayswithpolishedleathershoes,ajacket,alittlepinsecuringhistie.He’dbeenborninGermany,putintooneofthecampswhenhewasaboy.

Ineverthinkofit,hetoldtheclass,speakingbrieflyofthisexperience,afteroneofthestudentsaskedhimwhenhehadleftEurope.Asiftosay,Donotpityme, though the rest of his familyhadperishedbefore the campwas liberated;thoughtherewasanidentificationnumberonhislowerarm,thetattooconcealedbeneathhisclothing.

He was perhaps only a decade older than Gauri but seemed of anothersensibility, another generation.He had lived in England before coming to theUnited States. He’d done his doctorate at Chicago. He would never return toGermany,hesaid.Reading theattendance liston the firstdayofclass,hehadcalled out her name without hesitation. She had not had to correct his

pronunciation,totoleratethewaymostAmericansutteredhermarriedname.Hereferred tononoteswhenhe lectured.Thoughheguided themcarefully

throughthetextshe’dassigned,heseemedmoreinterestedinwhatthestudentshadtosay,takingafewnotesonblanksheetsofwhitepaperastheyspoke.He’dread theUpanishads, talked about their influence onSchopenhauer. She felt akinshipwiththisman.Shewantedtopleasehim,tosalutehimsomehow.

At the end of the semester, after writing a comparison of Nietzsche’s andSchopenhauer’sconceptsofcircular time, shewasasked tocome tohisofficeafter class.She’dworkedon the essay forweeks,writing it out byhand, thentypingupthefaircopyonSubhash’stypewriter,atthekitchentable.Surroundedbytheappliances,thecordofthefluorescentfixtureoverhead.Thetaskhadkeptherawakeuntildawn.

Shesawcrowdednotations in themargins,slantingcomments thatvirtuallyformedaframe.

Thisisambitiousmaterial.Onemightsaypresumptuous.Shedidnotknowhowtorespond.Doyouthinkyouhavesucceeded?Stillshedidnotknowwhattosay.I asked foranessayof tenpages.Youhavewrittenclose to forty.Andyet

youhavestillfailedutterlytoproveyourpoint.I’msorry.Don’t apologize. I am always grateful to have an intellectual in the room.

SuchagraspofHegelIhavenotencounteredamongmystudentshere.Hescannedcertainportionsoftheessay,afingertrailingbelowthewords.It

needsrevising,hesaid.Icanprepareitfornextweek?He shookhis head, brushinghis hands against one another. I have finished

withthisclass.AndIsuggestyouputthispaperinadrawerandnotlookatitforafewyears.

Shethoughthewasbrushinghishandsofheralso.Shethankedhimfortheclass.Shestooduptogo.

WhatbringsyoutoRhodeIslandfromIndia?Myhusband.Whatdoeshedo?Hestudiedherealso.YoumetinAmerica?Sheturnedherfaceaway.

I’veaskedsomethingIshouldnothave?Hewaspatient,steadilygazingupatherfromhischair.Hedidnotpress.But

heseemedtosensethatshehadmoretosay.Sheturnedtohimagain.Shelookedatthebooksbehindhim,thepaperspiled

onhisdesk.Shelookedatthecrispmaterialofhisshirt,thecuffscoveringhiswrists where the sleeves of the jacket ended. She thought of what he’dexperienced,atlessthanBela’sage.

My first husband was killed, she said. I watched it happen. I married hisbrother,togetaway.

Weiss continued to look at her. His expression had not changed. After amomenthenodded.Sheknewshe’dtoldhimenough.

Hestoodup,andwalkedovertothewindowinhisoffice.Helifteditopenacrack.

DoyoureadFrenchorGerman?No.ButI’vestudiedSanskrit.Youwillneedbothlanguagestogoon,buttheywillbesimpleforyou.Goon?Youbelonginadoctoralprogram,Mrs.Mitra.Theydon’tofferonehere.Sheshookherhead.Ihaveayoungdaughter,shesaid.Ah,Ididnotrealizeyouwereamother.Youmustbringhertoseeme.Heturnedaroundaframedpicturethatwasonhisdesk,andshowedherhis

family. They were standing with their backs to a valley in autumn, flamingleaves.Awife,adaughter,twosons.

Withchildrentheclockisreset.Weforgetwhatcamebefore.He returned to the desk and wrote down the names of a few books he

recommended,tellingherwhichchaptersweremostimportant.FromtheshelveshelentherhisowncopiesofAdornoandMcTaggart,withhisannotations.Hegave her copies ofNewGermanCritique, indicating some articles she shouldread.

He told her to continue taking upper-level courses at the university, sayingthattheywouldcounttowardamaster’s.Afterthathecouldmakesomephonecalls, todoctoralprograms thatwouldsuither,universities towhichshecouldcommute.Hewouldsee to it thatshewasadmitted. Itwouldmeantravelingafew times a week for some years, but she could write her dissertation fromanywhere.Hewouldbewillingtoserveonhercommittee,whenthetimecame.

Hehandedthepaperbacktoher,andstooduptoshakeherhand.

Chapter7

At the front of the apartment complex there was a broad sloping lawn. Theschoolbusstoppedontheothersideofit.Forthefirstfewdaysoffirstgrade,GauriwalkedBelaacrossthelawn,waitingwithherforthebus,seeingheroff,thengoingbackintheafternoons,toreceiveher.

Thefollowingweek,Belawantedtowalktothebusstoponherown,astheotheryoungchildren in thecomplexdid.Therewereoneor twomotherswhoalwayswent,and they toldGauri theywerehappy tomakesure thateveryonegotsafelyontothebus.

Still,GauriwouldkeepaneyeonBelaasshewalkeddown thepathwayatthe foot of their building, across the grass. She moved the dining table sheworkedatovertothewindow.Thebusalwayscameatthesametime,thewaitonly five minutes or so. Lunch boxes arranged on the sidewalk marked thechildren’splacesintheline.

She was grateful for this slight change in the morning routine. It made adifferencethatshedidnothavetogetdressed,didnothavetostepoutsidetheapartmentandmakesmalltalkwithothermothers,beforesittingdowntostudy.She was taking an independent course with Professor Weiss, reading Kant,beginningtograspitforthefirsttime.

Onemorning,afteranightofdownpours,alightrainstillfalling,shehandedBelaher lunchboxand sentheroff.Shewas still inhernightgown,her robe.Thedaywasherownuntilthree,whenBela’sschoolended,whenthebuswoulddropheroffandshewouldreturnacrosstheslopinglawn.

Buttoday,aminutelater,therewasaknockonthedoor.Belawasback.Didyouforgetsomething?Doyouwantyourrainhat?No.Whatisit,then?Comesee.I’minthemiddleofsomething.Belatuggedatherhand.Ma,youhavetocomesee.Gauritookoffherrobeandslippers,puttingonaraincoatandapairofboots.

Shesteppedoutside,openinganumbrella.Outside,theairwashumid,saturatedwithadeep,fishystench.Belapointed

to the pathway. It was covered by a carnage of earthworms; they’d emergedfrom the wet soil to die. Not two or three but hundreds. Some were tightlycurled,othersflattened.Theirrosybodies,theirfivehearts,slicedapart.

Belashuthereyestightly.Sherecoiledattheimage,complainedofthesmell.Shesaidshedidn’twanttosteponthem.Andshewasafraidtowalkacrossthelawnfromwhichthey’dcome.

Whyaretheresomany?Ithappenssometimes.Theycomeouttobreathewhenthegroundistoowet.Willyoucarryme?You’retoobig.CanIstayhome,then?Gauri looked up to where the other children stood, under hoods and

umbrellas.Theyseemtohavemanaged,shesaid.Please?Bela’svoicewassmall.Tearsformed,thensliddownherface.Anothermothermighthaveindulgedher.Anothermothermighthavebrought

herback,letherstayhome,skipadayofschool.Anothermother,spendingthetimewithher,mightnothaveconsidereditawaste.

GaurirememberedhowhappySubhashhadbeen,thosedayslastwinterwhenithadsnowedsoheavily,andmosteverythingwasshutdown.Forawholeweekhe’d stayed home with Bela, making a holiday of it. Playing games, readingstories,takingherouttoplayoncampus,inthesnow.

Thensherememberedanotherthing.How,attheheightofthecrackdown,thebodies of party members were left in streams, in fields close to Tollygunge.Theywereleftbythepolice,toshockpeople,torevoltthem.Tomakeclearthatthepartywouldnotsurvive.

Theschoolbuswasapproaching.Come.ButBelashookherhead.No.Ifyoudon’tgetonthebuswe’regoingtowalktoschool.Overmoreworms

thanthis.When Bela still refused to move, Gauri grasped her tightly by the hand,

causing her to trip, dragging her across. Belawas sobbing audibly,miserablynow.

The other mothers and children, gathered at the bus stop, had turned theirheads.Thebuscametoastop,thedooropening,therestofthechildrengettingon.Thedriverwaswaitingforthem.

Don’tmakeascene,Bela.Don’tbeacoward.

Iwatchedyourfatherkilledbeforemyeyes,shemighthavesaid.Idon’t likeyou,Belacriedout,shakingherselffree.I’llnever likeyou,for

therestofmylife.Sheranahead.Abandoninghermotherontheheelsofsummoningher.Not

wantingGauritoaccompanyhertherestoftheway.

Ithadbeenachild’stemper,posturing,grandiose.Bytheafternoon,whenBelacamehome, the incidentwas forgotten.ButBela’swords had pervadedGaurilikeaprophecy.

Iwanthertoknow,shetoldSubhashthatevening,takingabreakfromtypinga paper, after Bela was in bed. Subhash was sitting at the kitchen table,balancingthecheckbook,payingbills.

Knowwhat?IwanttotellheraboutUdayan.Subhash stared at her. She saw fear in his eyes. She remembered when

Udayanwas hidden behind thewater hyacinth, and the gunwas at her throat.Sherealizedtheweaponwasinherhandsnow.Everythingthatmatteredtohim,shecouldtakeaway.

It’sthetruth,shecontinued.Heshookhishead.Hisexpressionhadchanged.Hestooduptofaceher.Shedeservestoknow,Subhash.She’stooyoung.She’sonlysix.When,then?Whenshe’sready.Nowitwouldonlydomoreharmthangood.Shehadbeenprepared to insiston it, topeel thefalsecoatingof their lives

away, but she knew he was right. It was too much for Bela to absorb. Andperhaps it would compromise the alliance between Subhash and Bela she’dcometodependon.ItwouldcauseBelatoregardSubhashinadifferentway.

Allright,then.Sheturnedtogo.Wait.What?Youagreewithme?Isaidyes.Thenpromisemesomething.What’sthat?Promiseyouwon’ttellheronyourown.Thatwe’lldothattogethersomeday.

Shepromised,butshefelttheweightofit,sinkingdowninsideher.Itwastheweight ofmaintaining the illusion that hewasBela’s father.Aweight alwayssettlinginsteadofsurfacing.

Sherealizeditwastheonlythinghecontinuedtoneedfromher.Thathewasbeginningtogiveupontherest.

Shebecameawareofamanwholookedather,turninghisheadslightlyasshepassedby.Hisglanceshifting,thoughheneverstoppedtointroducehimself—therewasnoreasonforhimto.Sheknewthereweren’t toomanywomenwholookedlikeheronthecampus.MostoftheotherIndianwomenworesaris.Butinspiteofherjeansandbootsandbeltedcardigan,orperhapsbecauseofthem,Gauriknewshestoodout.

At first she found him unappealing, physically. A man in his fifties, sheguessed,alittlethicksetatthewaist.Theeyesweresmall,inscrutable.Palehairthatstuckupalittle.Athinmouth,theskinofhisfacecreased,seemingdry.

Heworeabrowncorduroyjacket,asweaterunderneath.Hecarriedabatteredleather briefcase in his hand. Though they crossed paths with comicpredictability,mutelyacknowledgingoneanother,sheneversawhimsmile.

Sheassumedhewasaprofessor.Shehadnoideawhatdepartmenthewasin.Onedayshenoticedaweddingbandonhis finger.Shewould seehimon thewaytoherGermanclass,alwaysalongthesamesectionofthepath.

Onedayshelookedbackathim.Staringathim,challenginghimtostop,tosaysomething.Shehadnoideawhatshewoulddo,butshebegantowantthistohappen,towillit.Shefeltherbodyreactingwhenshesawhim,theaccelerationofherheart,thetautnessofherlimbs,adampreleasebetweenherlegs.

SeekingoutSubhashinbed,shepretendedshewaswiththisman,inahotelroom,orinhishome.Feelinghismouth,hissexagainstherown.

OnWednesdays, thedaysshesawhim,shebegantoprepareherselffor theencounter.Theclassmet in themorning,whichmeant therewouldbe time.Alittleoveranhour,togowithhimandcomeback,beforeshehadtogetBela.OnTuesdays she prepared more than she needed for dinner the next day, toaccommodatethepotentiallapseinherschedule.

ButthenexttimeshesawhimwasaMondayafternoon,inadifferentpartofcampus.Sherecognizedhimfrombehind.SheneededtopickupBelainhalfanhour,she’dbeenonherwaytothelibrarytogetabook,butshechangedcourseand began to follow him, racing to keep upwhile at the same time leaving aspace.

Shefollowedhimintothestudentunion.Shefelther inhibitionsdissolving.

Shewouldgouptohim,lookathim.Please,shewouldsay.She walked behind him into the double-chambered room lined with sofas,

televisions in the corners. He stopped to pick up a copy of the campusnewspaper,glancingat it foramoment.Thenshe sawhimwalk tooneof thesofas,leanovertokissawomanwhowaswaiting.Touchherknee.

She escaped to the only place she could think of, the enormous women’sroom,pushingagainst theheavydoor, crossing the thick carpetof the lounge,lockingherselfintoastall.Shewasalone,therewasnooneintheneighboringstalls, and shecouldnothelpherself, shepushedherhandupher shirt, toherbreast,caressingit,anotherhandunzippingherjeans,hookingherfingersovertheridgeofbone,herforeheadagainstthecoldmetalofthedoor.

It tookonly amoment to calmherself, toput an end to it.Shewashedherhandsatthesink,smoothedherhair,sawthecolorthathadrisentoherface.Shestrodepast thelounge,notcheckingtoseeif themanandhiscompanionweresittingthere.

ThefollowingWednesday,shetookanalternateroutetoherclass.Shemadesuresheneverranintohimagain,walkingintheoppositedirectionifshedid.

OneafternoonBelawasoccupiedwithapairofscissors,abookofpaperdolls.ItwasJuly,Bela’sschoolclosedforthelongvacation;thecampuswasatrest.Subhashwas teaching summer courses inProvidence, spending the rest of histime ina lab inNarragansett.Gauri spentherdayswithBela,withoutacar inwhichtheymightgoanywhere,withoutabreak.

Gauri satwith her own book beside her, Spinoza’sEthics, trying to read asection to its end. But something was beginning to change: it was becomingpossible to read a book and to bewith Bela at the same time. Possible to betogether,engagedinseparateways.

Thetelevisionwasturnedoff,theapartmentquietapartfromtheintermittentsoundofBela’sscissors,slowlyslicingthroughthickpiecesofpaper.

Goingtothekitchentomaketea,Gaurisawthattheywereoutofmilk.Shereturnedtothelivingroom.ShesawthebackofBela’sneck,bentoverhertask.Shewastalkingtoherself,carryingonadialogueindifferentvoicesbetweenthepaperdolls.

Putonyourshoes,Bela.Why?Let’sgoout.I’mbusy,shesaid,soundingsuddenlylikeagirloftwelveinsteadofsix.As

if, with a snip of her scissors, she had sliced away the need for Gauri,eliminatingher.

Theideapresenteditself.Thestorewasjustbehindtheapartmentcomplex,atwo-minute walk. She could see it through the kitchen window, past theDumpsterandthesodamachineandthecarsparkedinback.

I’mjustgoingdowntogetthemail.Without stopping to think things through, she went out, locking the door.

Downthesteps,cuttingacrosstheparkinglot,intothehotleafyday.Shewasrunningmorethanwalking.Herfeetwerelight.Inthestoreshefelt

likeacriminal,worriedthattheelderlymanstandingbehindtheregister,alwayskindtoBela,thoughtGauriwasstealingthemilkshe’dcometobuy.

Where’syourdaughtertoday?Withafriend.Hesmiledandhandedherapieceofpeppermintcandyfromthelittlebowlby

theregister.Tellherit’sfromme.Quickly but carefully she counted out her change. The transaction

overwhelmedher,asitusedtowhenshe’dfirstcomehere.Sherememberedtosaythankyou.Shethrewoutthecandybeforeshegottotheapartmentbuilding,hidingthemilkinhertotebag.

ThefollowingdayshesetBelaupatthecoffeetableinfrontofthetelevision.Sheconsideredeverydetail:aglassofwaterincaseshewasthirsty,agenerousplate of biscuits and grapes. Extra pencils, in case the tip of the one shewasdrawingwithhappenedtosnap.Halfanhour’scarefulpreparation,toallowforfiveminutesaway.

Thefiveminutesdoubledtoten,sometimesabitmore.Fifteenminutestobealone,toclearherhead.Itwastimetorunacrossthequadrangletothelibrarytoreturnabook,asimpleerrandshecouldhavedoneatanytimebutthatshewasdeterminedtoaccomplishatthatmoment.Timetogotothepostofficeandsenda letter, requestinganapplication foroneof thedoctoralprogramsOttoWeisshad suggested she look into.Time to speculate that,withoutBelaorSubhash,herlifemightbeadifferentthing.

It turnedintoadare,apuzzletosolve,tokeepherselfsharp.Aprivateraceshe felt compelled to run again and again, convinced, if she stopped, that herability toperform the featwouldbe lost.Beforesteppingoutshechecked thatthestovewasturnedoff,thewindowsshut,theknivesplacedoutofreach.NotthatBelawasthatsortofchild.

So it began in the afternoons. Not every afternoon but often enough, toooften.Disorientedbythesenseoffreedom,devouringthesensationasabeggar

devoursfood.Sometimesshesimplywalkedtothestoreandback,withoutbuyinganything.

Sometimesshereallydidgetthemail,andsatonabenchoncampusandsortedthrough it.Or shewentover to the studentunion toget acopyof thecampuspaper.Thenbackinside,rushinguptheflightofstairs,atoncetriumphantandappalledatherself.Sheunlocked thedoor,whereBelawouldbe, justasshe’dlefther.Neversuspecting,neveraskingwhereshe’dbeen.

ThenonedaythatsummerSubhashcamehomeearlierthanusual,intendingtotakeadvantageofthelastofthewarmweather,andtakeBelatothebeach.

He foundBela concealed beneath one of the tents she sometimesmade byremovingtheblanketsfromherbed,drapingthemoverthesofaandthecoffeetable in the living room.Shewas contentwithin this structure, playingonherown.

Shetoldhimthathermotherhadgonetogetthemail.ButGauriwasn’tatthebottomofthestairs.Subhashknewthat,havingjustretrievedthemailandcomeupthestairshimself.

Ten minutes later Gauri returned with a newspaper. She hadn’t noticedSubhash’scarintheparkinglot.Becausehehadn’tcalledtosayhewasleavingearly,therewasnoreasontothinkhewasalreadyhome.

Theresheis,Belasaidwhenshewalkedthroughthedoor.See,Itoldyoushealwayscomesback.

ButittookSubhash,whowasstandingatthewindow,hisbacktotheroom,severalminutesbeforeheturnedaround.

Atfirsthehadsaidnothingtoreproachher.Foraweekhisonlypunishmentwasinrefusingtospeak,refusingtoacknowledgeher,justasherin-lawshadignoredher after Udayanwas killed. Living with her in the apartment as if she wereinvisible, as if onlyBelawere there, his fury contained.Thedayhebrokehissilencehesaid,

Mymotherwas right.Youdon’t deserve to be a parent.The privilegewaswastedonyou.

Sheapologized,shetoldhimitwouldneverhappenagain.Thoughshehatedhimforinsultingher,sheknewthathisreactionwasjustified,andthathewouldneverforgiveherforwhatshe’ddone.

Whilecontinuingtoliveinthesamehouseheturnedawayfromher,justasshe had turned away from him. Thewide berth for herself that she had beenseekingintheirmarriage,henowwillinglygave.Henolongerwantedtotouch

herinbed,henolongerbroughtupthepossibilityofasecondchild.WhenshewasadmittedthefollowingspringtoadoctoralprograminBoston,

whentheyofferedtopayherway,hedidnotobject.Hesaidnothingwhenshestarted taking the bus there two days a week, or when she arranged forundergraduatestolookafterBelathedaysshewasgone.Hedidn’tfaultherforcreatingadisruption,orforwantingtospendthattimeaway.

BecauseofBela,thepossibilityofseparatingwasnotdiscussed.ThepointoftheirmarriagewasBela,andinspiteofthedamageGaurihadwrought,inspiteofhernewschedule,hercomingandgoing,thefactofBelaremained.

Besides, shewas a student, without an income. Like Bela, Gauri wouldn’tsurvivewithouthim.

PartV

Chapter1

Eachdayitdiminishes:alittlelesswatertoseethroughtheterracegrille.Bijoliwatchesasthetwopondsinfrontofthehouse,andthetractoflowlandbehindthem,arecloggedwithwaste.Oldclothes,rags,newspapers.EmptypacketsofMotherDairy.JarsofHorlicks,tinsofBournvitaandtalcumpowder.PurplefoilfromCadburychocolate.Brokenclaycupsinwhichroadsideteaandsweetenedyogurtwereonceserved.

Theheap formsa thickeningbankaround thewater’sedge.Whitish fromadistance,colorfulupclose.Evenherowngarbagehasendedupthere:wrappersfrompacketsofbiscuitsorblocksofbutter.AnotherflattenedtubeofBoroline.Thebrittleclumpsofhairherscalpsheds,pulledfromtheteethofhercomb.

People have always tossed refuse into these bodies of water. But now theaccumulation is deliberate.An illegal practice takingplace in ponds, in paddyfields, all over Calcutta. They are being plugged up by promoters so that thecity’s swampy land turns solid, so that new sectors can be established, newhomesbuilt.Newgenerationsbred.

Ithadhappenedonamassivescaleinthenorth,inBidhannagar.Shehadreadabout it in the papers, theDutch engineers laying down pipes to bring in siltfrom the Hooghly, closing up the lakes, turning water into land. They’destablishedaplannedcity,SaltLake,initsplace.

Longago,whentheyhadfirstcometoTollygunge,thewaterhadbeenclean.SubhashandUdayanhadcooledoffinthepondsonhotdays.Poorpeoplehadbathed. After the rains the floodwater turned the lowland into a pretty placefilledwithwadingbirds,clearenoughtoreflectmoonlight.

Thewaterthatremainshasbeenreducedtoagreenwellinthecenter,adullgreenthatremindsherofmilitaryvehicles.Winterdays,whenthesun’sheatisstrong,whenmostofthelowlandhasturnedbacktomud,sheseeswaterfromcertain puddles evaporating before her eyes, rising up like steam from theground.

Inspiteofthegarbagethewaterhyacinthstillgrows,stubbornlyrooted.Thepromoterswhowant this landwillhave toburn it toeradicate it,or remove itwithmachines.

Atacertainhourshegetsupfromherchair.Shegoesdowntothecourtyard

to pick a few marigold tops and jasmine, enclosing them in her hand. Herhusband’sdahliasarestillinbloomthiswinter,peoplepeeringoverthewalltoadmirethem.

Shewalkspast theponds to theedgeof the lowland.Hergaithaschanged.Shehas lost thecoordinationrequired toplaceonefootdirectly infrontof theother.Insteadshemovesbyshiftingherbodyfromsidetoside,leaninginwithoneshoulder,herfeetfeelingfortheground.

That evening was long enough ago now for stories to be told. Theneighborhoodchildren, born afterUdayan’sdeath, goquietwhen they seeherwiththeflowersandsmallbrassurn.

She washes the memorial tablet and replaces the flowers, brushing awaythosethathavedriedoutfromthedaybefore.ThispastOctoberwasthetwelfthanniversary. She puts her hand into a puddle, sprinkling the flowers with thewaterthatclingstoherfingers,tokeepthemmoistthroughthenight.

Bijoli understands that she scares these children; that to them she, too, is akind of ghostly presence in the neighborhood, a specter watching over themfromtheterrace,alwaysemergingatthesametimeeveryday.Sheistemptedtotellthemthattheyareright,andthatUdayan’sghostdoeslurk,insidethehouseandaroundit,inandaroundtheenclave.

Somedays,shewouldtellthemiftheyasked,sheseeshimcomingintoview,approaching the house after a long day at college. He walks through theswinging doors into the courtyard, a book bag over his shoulder. Still clean-shaven,focusedonhisstudies,eagertosettledownathisdesk.Tellingherhe’shungry,thirstyfortea,askingwhyshehasn’talreadyputthekettleon.

Shehearshisfootstepsonthestairs, thefaninhisbedroomspinning.Staticon the shortwave that stopped working years ago. The brief sound his matchmakes,theflameraging,thenebbing,whenitstrikestheedgeofthebox.

Asa finaldisgrace to their family,hisbodywasnever returned.Theyweredenied even the comfort of honoring his bullet-ridden corpse. They had beenunable to anoint it, todrape itwith flowers. It hadnotbeencarriedoutof theenclave,hoistedontheshouldersofhiscomrades,carriedintothenextworldtoshoutsofharibol.

Afterhisdeaththerewasnorecoursetothelaw.Itwasthelaw,atthetime,that hadmade it possible for the police to kill him. For a while she and herhusbandhadlookedforhisnameinthepapers.Needingproofevenafterwhatthey’d seen.Butnonoticewasprinted.Noadmissionofwhathadbeendone.The small stone tablet that his party comrades thought to put up is the onlyacknowledgment.

They had named him after the sun. The giver of life, receiving nothing inreturn.

TheyearafterUdayan’sdeath,theyearSubhashtookGauritoAmerica,Bijoli’shusbandhadretired.Hewokebeforedawnandtookthefirsttramnorth,toBabuGhat,wherehebathedintheGanges.Fortherestoftheday,afterhisbreakfast,hesequesteredhimself inhis roomand read.He refused rice for lunch, tellinghertocutupfruit,towarmabowlofmilkinstead.

This routine, these small deprivations, structured his days. He’d stoppedreadingthepapers.He’dstoppedsittingwithBijoliontheterrace,complainingthat the breeze was too damp, that it settled in his chest. He read theMahabharata in Bengali translation, a few pages at a time. Losing himself infamiliar tales, in ancient conflicts that had not afflicted them.When his eyesbegantogivehimtrouble,cloudywithcataracts,hedidnotbothergettingthemchecked.Insteadheusedamagnifyingglass.

At a certain point he suggested selling the house and moving away fromTollygunge, leaving Calcutta altogether. Perhaps moving to another part ofIndia,tosomerestfulmountaintown.Orperhapsapplyingforvisas,andgoingtoAmericatostaywithSubhashandGauri.Nothing,hesaid,boundthemtothisplace. The house stood practically empty. A mockery of the future they’dassumedwouldunfold.

Briefly she’d considered it. Traveling, making amends with Subhash,acceptingGauri,gettingtoknowUdayan’schild.

But it wasn’t possible for Bijoli to abandon the house where Udayan hadlivedsincebirth,theneighborhoodwherehedied.Theterracefromwhichshe’dlastseenhim,atadistance.Thefieldpastthelowland,wherethey’dtakenhim.

The field is no longer empty. A block of new houses sits on it now, theirrooftops crowded with television antennas. In the mornings, close by, a newmarketsetsup,whereDeepasaysthepricesforvegetablesarebetter.

Amonthago,beforegoingtobed,herhusbandtiedhismosquitonettingtothenailsinthewallandwoundhiswatchtomarkthehoursofthefollowingday.InthemorningBijolinoticedthatthedoortohisroom,nexttohers,wasstillshut.Thathehadnotgoneforhisbath.

Shedidn’tknockonhisdoor.Shewenttotheterrace,tositandviewtheskyandsiphertea.Therewereafewcloudsintheskybutnorain.ShetoldDeepatobringherhusbandhistea,torousehim.

Afewminuteslater,afterDeepaenteredtheroom,Bijoliheardthecupandsaucerbreakintopiecesagainstthefloor.BeforeDeepacametofindherontheterrace,totellherhe’ddiedinhissleep,Bijolialreadyknew.

She became awidow, asGauri had become. Bijoli nowwearswhite saris,without a pattern or a border. She’s removed her bangles, and stopped eatingfish.Vermillionnolongermarksthepartingofherhair.

ButGauri ismarried again, to Subhash, a turn of events that still stupefiesher.Insomewaysitwaslessexpected,moreshocking,thanUdayan’sdeath.Insomeways,justasdevastating.

Deepadoeseverythingnow.Acapableteenagedgirlwhosefamilylivesoutsidethe city, who has five siblings to help support. Bijoli has given Deepa hercostume jewelryandcolorful things, thekeys toherhouse.DeepawashesandcombsBijoli’shair,arrangingitsothatthethinningpartsarelessobvious.Shesleeps in the house with Bijoli at night, in the prayer room where Bijoli nolongerprays.

Shehandlesthemoney,goestothemarket,cooksthemeals,fetchesthemail.Inthemorningsshedrawsthedrinkingwaterfromthetubewell.Atnight,shemakessurethatthegateislocked.

If something needs to be hemmed she operates the sewing machine thatUdayanusedtooil,thathewouldrepairwithhistoolssothatBijolineverhadtotakeitintoashop.BijolitellsDeepatousethesewingmachineasoftenasshelikes,andbynowithasbecomeasourceofextraincomeforher,asitusedtobefor Bijoli, hemming frocks and trousers, taking in or letting out blouses forwomenintheneighborhood.

In the afternoons, on the terrace, Deepa reads Bijoli articles from thenewspaper.Never thewhole story, just a few lines, skippingover thedifficultwords.ShetellsherthatafilmstaristhepresidentofAmerica.ThattheCPI(M)has been runningWestBengal again. That JyotiBasu,whomUdayan used torevile,isthechiefminister.

Deepahasreplacedeveryone:Bijoli’shusband,herdaughter-in-law,hersons.ShebelievesUdayanarrangedforthis.

Sheremembershimsittingwithapieceofchalkinthecourtyard,teachingtheboysandgirlswhoused towork for them,who’dnotgone toschool, towriteandread.Hebefriendedthesechildren,eatingbesidethem,involvingtheminhisgames, giving them the meat from his own plate if Bijoli hadn’t set enoughaside.Hewouldcometotheirdefense,ifshehappenedtoscoldthem.

When hewas older he collectedworn-out items, old bedding and pots and

pans,todistributetofamilieslivingincolonies,inslums.Hewouldaccompanyamaidtoherhome,intothepoorestsectionsofthecity,tobringmedicine.Tosummon a doctor if a member of her family was ill, to see to a funeral ifsomeonedied.

But the police had called him a miscreant, an extremist. A member of anillegalpoliticalparty.Aboywhodidnotknowrightfromwrong.

Shelivesonherhusband’spension,andtheincomefromthedownstairsroomsthat they began to rent to another family after Gaurimoved away.Once in awhileacheckwrittenoutindollarsarrivesfromSubhash,somethingthattakesmonthstocash.Shedoesnotaskforhishelp,butsheisinnopositiontorefuseit.

In all it is enough tobuyher foodand topayDeepa, even tohave a smallrefrigerator, to install a telephone line.The lines are unpredictable, but on thefirst try she had picked up the phone and dialed Subhash’s number andtransmittedhervoicetoAmerica,conveyingthenewsofherhusband’sdeath.Itwasafewdaysafterthefact.Itcameasasurprise,yes,buthowdeeplyhaditaffectedher?

For over a decade they’d lived in separate rooms. For over a decade herhusband had not spoken ofwhat had happened toUdayan.He refused to talkaboutitwithBijoli,withanyone.Everymorning,afterhisbathintheriver,hepickedupfruitatthemarket,stoppingonhiswayhometochatwithneighborsabout this and that.Together,never speaking, the twoof themhad taken theirevening meals, sitting on the floor under Udayan’s death portrait, neveracknowledgingit.

Theyhadlovedthishouse;inasenseithadbeentheirfirstchild.They’dbeenproudofeachdetail,caringforittogether,excitedbyeverychange.

Whenitwasfirstbuilt,whenithadbeenonlytworooms,electricitywasjustcomingtothearea,lanternslittopreparetheeveningmeal.Theironstreetlampoutsidetheirhouse,anelegantexampleofBritishcityplanning,hadnotyetbeenconverted. Someone from the Corporation came each day before sunset, andagainatdaybreak,climbingaladder,switchingthegasonandoffbyhand.

The plot was twenty-five feet wide, sixty feet deep. The house itself wasnarrow,sixteenfeetacross.Therewasamandatorypassagewayoffourfeetoneithersideofthebuilding,thentheboundarywall.

Bijolihadcontributedheronlyresource.She’dsoldoff thegoldshe’dbeengivenwhenshebecameawife.Forherhusbandhadinsisted,evenbeforehaving

children, that building a home for their family, owning however ordinary apropertyinCalcutta,wasmoreimportant.He’dbelievednosecuritywasgreater.

The roof was originally covered with tiles of dried clay, replaced later bycorrugatedasbestos.ForatimeSubhashandUdayansleptinaroomwithoutanybarsonthewindows.Burlapwastackedupatnightbecausetheshuttershadnotbeeninstalled.Rainblewinattimes.

Sheremembersherhusbandpolishinghingesand latcheswithpiecesofherold saris. Beating mattresses to release dust. Once a week, after a privatebathroomwas built, he’d clean it before he cleaned himself, pouring phenyleintothecornersandeliminatingcobwebsassoonastheyformed.

Withintherooms,eachday,Bijolihadtakenameticulousinventoryoftheirpossessions. Lifting, dusting, replacing. Precisely aware of where everythingwas. Under her watch, the bedsheets had been tautly spread. The mirror freefromsmudges.Theinteriorsofteacupsunmarredbyrings.

Waterwaspumpedmanuallyfromthetubewell,aseriesofbucketsfilledupfor theday’suse,drinkingwater stored inurns.Sometime in the fifties they’dgottenaseptictank.Beforethattherehadbeenanouthousebytheentrance,andamanhadcometocarrytheirdailywasteawayonhishead.

MejoSahib, thesecondof threeNawabbrothers,hadowned theparcel thatformedtheirenclave,andhadsoldthemtheirplot.HewasadescendantofTipuSultan, whom the British had killed, whose kingdom was divided, whoseoffspringwere sequestered for a time in theTollyClub.Avisitor toEngland,Bijolihadonceheard,couldseeTipu’sswordandslippers,piecesofhistentandthrone,displayedastrophiesofconquestinoneofQueenElizabeth’shomes.

DuringthefirstyearsofSubhash’sandUdayan’slifetimes,whenitwasstillunclearwhetherCalcuttawouldbelongtoIndiaorPakistan,theseroyal-bloodedfamilieshadlivedamongthem.TheyhadbeenkindtoBijoli,invitinghertostepoffthestreetintotheirpillaredhomes,offeringhersherbettodrink.SubhashandUdayanhadstrokedtherabbitsthey’dkeptaspets,incagesintheircourtyards.Togetherthey’dswungonawoodenplank,beneathabowerofbougainvillea.

In1946sheandherhusbandhadworried that theviolencewouldspread toTollygunge,and thatperhaps theirMuslimneighborswould turnagainst them.Theyhadconsideredpackingupthehouse,livingforawhileinanotherpartofthe city,whereHinduswere themajority.But a nephewofMejoSahib’s hadbeenoutspoken.Hehadgoneoutofhiswaytoprotectthem.AnyonewhoentersthisenclavetothreatenaHinduwillhavetokillmefirst,he’dsaid.

ButafterPartition,MejoSahib’sfamily,alongwithsomany,hadfled.Theirnativesoilturningcorrosive,likesaltwaterinvadingtherootsofaplant.Their

gracioushomesabandoned,mostofthemoccupiedorrazed.Bijoli’shome feels just as forsaken, its course just asdiverted.Udayanhas

notlivedtoinheritit,andSubhashrefusestocomeback.Heshouldhavebeenacomfort; the one son remainingwhen the otherwas taken away.But shewasunabletoloveonewithouttheother.Hehadonlyaddedtotheloss.

ThemomenthereturnedtothemafterUdayan’sdeath,themomenthestoodbeforethem,she’dfeltonlyrage.RageatSubhashforremindinghersostronglyofUdayan,forsoundinglikehim,forremainingaspareversionofhim.She’doverheardhimtalkingwithGauri,payingattentiontoher,beingkind.

She’d toldhim,whenheannounced thathewasgoing tomarryGauri, thatthe decisionwas not his tomake.Whenhe insisted, she told him that hewasriskingeverything,andthat theywerenever toenter thehouseashusbandandwife.

She’dsaidittohurtthem.She’dsaiditbecauseagirlshedidnotliketobeginwith,didnotwantinherfamily,wasgoingtobecomeherdaughter-in-lawtwiceover. She’d said it because itwasGauri, notBijoli,who contained a piece ofUdayaninherwomb.

She’dnotfullymeantwhatshesaid.ButfortwelveyearsbothSubhashandGauri have held up their end of the bargain. They have not returned, eithertogetherorseparately,toTollygunge;theyhavestayedfarfromit,away.Sothatshe feels thedeepest shameamothercan feel,ofnotonlysurvivingonechildbutlosinganother,stillliving.

Forty-one years ago Bijoli had longed to conceive Subhash, more than she’dlongedforanythinginherlife.Shehadbeenmarriedforalmostfiveyearswhenithappened,alreadyinhermid-twenties,beginningtothinkthatperhapsshewasunable to bear children, that perhaps she and her husbandwere not meant tohave a family. That they had invested in the property and built their home invain.

But at the end of 1943 he was born. Tollygunge had been a separatemunicipality back then. The new Howrah Bridge had opened to traffic, buthorse-drawncartswerestilltakingpeopletothetrainstation.Gandhihadfastedagainst theBritish, and theBritishwere fighting theAxis powers, so that thetrees of Tollygunge were filled with foreign soldiers prepared to shoot downJapaneseplanes.

The summer she was pregnant, villagers began spilling out at BallygungeStation.Theywereskeletal,half-crazed.Theywerefarmers, fishermen.Peoplewhohadonceproducedandprocuredfoodforothers,nowdyingfromthelack

ofit.TheylayonthestreetsofSouthCalcutta,beneaththeshadeofthetrees.A cyclone the year before had destroyed paddy crops along the coast. But

everyone knew that the famine that followed was a man-made calamity. Thegovernmentdistractedbymilitaryconcerns,distributioncompromised, thecostofwarturningriceunaffordable.

She remembersdeadbodies turning fetidunder the sun, coveredwith flies,rottingontheroaduntiltheywerecartedaway.Sherememberssomewomen’sarmsso thin that theirweddingbangles, theironlyadornment,werepusheduppasttheelbowtopreventthemfromslidingoff.

Those with energy accosted people on the street, tapping strangers on theshoulder as they begged for the clouded starchy water that trickled out of astrainedpotofriceandwasnormallythrownaway.Phen.

Bijoli used to save this water, giving it to groups of delirious people whogathered at mealtimes outside the swinging doors of her house. Heavy withSubhash,shehadgonetovolunteerkitchenstoservebowlsofgruel.Thesoundof theirbeggingcouldbeheardatnight, likeananimal’s intermittentbleating.LikethejackalsintheTollyClub,startlingherinthesameway.

Inthepondsacrossfromtheirhouse,andinthefloodedwaterofthelowland,she saw people searching for nourishment. Eating insects, eating soil, eatinggrubs that crawled in theground. In thatyearofubiquitous suffering, shehadfirstbroughtlifeintotheworld.

Fifteenmonths later, not longbefore thewar ended and Japan surrendered,Udayan arrived. In her memory it had been one long pregnancy. They hadoccupiedBijoli’s bodyone after the other,Udayan’s cells beginning to divideandmultiplybeforeSubhashhadtakenhisfirststep,beforehehadbeengivenaproper name. In essence it was the threemonths between their birthdays thatseemedtoseparatethem,notthefifteenthathadelapsedinrealtime.

She’dfedthembyhand,riceanddalmixedtogetheronthesameplate.She’dextractedthebonesfromasinglepieceoffish,liningthemupatthesideoftheplatelikeasetofhersewingneedles.

From thebeginningUdayanwasmoredemanding.For some reasonhehadnotbeensecureinherloveforhim.Cryingout,protesting,fromtheveryinstanthewasborn.Cryingoutifshehappenedtohandhimtosomeoneelse,orlefttheroomforamoment.Theefforttoreassurehimhadbondedthem.Thoughhe’dexasperatedher,hisneedforherwasplain.

PerhapsforthisreasonshestillfeelsclosertoUdayanthantoSubhash.Bothhaddefiedher,runningoffandmarryingGauri.InUdayan’scase,atfirst,she’dtriedtobeaccepting.She’dhopedhavingawifewouldsettlehim,thatitwould

distract him from his politics. She’ll go on with her studies, he’d told them.Don’tturnherintoahousewife.Don’tstandinherway.

Hecamehomewithgifts forGauri,he tookher to restaurantsandfilms, tovisit his friends.When Bijoli and her husband heard about what the studentsweredoingafterNaxalbari,whattheyweredestroying,whomtheywerekilling,they told themselvesUdayanwasmarried.That hehad a future to consider, afamilyonedaytoraise.Thathewouldn’tbemixedupwiththem.

Withoutdiscussingitthey’dbeenpreparedtohidehim,tolietothepoliceiftheycame.They’dassumeditwassimplyamatterofprotectinghim.

Without askingwhere hewent in the evenings,without knowingwhomhewent to meet, they’d been prepared to forgive him. They were his parents.They’dnotbeenprepared,thatevening,nottobehisparentsanymore.

Shecannolongerpictureit.NorcanshepicturethelifeSubhashandGaurileadinAmerica,intheplacecalledRhodeIsland.Thechild,namedBela,whomtheyareraisingashusbandandwife.ButnowSubhashhaslosthisfather.ForthesecondtimesinceheleftIndia,forthesakeofaseconddeath,heisobligedtofaceher.

Onemorning,watchingfromtheterrace,Bijolihasanidea.Shegoesdownthestaircase and walks through the swinging doors of the courtyard, into theenclave, and then out onto the street. Schoolchildren in uniforms arewalkingpast, in white socks and black shoes, satchels heavy with their books. Sky-coloredskirtsforthegirls,shortsandtiesfortheboys.

Theylaughuntiltheyseeher,steppingoutofherway.Hersariisstainedandher bones have turned soft, her teeth no longer firm in her gums. She hasforgotten how old she is, but she knows without having to stop to think thatUdayanwouldhaveturnedthirty-ninethisspring.

Shecarriesalargeshallowbasketmeanttostoreextracoal.Shewalksovertothe lowland, hoistingupher sari so that her calves are revealed, speckled likesome eggshells with a fine brown spray. She wades into a puddle and bendsover, stirring things around with a stick. Then, using her hands, she startspickingitemsoutofthemurkygreenwater.Alittlebit,afewminuteseachday;thisisherplan,tokeeptheareabyUdayan’sstoneuncluttered.

Shepilesrefuseintothebasket,emptiesthebasketalittlewaysoff,andthenbegins to fill it again.With bare hands she sorts through the empty bottles ofDettol,Sunsilkshampoo.Thingsratsdon’teat,thatcrowsdon’tbothertocarryaway.Cigarettepacketstossedinbypassingstrangers.Abloodiedsanitarypad.

Sheknowsshewillneverremoveitall.Buteachdayshegoesoutandfillsup

herbasket,once, thena few timesmore.Shedoesnotcarewhensomepeopletellher,whentheystoptonoticewhatshe’sdoing,thatitispointless.Thatitisdisgustingandbeneathherdignity.Thatitcouldcausehertocontractsomesortofdisease.She’susedtoneighborsnotknowingwhattomakeofher.She’susedtoignoringthem.

Each day she removes a small portion of the unwanted things in people’slives,thoughallofit,shethinks,waspreviouslywanted,onceuseful.Shefeelsthesunscorching thebackofherneck.Theheat isat itsworstnow, the rainsstillafewmonthsaway.Thetasksatisfiesher.Itpassesthetime.

OnedaytherearesomeunexpecteditemspiledupbyUdayan’smemorialstone.Heapsofdirtiedbananaleaves,stainedwithfood.Soiledpapernapkinsbearingacaterer’sname,andbrokenvesselsfromwhichguestshavesippedtheirfilteredwaterandtea.Garlandsofdeadflowers,usedfordecoratingtheentrywayofahouse.

Theyareremnantsofamarriagesomewhere in theneighborhood.Evidenceofanauspiciousunion,acelebration.Amessthatrepelsher,thatsherefusestotouchortoclean.

Neitherofhersonswasmarriedthisway.Theyhadnotcelebrated,guestshadnot feasted. It was not until Udayan’s funeral that they had fed people at thehouse, banana leaves with heaps of salt and wedges of lemon lined on therooftop,relativesandcomradeswaitingsinglefileonthelandingfortheirturntoclimbthestepsandeatthemeal.

She wonders which family it is, whose child has been married off. Theneighborhood’sboundarieshavebeenexpanding; sheno longerhasa senseofwhere thingsbegin and end.Once she couldhaveknockedon their doors andbeenrecognized,welcomed,treatedtoacupoftea.Shewouldhavebeenhandedaninvitationtothewedding,beseechedtoattend.Buttherearenewhomesnow,newpeoplewhoprefertheirtelevisions,whonevertalktoher.

Shewantstoknowwhohasdonethis.Whohasdesecratedthisplace?WhohasinsultedUdayan’smemorythisway?

Shecallsouttotheneighbors.Whowasresponsible?Whydidtheynotcomeforward?Hadtheyalreadyforgottenwhathappened?Orweretheyunawarethatitwas here that her sonhadoncehidden? Just beyond, inwhat used to be anemptyfield,wherehe’dbeenkilled?

She begs, cupping her hands, just as starving people used to, entering theenclave,seekingfood.For thosepeopleshehaddonewhatshecould.Shehadcollected the starch in her rice pot and given it to them. But no one pays

attentiontoBijoli.Comeforward,shecallsouttothosewhoarewatchingfromtheirwindows,

their rooftops. She remembers the voice of the paramilitary, speaking throughthemegaphone.Walkslowly.Showyourfacetome.

ShewaitsforUdayantoappearamidthewaterhyacinthandwalktowardher.Itissafenow,shetellshim.Thepolicehavegone.Noonewilltakeyouaway.Comequicklytothehouse.Youmustbehungry.Dinnerisready.Soonitwillbedark. Your brother married Gauri. I am alone now. You have a daughter inAmerica.Yourfatherhasdied.

Shewaits,certainthatheisthere,thathehearswhatshetellshim.Shetalkstoherself,tonoone.Tiredofwaiting,shewaitssomemore.Buttheonlypersonwhoappears isDeepa.She rinsesBijoli’s soiledhands andmuddied feetwithfreshwater.Sheputsashawloverhershoulders,andplacesanarmaroundherwaist.

Comehaveyourtea,Deepasays,coaxingheraway,takingherindoors.Ontheterrace,alongwithherplateofbiscuits,hercupoftea,Deepahands

hersomethingelse.What’sthis?Aletter,Mamoni.Itwasintheboxtoday.It is fromAmerica, from Subhash. In it he confirms his plans to visit this

summer, informingher of thedateof his arrival.By thennearly threemonthswillhavepassedsincehisfather’sdeath.

Hetellsherit’snotfeasibletocomeanysooner.HetellsherthathewillbringUdayan’s daughter with him, but that Gauri is unable to come. He mentionssomelecturesheintendstogiveinCalcutta.Hetellsher theywillbethereforsix weeks. She regards me as her father, he writes in reference to the girlthey’venamedBela.Sheknowsnothingelse.

The air is still. Government quarters, built recently behind their house,obstruct the southern breeze that used to course the length of the terrace. Shereturns the letter toDeepa.Like a spare packet of tea she doesn’t need at themoment,shestoresawaytheinformation,andturnshermindtootherthings.

Chapter2

Theyarrivedatthestartofthemonsoonseason.InBengaliitwascalledbarshakal. Each year around this time, her father said, the direction of the windchanged,blowingfromseatolandinsteadoffromlandouttosea.OnamapheshowedherhowthecloudstraveledfromtheBayofBengal,overthewarminglandmass, toward the mountains in the north. Rising and cooling, unable toretaintheirmoisture,trappedoverIndiabytheHimalayas’height.

Whentheraincame,hetoldBela,tributariesinthedeltawouldchangetheircourse.Riversandcitystreetswouldflood;cropswouldthriveorfail.Pointingfrom the terrace of her grandmother’s house, he told her that the two pondsacrossthelanewouldoverflowandbecomeone.Behindtheponds,excessrainwould collect in the lowland, the water rising for a time as high as Bela’sshoulders.

In the afternoons, following mornings of bright sun, came the rumble ofthunder, likegreatsheetsof rippling tin.Theapproachofdark-rimmedclouds.Bela saw them lowering swiftly like a vast gray curtain, obscuring the day’slight. At times, defiantly, the sun’s glow persisted, a pale disc, its burningcontourscontainedsoastoappearsolid,resemblingafullmooninstead.

Theroomsgrewdarkandthenthecloudsbegantoburst.Watercamein,overthewindowsills,throughtheironbars,ragswedgedbeneathshuttersthathadtobequicklyclosed.AmaidnamedDeeparushedintodrywhatleakedontothefloor.

FromtheterraceBelawatchedthethintrunksofpalmtreesbendingbutnotbreakingin themaritimewind.Thepointedfoliageflappedlike thefeathersofgiantbirds,likebatteredwindmillsthatchurnedthesky.

Hergrandmotherhadnotbeenattheairporttowelcomethem.InTollygunge,ontheterracewhereshesat,onthetopfloorofthehousewhereherfatherhadbeenraised, Bela was presented with a short necklace. The tiny gold balls, likedecorations meant for holiday cookies, were strung tightly together. Hergrandmother leaned in close. Saying nothing, she fastened the necklace at thebaseofBela’sthroat,thenarrangeditsothattheclaspwasattheback.

Thoughhergrandmother’shairwasgray,theskinofherhandswassmooth,

unmarked.Thesariwrappedaroundherbody,madeofwhitecotton,wasplainas a sheet.Her pupilsweremilky, navy instead of black. Taking inBela, hergrandmother’s eyes traveled between Bela and her father, as if following afilamentthatconnectedthem.

Watchingthemunpacktheirsuitcases,hergrandmotherwasdisappointedthattheyhadnotbroughtspecialgiftsforDeepa.Deepaworeasari,andageminhernostril,andshecalledBelaMemsahib.Herfacewasshapedlikeaheart.Shewasstrongenough, in spiteofher lean frame,herwiryarms, tohelpBela’s fathercarrytheirheavysuitcasesupthestairs.

Deepaslept in the roomnext tohergrandmother’s.A room thatwas likealargecupboard,upahalfflightofsteps,withaceilingsolowitwasnotpossibletostand.ThiswaswhereDeepaunrolledanarrowcushionattheendoftheday.

Her grandmother gave away theAmerican soaps and lotionsBela’smotherhadpickedout,thefloweredpillowcaseandsheet.ShetoldDeepatousethem.She set aside the colorful spools of thread, the embroidery hoop, the tomatopincushion, sayingDeepadid the sewingnow.Theblack leatherpurse shapedlike a large envelope, fastened by a single snap, which Bela had helped hermotherchooseinRhodeIsland,attheWarwickMall,wenttoDeepaalso.

The day after they arrived her father sat for a ceremony to honor hergrandfather,whohaddiedafewmonthsbefore.Apriesttendedasmallfirethatburnedinthecenteroftheroom.Fruitwasheapedbesideitonbrassplatesandtrays.

Onthefloor,proppedagainstthewall,wasalargephotoofhergrandfather’sface,andbesideit,aphotoofanolderboy,asmilingteenager,inadirtyframeofpalewood. Incenseburned in frontof thesepictures, fragrantwhite flowersdrapedlikethicknecklacesinfrontoftheglass.

Beforetheceremonyabarbercametothehouseandshavedherfather’sheadandfaceinthecourtyard,turninghisfacestrangeandsmall.Belawastoldtoputoutherhands,andwithoutwarning,thenailsofherfingers,thenhertoes,wereparedoffwithablade.

At dusk Deepa lit coils to ward off the mosquitoes. Celery-skinned geckoesappeared indoors, hovering close to the seamwhere wall and ceilingmet. Atnightsheandherfathersleptinthesameroom,onthesamebed.Athickbolsterwasplacedbetweenthem.Thepillowbeneathherheadwaslikeasackofflour.Themeshofthemosquitonettingwasblue.

Everynight,when the flimsybarricadewasadjustedaround them,whennoother living thing could enter, she felt relief.When he had his back to her in

sleep, hairless, shirtless, her father almost looked like another person.Hewasawakebefore shewas, themosquitonettingballedup likeanenormousbird’snestsuspendedfromonecorneroftheroom.Herfatherwasalreadybathedanddressedandeatingamango,scrapingoutthefleshwithhisteeth.Noneofitwasunfamiliartohim.

For breakfast she was given bread toasted over an open flame, sweetenedyogurt, a small banana with green skin. Her grandmother reminded Deepa,beforeshesetoutforthemarket,nottobuyacertaintypeoffish,sayingthattheboneswouldbetootroublesome.

Watching Bela try to pick up rice and lentils with her fingers, hergrandmothertoldDeepatofetchaspoon.WhenDeepapouredBelasomewaterfrom the urn that stood on a little stool, in the corner of the room, hergrandmotherreproachedher.

Notthatwater.Givehertheboiledwater.She’snotmadetosurvivehere.

Afterthefirstweekherfatherbegantogooutduringtheday.Heexplainedthathewouldbegivingafewlecturesatnearbyuniversities,andalsomeetingwithscientistswhowerehelpinghimwithaproject.Initiallyitupsether,beingleftinthehousewithhergrandmotherandDeepa.Shewatchedhimleavethroughtheterrace grille, carrying a folding umbrella to shield his shaved head from thesun’sglare.

Shewasnervousuntilhereturned,untilhepressedthedoorbellandakeywasloweredandheunlocked thegateand stoodbeforeheragain.Sheworried forhim,swallowedupbythecity,atonceramshackleandgrand,whichshe’dseenfrom the taxi thathadbrought them toTollygunge.Shedidn’t like to imaginehimhavingtonegotiateit,beingpreytoitsomehow.

One day Deepa invited Bela to accompany her to the market, and then towander abit through thenarrow lanesof theneighborhood.Theywalkedpastsmallwindowswithverticalbars.Scrapsoffabric,strungthroughwires,servedascurtains.Theywalkedpasttheponds,rimmedwithtrash,chokedwithbrightgreenleaves.

On the quiet walled streets, every few paces, people stopped them, askingDeepatoexplainwhoBelawas,whyshewasthere.

ThegranddaughteroftheMitrahouse.Theolderbrother’sgirl?Yes.Themothercame?

No.Do you understand what we’re saying? Do you speak Bengali? a woman

askedBela.Shepeeredather.Hereyeswereunkind,herstainedteethuneven.Alittle.Likingithere?Belahadbeeneagertogooutofthehousethatday,toaccompanyDeepato

themarket,toexploretheplaceshe’dtraveledsofartosee.Butnowshewantedto return inside. Not liking, as they retraced their steps, theway some of theneighborswerepullingbacktheircurtainstolookather.

Inadditiontothewaterthatwasboiledandcooledforhertodrink,waterwaswarmedeverymorningforherbath.HergrandmothersaidBelawouldcatchacoldotherwise,eventhoughtheweatherwassohot.Thewarmedbathwaterwascombinedwith freshwater that traveledat limited timesofday througha thinrubberhose,releasedbyapump,fillingatankonthepationexttothekitchen.

Deepatookhertothepatio,handingheratincup,tellingherwhattodo.Shewas told to pour thewarmedwater, cooled to her likingwithwater from thehose,overherbody,thenlatherherselfwithabarofdarksoap,thenrinse.Therunningwaterwasnottobewasted.Itwascollectedinabucket,andwhateverwasleftwasstoredinthetank.

Belahadwantedtostandinsidethetank,whichwaslikeahigh-sidedbathtub,but thiswasnotpermitted.Andsoshebathed in theopenair insteadof in theprivacyofabathroom,oreventheprotectionofatub,amongtheplatesandpansthatalsoneededwashing.SupervisedbyDeepa, surroundedbypalm treesandbananatrees,regardedbycrows.

Youshouldhavecomelater,notnow,Deepasaid,dryingoffBela’slegswithathincheckeredtowel.Itwascoarse,likeadishcloth.

Why?That’swhenDurgaPujocomes.Nowitonlyrains.I’mhereformybirthday,Belasaid.Deepasaidshewassixteenorseventeen.WhenBelaaskedDeepawhenher

birthdaywas,shesaidshewasn’tsure.Youdon’tknowwhenyouwereborn?BasantaKal.Whenisthat?Whenthekokilstartssinging.Butwhatdaydoyoucelebrate?

Ineverhave.Inapatchofsunlightontheterrace,hergrandmotherrubbedBela’sarmsand

legs and scalp with sweet-smelling oil from a glass bottle. Bela stood in herunderpants,asifshewerestillayoungchild.Armslimp,legsparted.

HergrandmothercombedoutBela’shair,sometimesusingherfingerswhentheknotswerestubborn.Shehelditinherhandsandexaminedit.

Yourmotherhasn’ttaughtyoutokeepittied?Sheshookherhead.Thereisn’taruleaboutitatyourschool?No.Youmustkeep itbraided.Atnight,especially.Twooneithersidefornow,

oneatthecenterwhenyouareolder.Hermotherhadnever toldher this.Hermotherworeherhair as short as a

man’s.Yourfather’shairwasthesame.Neverbehavinginthisweather.Heneverlet

metouchit.Eveninthepictureyoucanseewhatamessitis.

In the roomwherehergrandmother sleptBelaateher lunch.Shewasused toeatingrice,butherethesmellwaspungent,thegrainsnotaswhite.Sometimesshe bit down on a tiny pebble that Deepa hadn’t picked out, the sound of it,crushingagainsthermolars,seemingtoexplodeinherear.

Therewasnodining table.On the floorwasapieceofembroidered fabric,likealargeplacemat,forhertositon.Hergrandmothersquattedontheflatsofherfeet,hershouldershunched,armsfoldedacrossherknees,observingher.

High on the wall hung the two photographs her father had sat in front ofduringtheceremony.Thepicturesofherdeadgrandfatherandtheteenagedboyhergrandmother toldherwasher father,smiling,his faceslightly tilted tooneside. Bela had never seen a version of her father so young. He was youngenough,inthepicture,tobeanolderbrothertoher.Shehadneverseenproofofhimfromthetimebeforeshewasborn.

Belowtheseimages,alwaysslightlyrustlinginthefan’sbreeze,wasasheafof household receipts and ration slips, punctured and held in place by a nail.Overtheimpaledslipsofpapertheteenagedfaceofherfatherwatchedhereather rice with a spoon, amused, whereas her grandfather, his tired gaze fixedbeforehim,hiseyebrowssparse,seemednottonoticethatshewasthere.

Apartfromthetwophotographs,thestackofreceipts,therewasnothingtolook

atonthewalls.Nobooks,nosouvenirsfrompastjourneys,nothingtoindicatehowhergrandmotherlikedtopassthetime.Forhoursshesatontheterrace,herbacktotherestofthehouse,staringthroughthegrille.

Every day, at a certain point, Deepa took her grandmother down to thecourtyard,where she snapped off the heads of a fewof the flowers that grewthereinpots,andalongthevinesthattrailedupthewall,gatheringtheminsidealittlebrassurn.

Sheleftthehouse,accompaniedbyDeepa,walkingpastthepondstotheedgeof the flooded lowland.Shewent to a certain spot, and stood, andafter a fewminutesshecameback.Whenhergrandmotherreturnedtothecourtyard,theurnthathadheldtheflowerswasempty.

Whatdoyoudothere?Belaaskedheroneday.Her grandmotherwas sitting in her folding chair, her hands curled inward,

like fists that did not close, inspecting the ridged surface of her fingernails.Withoutlookingupshesaid,Italktoyourfatherforabit.

Myfatherisinside.Shelookedup,hernavyeyeswidening.Ishe?Hecamehomealittlewhileago.Where?He’sinourroom,Dida.Whatishedoing?He’s lyingdown.Hesaidhewas tiredaftergoing to theAmericanExpress

office.Oh.Hergrandmotherlookedaway.Thelightdimmed.Itwasgoingtorainagain.Deepahurrieduptotheroof,to

removetheclothesfromtheline.Belafollowed,wantingtohelpher.DoyouhaverainlikethisinRhodeIsland?Deepaasked.ItwastoomuchtoexplaininBengali.ButahurricaneinRhodeIslandwas

among her earliest memories. She didn’t remember the storm itself, only thepreparation, the aftermath.She remembered the bathtub filledwithwater.Thecrowdedsupermarket,emptyshelves.She’dhelpedherfathercrisscrossmaskingtapeonthewindows,thetracesremaininglongafterthetapewaspulledaway.

The following day she’d walked with her father to campus to see tornbranches scattered on the quadrangle, streets greenwith leaves. They found athick tree that had fallen, the tangled roots exposed. They saw the drenchedgroundthathadgivenway.Thetreeseemedmoreoverwhelmingwhenitlayontheground.Itsproportionsfrightening,onceitnolongerlived.

Her father had brought photographs to show her grandmother.Most of themwereof thehousewhereBelaandherparentsnow lived.They’dmoved theretwosummersago,thesummerBelaturnedten.Itwasclosertothebay,notfarfrom where her father had once studied at the oceanography school. It wasconvenienttothelabwhereherfatherwenttowork.Butitwasfartherfromthebigger campus where Bela had grown up, where her mother went now, twoeveningsaweek,toteachaphilosophyclass.

Belahadbeendisappointedthatthoughthehousewashardlyamilefromthesea,therewasnoviewofthewaterthroughthewindows.Only,everysooften,when she was standing outside, a stray whiff of it, the concentration of saltdiscernableintheair.

There were pictures of the dining table, the fireplace, the view off thesundeck.All the things she knew. The large rocks forming a barrierwith thepropertybehindtheirs,thatBelasometimesclimbed.Picturesofthefrontofthehouseinautumn,whentheleaveswereredandgold,andpicturesinwinter,ofbarebranchescoatedwithice.ApictureofBelanext toa tinyJapanesemaplethatherfatherhadplantedinspring.

She saw herself standing on the little crescent-shaped beach in JamestownwheretheylikedtogoSundaymornings,herfatherbringingdonutsandcoffee.Itwaswherethetwolobesoftheislandmet,wherehehadtaughthertoswim,whereshecouldseesheepgrazinginameadowasshefloatedinthewater.

Shewatchedhergrandmotherstudyingthepicturesasifeachoneshowedthesamething.

WhereisGauri?She doesn’t like to pose for the camera, her father said. She’s been busy,

teachingherfirstclass.Andshe’sfinishingherdissertation.She’sabouttohanditin.

Her mother spent her days, even Saturdays and Sundays, in the sparebedroom that served as her study, working behind a closed door. It was heroffice,hermothertoldher,andwhenshewasinitBelawastobehaveasifhermotherwerenothome.

Beladidn’tmind.Shewashappy tohavehermother athome insteadof inBostonforpartoftheweek.Forthreeyearshermotherhadgonetoauniversitythere, to takeclasses forherdegree.Leavingearly in themorning,notgettingbackuntilBelawasasleep.

But now, other than the evenings she taught her class, her mother almostnever left the house.Hourswould pass, the door not opening, hermother notemerging. Occasionally the sound of a cough, the creak of a chair, a book

droppingtothefloor.SometimeshermotheraskedifBelacouldhearthetypewriteratnight,ifthe

noise of it bothered her, and Bela said no, though she could hear it perfectlywell. SometimesBela played a gamewith herself as she lay in bed, trying toanticipatewhenthesilencewouldbedisruptedagainbytheclatteringofkeys.

Itwaswithhermotherthatshespentmostofhertimeduringtheweek,butthere was no picture of Bela’s time alone with her. No evidence of Belawatching television in the afternoons, or working on a school project at thekitchen table, as her mother prepared dinner or read through a pile of exambookletswithapeninherhand.Noproofofthemgoingtothebiglibraryattheuniversitynowandagain,todropborrowedbooksintobins.

Therewasnothing todocument the trips toBoston sheandhermotherhadmadeonce inawhile,duringherschoolvacations.They’d taken thebus theretogether, then a trolley, to a campus in the middle of the city, sandwichedbetweentheCharlesRiverandalongbusyroad.NoproofofthedaysBelahadspent trailing behind hermother through various buildings as hermothermetwithprofessors,orofthetimeBelawastakentoQuincyMarketasatreat.

Heresheis,Belasaidashergrandmothercametothenextpicture.Hermotherappearedinitinadvertently.ThepicturewasofBelafromseveral

yearsago,posingforthecameraintheiroldapartment,withthelinoleumfloors.ShewasdressedupasRedRidingHoodforHalloween,holdingabowlheapedwithcandytogiveaway.

Butthereinthebackgroundwashermother,leaningslightlyoverthekitchentable,intheprocessofclearingthedinnerplates,wearingslacksandamaroontunic.

Sostylish,Deepasaid,lookingoverhergrandmother’sshoulder.Hergrandmotherhandedthepicturestoherfather.Keepthem,Ma.Imadethemforyou.Buthergrandmothergavethemback,looseninghergripsothatafewofthe

picturesfelltothefloor.I’veseenthemalready,shesaid.

ForthepastfewyearsBelahadheardtheworddissertationandnothadanyideawhat it meant. Then one day, in their new house, her mother told her, I amwritingareport.Like theonesyouwriteforschool,only longer. Itmightbeabookoneday.

TherealityhaddisappointedBela.She’dthoughtuntilthenthatitwassome

sortof secret, anexperimenthermotherwasconductingwhileBela slept, likethe experiments her father monitored in the salt marshes.Where he took hersometimestoseethehorseshoecrabsscuttlingacrossthemud,disappearingintoholes,releasingtheireggsintothetide.Insteadsherealizedthathermother,whospentherdayssequesteredinaroomfullofbooks,wasonlywritinganotherone.

Sometimes,when she knewhermotherwas out, orwhen shewas taking ashower, Bela stepped into the study to look around. A pair of her mother’sglasses sat discarded on the desk. The smeared lenses turned things indistinctwhenBelaraisedthemtoherface.

Cups containing cold puddles of tea or coffee, some of them sproutingdelicatepatternsofmold,satforgottenhereandthereontheshelves.Shefoundcrumpledsheetsofpaper in thewastebasket,coveredwithnothingbutp’sandq’s. All the books had brown paper covers, with titles that her mother hadrewrittenonthespinessothatshecouldidentifythem:TheNatureofExistence.Eclipse of Reason. On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of InternalTime.

Recentlyhermotherhadstartedreferringtothedissertationasamanuscript.Shespokeof it as shemight speakofan infant, tellingher fatheronenightatdinner that sheworried about the pages being blown out an openwindow, orbeing destroyed by a fire. She said it worried her, sometimes, to leave themunattendedinthehouse.

One weekend, stopping at a yard sale, Bela and her father found a brownmetal file cabinet among theoddsandends for sale.Her fathermade sure thedrawersopenedandclosedeasily,thenboughtit.Hecarrieditfromthetrunkofthecar intohermother’s study,knockingonherdoor, surprisingherwith thisgift.

They foundher ather typewriter, holdingherhead theway she alwaysdidwhensheconcentrated,staringupatthem.Herelbowsonthedesk,thelasttwoof her fingers pressed against her cheekbone, making a V, creating a partialtrianglethatframedhereye.

Herfatherhandedheratinykeythatdangledlikeanearringfromahoop.Ithoughtyoucouldusethis,hesaid.

Hermotherstoodup,clearingthingsoffthefloorsothatBelaandherfathercouldentertheroommoreeasily.Wherewouldyoulikeit?herfatherasked,andhermothersaidthatthecornerwasbest.

ToBela’ssurprisehermotherwasn’tangry,thatday,thatthey’dinterrupted.Sheaskedthemiftheywerehungry,andemergedfromherstudy,andpreparedthemlunch.

EverydayBelaheardthedrawersopeningandclosing,containingthepageshermothertyped.Shehadadreamonenight,ofreturninghomefromschoolandfindingtheirhouseburneddowntoaskeletalframe,likethehousesshewouldconstruct out of Popsicle sticks when she was younger, with only the filecabinet,intact,onthegrass.

OnedayinTollygunge,pacingupanddownthestairs,shenoticedsmallringsboltedtoeithersideofthelanding.Blackironhoops.Deepawaswipingdownthe staircase. She was twisting a rag into a bucket of water, working on herhandsandknees.

Whatarethese?Belaasked,tuggingatoneoftheringswithherfingers.They’retomakesureshedoesn’tgooutifI’mnothere.Who?Yourgrandmother.Howdoesitwork?Iputachainacross.Why?Shemightgetlostotherwise.Likehergrandmother,BelawasnotabletoleavethehouseinTollygungeon

herown.Shewasnotpermittedeventomovethroughit freely, togodowntothecourtyardortovisittheroofwithoutpermission.

Shewasnotabletojointhechildrenshesometimessawplayinginthestreet,ortoenterthekitchentohelpherselftoasnack.Ifshewasthirstyforaglassofthecooledboiledwaterinherwaterbottle,shehadtoask.

But in Rhode Island, since third grade, her mother had let Bela wanderthrough thecampus in theafternoons.She’ddone thiswithAlice, anothergirlaround her age,who had lived in their apartment complex.Theywere told toremainonthecampus,thiswasall.Butthecampuswasenormoustoher,withstreetstocross,carstobemindfulof.EasilysheandAlicemighthavelosttheirway.

SheandAlicehadplayedonthecampusasotherchildrenmighthavevisitedapark, amusing themselves by climbingup anddown steps, racing across theplaza in front of the fine arts building, chasing each other on the quadrangle.Theystoppedinatthelibrary,whereAlice’smotherworked.

Theywouldgotoherdesk,sitatemptycubicles.Swivelingonchairs,eatingsnacksthatAlice’smotherkeptinherdeskdrawer.Theywoulddrinkcoldwateratthefountain,andhideamongtheshelvesofbooks.

A few minutes later they’d be outdoors again. They liked to go to thegreenhouse that flanked the botany building, surrounded by a flower gardenfilledwithbutterflies.Theyplayedinthestudentuniononrainydays.

Belahadpridedherselfonbeingunsupervised,findingthewayhomewithouthavingtoask.Theyweretolistentotheclockchiming,toheadbackinwinterbyhalfpastfour.

She’dmentionednothingoftheseoccasionstoherfather.Knowinghewouldhaveworried,she’dkeptthemasecretfromhim.Andso,untiltheymovedawayfromcampus,theseafternoonsremainedabondbetweenBelaandhermother,acloseness based on the fact that they spent that time apart. She’d given hermotherthosehourstoherself,notwantingtofailatthis,notwantingtothreatenthislink.

BynowBelawasoldenoughtowakeuponherown,toretrievetheboxofcerealleftonthecounterinthemornings,herhandssteadyenoughtopourmilk.Whenshewas ready to leave thehouse, shewalkedunaccompanieddown thestreettothebusstop.Herfatherleftthehouseearly.Hermother,afterstayingupinherstudyatnight,likedtosleeplate.

Therewasnoonetoobservewhethershehadtoastorcereal,whetherornotshefinished,thoughshealwaysdid,spooningupthelastofthesweetenedmilk,puttingthedirtybowlintothesink,runningalittlewaterinitsothatitwouldbeeasier to rinseclean.After school, ifhermotherwasoutat theuniversity, shewasnowoldenoughtoretrieveakeyherfatherkeptinanemptybirdfeederandletherselfin.

Everymorning shewent upstairs, down the short hallway, and knocked onherparents’doortotellhermothershewasleaving,notwantingtodisturbhermotherbutalsohopingshe’dbeenheard.

Thenonemorning,needingapapercliptokeeptwopagesofabookreporttogether,shewentintohermother’sstudy.Shefoundhermotherwithherbackturnedawayfromthedoor,asleeponthesofa,onearmflungoverherhead.Shebegantounderstandthattheroomhermotherreferredtoasastudyalsoservedasherbedroom.Andthatherfathersleptintheotherbedroom,alone.

Howoldwereyou in thatpicture?sheaskedherfatheras they lay together inbed,underthemosquitonetting,beforebeginninganotherday.

Whichpicture?InDida’sroom,whereweeat.ThepicturenexttoDadu’sthatshestaresatall

thetime.Herfatherwaslyingonhisback.Shesawhimclosehiseyes.Thatwasmy

brother,hesaid.Youhaveabrother?Iusedto.Hedied.When?Beforeyouwereborn.Why?Hehadanillness.Whatkind?Aninfection.Somethingthedoctorswereunabletocure.Hewasmyuncle?Yes,Bela.Doyourememberhim?Heturnedtofaceher.Hestrokedherheadwithhishand.He’sapartofme.I

grewupwithhim,hesaid.Doyoumisshim?Ido.Didasaysit’sapictureofyou.She’sgettingold,Bela.Sheconfusesthings,sometimes.

He began to take her out during the days. Theywalked to themosque at thecornertogetataxiorarickshaw.Sometimestheywalkedtothetramdepotandtookatram.Hetookherwithhimifhehadameetingwithacolleague,leavinghertositinachairinahigh-ceilingedcorridor,givingherIndiancomicbookstoread.

He took her to darkened Chinese restaurants for lunch, for plates of chowmein.Tostallssothatshecouldbuycoloredglassbraceletsanddrawingpaper,ribbons forherhair.Prettynotebooks towriteanddraw in, translucenterasersthatsmelledoffruit.

Hetookhertothezoogardentovisitwhitetigersthatnappedonrocks.Onthebusysidewalkshestoppedinfrontofbeggarswhopointedtotheirstomachs,andtossedcoinsontotheirplates.

One day they went into a sari store to buy saris for her grandmother andDeepa. White ones for her grandmother, colored ones for Deepa. They weremadeofcotton,rolledupontheshelveslikefatstarchyscrollsthatthesalesmanwouldshakeoutforthem.Inthewindowoftheshopwerefancieronesmadeofsilk,drapedonmannequins.

CanwebuyoneforMa?Belaasked.

Sheneverwearsthem,Bela.Butshemight.Thesalesmanbegantoshakeoutthefanciermaterial,butherfathershookhis

head.We’llfindsomethingelseforyourmother,hesaid.He took her to a jewelry store,whereBela chose a necklace of tiger’s-eye

beads. And they bought the one thing her mother had requested, a pair ofslippersmadeofpalereddishleather,herfathertellingthesalesman,atthelastminute,thatthey’dtaketwopairsinsteadofone.

Inthetaxis theysat intraffic,pollutionfillingherchest,coatingtheskinofherarmswithafinedarkgrit.Sheheardtheclangingoftramsandthebeepingof car horns, the bells of colorful rickshaws pulled by hand.Rumbling busseswith conductors thumping their sides, reciting their routes, hollering forpassengerstogeton.

Sometimessheandherfathersatforwhatfeltlikeanhouronthecongestedroads.Herfatherwouldgetfrustrated,temptedtostopthemeter,togetoutandwalk.ButBelapreferredittobeingstuckinhergrandmother’shouse.

Passingastreetlinedwithbookstalls,herfathermentionedthatitwaswhereher mother had gone to college. Bela wondered if she used to resemble thefemale students she sawon the sidewalk,going in andoutof thegate.Youngwomen wearing saris, their long hair braided, pressing handkerchiefs to theirfaces,carryingcottonsatchelsofbooks.

Onthestreetsshenoticedcertainbuildingsdecorated,standingoutfromtherest.ThoughitwasAugusttheyweredrapedwithChristmaslights,theirfacadesdisguisedbehindcolorfulcloths.Inthetaxionedaytheywerestoppedclosetooneofthesebuildings,behindarowofcars.Athinredcarpetwasspreadoverthe entrance, ushering in guests. Music was playing, people in fancy clotheswerewalkingin.

What’shappeningthere?Awedding.Seethecarupahead,coveredwithflowers?Yes.Thegroomisabouttostepoutofit.Andthebride?She’swaitingforhiminside.DidyouandMagetmarriedlikethat?No,Bela.Whynot?IhadtogetbacktoRhodeIsland.Therewasn’ttimeforabigcelebration.

Idon’twantabigcelebration,either.Youhaveawhiletothinkaboutthat.Matoldmeoncethatyouwerestrangerswhenyouweremarried.Thiscouplemaynotknoweachotherverywell,either.Whatiftheydon’tlikeeachother?They’lltry.Whodecideshowpeoplegetmarried?Sometimes parents arrange it. Sometimes the bride and groom decide for

themselves.DidyouandMadecideforyourselves?Wedid.Wedecidedforourselves.

They spent the afternoon of her twelfth birthday at a club not far from hergrandparents’house.Anacquaintanceofherfather’s,anoldcollegefriend,wasamember,andhehadinvitedthemtobehisguests.

There was a pool for her to swim in. A bathing suit magically produced,becausehermotherhadnotpackedone.Tablestoeatanddrinkat,overlookingthegrounds.

There were other children for her to play with in the pool and on theplayground, tospeak to inEnglish.Theywereamixof Indians,mostof themvisiting, like Bela, from other countries, and some Europeans. She feltemboldened tospeakwith them, telling themhername.Shewasgivenaponyride. Therewere cheese and cucumber sandwiches for her to eat afterward, abowlofspicytomatosoup.Aslabofmeltingicecreamonaplate.

Herfatherandhisfriendsattalkingtooneanother,drinkingteaatoneoftheoutdoor tables, followed by a beer, and then she and her fatherwalked alongpaths that covered their shoeswith reddust, along the edgesof a golf course,pastpottedflowers,amongtreesfilledwithsongbirds.

Her father paused to watch the golfers. They stopped under an enormousbanyan.Herfatherexplainedthatitwasatreethatbeganlifeattachedtoanother,sproutingfromitscrown.Themassoftwistedstrands,hangingdownlikeropes,were aerial roots surrounding the host. Over time they coalesced, formingadditionaltrunks,encirclingahollowcoreifthehosthappenedtodie.

Posingherbefore the tree, her father tookherpicture.As theywere sittingtogetheronabench,heproducedasmallpacketwrappedinnewspaperfromhisshirt pocket. It was a pair of mirrored bangles she’d admired one day in themarket,thathe’dgonebacktobuy.

You’reenjoyingyourself?Shenodded.Shefelthimleantowardherandkissthetopofherhead.I’mgladwecametoday.Therain’sheldoff.Notlikethedayyouwereborn.Theycontinuedon,walkingfartherawayfromtheclubhouse,pastclearings

wherepacksofjackalswereresting.Shefeltmosquitoesbeginningtostingherankles,hercalves.

Wherearewegoing?Therewasanareabackthisway,wheremybrotherandIusedtoplay.Youcameherewhenyouweregrowingup?He hesitated, then admitted that once or twice, at the very back of the

property,heandhisbrotherhadsnuckin.Whydidyouhavetosneakin?Itwasn’tourplace.Whynot?Thingsweredifferentbackthen.Henoticedsomethingalittlewaysoff,onthegrass,andwalkedovertopick

itup.Itwasagolfball.Theykeptwalking.Whoseideawasittosneakin?Udayan’s.Hewasthebraveone.Didyougetcaught?Eventually.Her father stopped.He tossed the golf ball away.Hewas looking to either

sideofhim,thenupatthetrees.Heseemedconfused.Shouldweturnback,Baba?Yes,Ithinkweshould.Shewanted to remainat theclub, to runon the lawnandcatch the fireflies

that the other childrenwhowere there said came out at night. Shewanted tosleep in one of the guest rooms, to take a hot bath in a tub, and spend thefollowing day as she’d spent this one, swimming in the pool and visiting thereadingroomfilledwithEnglishbooksandmagazines.

Butherfathersaiditwastimetogo.Thebathingsuitwasreturned,acyclerickshawwithatincarriageandasapphire-bluebenchsummonedtotakethembacktohergrandmother’shouse.

She could not picture her grandmother at the clubwhere they’d just been,amongthepeoplewhosatattables,laughing,withcigarettesandglassesofbeer.Menaskingforcocktails,theirwivesprettilydressed.Shecouldnotpicturehergrandmother anywhere but on the terrace of the house in Tollygunge, with

chains put across the staircasewhenDeepawas not there, or taking her briefwalktotheedgeofthelowland,wheretherewasonlydirtywaterandgarbagetosee.

Belamissedhermothersuddenly.She’dneverspentabirthdaywithouther.Inthemorningshe’dhopedforaphonecall,butherfathertoldherthelinewasoutoforder.

Canwetryhernow?Theline’sstilldown,Bela.You’llseehersoon.Bela pictured hermother lying on the sofa in her study.Books and papers

strewnacrossthecarpet, thehumofaboxfaninthewindow.Theday’slight,startingtocreepin.

InRhodeIsland,onherbirthdays,Belawouldwaketothefragranceofmilkwarming slowly on the stove. There, undisturbed, it thickened. Her mothersteppedoutofherstudytomonitorit,toaddthesugar,therice.

Laterintheday,intheafternoon,onceithadbeenpouredandslightlycooled,hermotherwouldcallBelatohaveherfirsttasteofthepeach-coloredpudding.Shewouldletherscrapeoff thetastiestbit, thecongealedmilkthatcoatedthepan.

Baba?Yes,Bela?Canwegobacktotheclubanotherday?Perhapsthenexttimewevisit,herfathersaid.He toldherhewantedher torest, that itwasa long journeyback toRhode

Island.FiveofthesixweeksinIndiahadpassed.Alreadyherfather’shairwasbeginningtogrowback.

Therickshawspedforward,pastthehutsandstallsthatlinedtheroad,sellingflowers,sellingsweets,sellingcigarettesandsodas.Whentheyapproachedthemosque on the corner, the rickshaw slowed down. A conch shell was beingblown,tosignalthestartoftheevening.

Stophere,herfathertoldthedriver,reachingforhiswallet,sayingthattheywouldwalktherestoftheway.

Chapter3

They took a bus fromLoganAirport to Providence, then a taxi to the house.Belawaswearingthemirroredbanglesaroundherwrist.Herfaceandarmsweretanned. The braids her grandmother had tightly woven the evening of theirdeparturereachedthemiddleofherback.

Everythingwasjustasthey’dleftit.Thebrightblueofthesky,theroadsandhomes. The bay in the distance, filledwith sailboats. The beaches filledwithpeople.Thesoundofalawnmower.Thesaltyair,theleavesonthetrees.

Astheyapproachedthehouseshesawthatthegrasshadgrownnearlytohershoulders. The different varieties sprouted like wheat, like straw. It was tallenoughtoreachthemailbox,toconcealtheshrubsoneithersideofthedoor.Nolonger green at that height, some sections reddish for lack ofwater. The palespecksattheirtipsseemedattachedtonothing.Likeclustersoftinyinsectsthatdidn’tmove.

Lookslikeyou’vebeenawayawhile,thetaxidriversaid.Hepulledintothedriveway,helpingherfather tounloadthesuitcasesfrom

thetrunk,bringingthemuptothehouse.Bela plunged into the grass as if it were the sea, her body briefly

disappearing. Pushing herway through it, her arms spreadwide.The featheryends shimmered in the sunlight.Softly they scrapedher face, thebacksofherlegs.Sherangthedoorbell,waitingforhermothertoopenthedoor.

Whenthedoordidnotopen,herfatherhadtounlockitwithhiskey.Insidethehousetheycalledout.Therewasnofoodintherefrigerator.Thoughthedaywas warm, the windows were shut and locked. The rooms dark, the curtainsdrawn,thesoilofthehouseplantsdry.

AtfirstBelareactedasiftoachallenge,agame.Foritwastheonegamehermotherhadlikedplayingwithherwhenshewaslittle.Hidingbehindtheshowercurtain, crouching in a closet, wedged behind a door. Never breaking down,nevercoughingafterafewminuteselapsedandBelacouldnotfindher,neveroncegivingheraclue.

Shewalkedlikeadetectivethroughthehouse.Downthesetofhalfstepstothe living room and kitchen, up the half steps to where the bedrooms were,wherethehallwascarpetedinthesametightlywovenoliveshade,unifyingthe

roomslikeamossthatspreadfromonedoorwaytothenext.Sheopenedthedoorsandfoundcertainthings:bobbypinsinthebathroom,a

stapleronthedustysurfaceofhermother’sdesk,apairofscuffedsandalsinthecloset.Afewbooksontheshelves.

Her father was sitting on the sofa, not seeing Bela as she approached, noteventhoughshestoodafewfeetaway.Hisfacelookeddifferent,asiftheboneshadshifted.Asifsomeofthemweren’tthere.

Baba?Onthetablebesidehimwasasheetofpaper.Aletter.Heputouthishand,seekinghers.

Ihavenotmade thisdecision inhaste. Ifanything, Ihavebeen thinkingabout it for toomanyyears.You triedyourbest. I tried, too, but not as well.We tried to believe wewouldbecompanionstooneanother.

Around Bela I am only reminded of all the ways I’vefailedher.InawayIwishshewereyoungenoughsimplyto forget me. Now she will come to hate me. Should shewanttospeaktome,oreventuallytoseeme,Iwilldomybesttoarrangethis.

Tellherwhateveryouthinkwillbeleastpainfulforhertohear,but Ihopeyouwill tellher the truth.That Ihavenot died or disappeared but that I have moved toCalifornia, because a college has hired me to teach.Though itwillbeofnocomfort toher, tellher that Iwillmissher.

As for Udayan, as you know, for many years Iwonderedhowandwhenwemighttellher,whatwouldbetherightage,butitnolongermatters.Youareherfather.As youpointedout longago,andas I have longcome toaccept,youhaveprovenyourselftobeabetterparentthanI.IbelieveyouareabetterfatherthanUdayanwouldhavebeen. Given what I’m doing, it makes no sense for herconnectionwithyoutoundergoanychange.

Myaddressisuncertain,butyoucanreachmecareofthe university. I will not ask anything else of you; themoneytheyofferwillbeenough.Youarenodoubtfuriouswith me. I will understand if you do not wish tocommunicate. I hope that in time my absence will makethings easier, not harder, for you and for Bela. I think itwill. Good luck, Subhash, and good-bye. In exchange forallyouhavedoneforme,IleaveBelatoyou.

The letter had been composed in Bengali, so there was no danger of Beladeciphering its contents. He conveyed a version of what it said, somehowmanagingtolookintoherconfusedface.

ShewasoldenoughtoknowhowfarawayCaliforniawas.WhensheaskedwhenGauriwascomingback,hesaidhedidn’tknow.

He was prepared to calm her, to quell her shock. But it was she whocomforted him in thatmoment, putting her arms around him, her strong slimbodyexudingitsconcern.Holdinghimtightly,as ifhewouldfloatawayfromherotherwise.I’llnevergoawayfromyou,Baba,shesaid.

He knew the marriage, which had been their own choice, had become aforced arrangement day after day.But there had never been a conversation inwhichsheexpressedawishtoleave.

He’dsometimesthought,inthebackofhismind,thatafterBelawentofftocollege, after she moved away from them, he and Gauri might begin to liveapart.ThatanewphasecouldbeginwhenBelawasmoreindependent,whensheneededthemless.

He’dassumed,becauseofBela, thatGauriwouldtoleratetheirmarriagefornow,ashe’dbeentoleratingit.Heneverthoughtshewouldlackthepatiencetowait.

Of the three women in Subhash’s life—his mother, Gauri, Bela—thereremained only one. His mother’s mind was now a wilderness. There was noshape to it any longer, no clearing. It had been overtaken, overgrown. She’dbeenconvertedpermanentlybyUdayan’sdeath.

That wilderness was her only freedom. She was locked inside her home,taken out once each day. Deepawould prevent her from endangering herself,fromembarrassingherself,frommakingfurtherscenes.

ButGauri’smindhadsavedher. Ithadenabledher to standupright. Ithad

clearedapathforher.Ithadpreparedhertowalkaway.

What else had her mother left behind? On Bela’s right arm, just above theelbow,inaspotshehadtotwistherarmtosee,afreckledconstellationofhermother’sdarkerpigment,analmostsolidpatchatoncediscreetandconspicuous.Atraceofthealternativecomplexionshemighthavehad.Ontheringfingerofherrighthand,justbelowtheknuckle,wasasinglespotofthissameshade.

In the house in Rhode Island, in her room, another remnant of hermotherbegantorevealitself:ashadowthatbrieflyoccupiedasectionofherwall,inonecorner,remindingBelaofhermother’sprofile.Itwasanassociationshenoticedonlyafterhermotherwasgone,andwasunablethereaftertodispel.

Inthisshadowshesawtheimpressionofhermother’sforehead,theslopeofhernose.Hermouthandchin.Itssourcewasunknown.Somesectionofbranch,someoverhangoftheroofthatrefractedthelight,shecouldnotbesure.

Eachday the imagedisappearedas the sun traveledaround thehouse;eachmorningit returnedto theplacehermotherhadfled.Sheneversawit formorfade.

Inthisapparition,everymorning,Belarecognizedhermother,andfeltvisitedbyher.Itwasthesortofspontaneousassociationonemightmakewhilelookingupatapassingcloud.Butinthiscaseneverbreakingapart,neverchangingintoanythingelse.

Chapter4

Theeffortofbeingwithherwasgone. In itsplacewasa fatherhood thatwasexclusive, a bond thatwould not have to be unraveled or revised.He had hisdaughter;alonehemaintainedtheknowledgethatshewasnothis.Thereducedelementsofhislifesatuneasily,onebesidetheother.Itwasneithervictorynordefeat.

She entered the seventhgrade.Shewas learningSpanish, ecology, algebra.Hehopedthenewbuilding,thenewteachersandcourses,theroutineofmovingfromclass toclass,woulddistracther. Initially this seemed tobe thecase.Hesawherorganizinga three-ringbinder,writingin thenamesofhersubjectsonthetabbeddividers,tapingherscheduleinside.

Herearrangedhishoursatwork,nolongergoinginasearly,makingsurehewasthere in themornings tofixherbreakfastandseeheroff.Hewatchedhersetting out each day for the bus stop, a backpack strapped to her shoulders,heavywithtextbooks.

OnedayhenoticedthatbeneathherT-shirts,hersweaters,herchestwasnolongerflat.She’dshedsomepartofherselfinTollygunge.Shewasonthevergeofanewtypeofprettiness.Blossoming,inspiteofhavingbeencrushed.

She became thinner, quieter, keeping to herself on weekends. Behaving asGauriusedtodo.Shenolongersoughthimout,wantingtotakewalkstogetheronSundays.Shesaidshehadhomeworktodo.Thisnewmoodsettleduponherswiftly, without warning, like an autumn sky from which the light suddenlydrained.Hedidnotaskwhatwaswrong,knowingwhattheanswerwouldbe.

Shewasestablishingherexistenceapartfromhim.Thiswastherealshock.Hethoughthewouldbetheonetoprotecther,toreassureher.Buthefeltcastaside, indicted along with Gauri. He was afraid to exert his authority, hisconfidenceasafathershakennowthathewasalone.

She asked if she could change her bedroom and move into Gauri’s study.Though this rattled him, he allowed it, telling himself that the impulse wasnatural.Hehelpedhertosetuptheroom,spendingadaymovingherthingsintoit,hangingherclothesinthecloset,retapingherposterstothewalls.Heputherlamp on Gauri’s desk, her books on Gauri’s shelves. But within a week shedecided she preferred her old room and said shewanted tomove back into it

again.Shespoketohimonlywhennecessary.Certaindays,shedidnotspeaktohim

atall.Hewonderedifshe’dtoldherfriendswhathadhappened.Butshedidnotseekhispermissiontoseethem,andnonevisitedheratthehouse.Hewonderedifitwouldhavebeeneasierif theystill livedclosetocampus,inanapartmentcomplexthatwasfilledwithprofessorsandgraduatestudentsandtheirfamilies,and not in this isolated part of the town.He blamed himself for taking her toTollygunge,forgivingGauritheopportunitytoescape.HewonderedwhatBelahadmadeof hismother, of the things she’d heard aboutUdayan.Though shenevermentionedeitherofthem,hewonderedwhatshe’dgleaned.

In December he turned forty-one. Normally Bela liked to celebrate hisbirthday.She’dgetGauri togivehera littlemoneyso that shecouldbuyhimsomeOldSpicefromthedrugstore,oranewpairofsocks.Lastyear,she’devenbaked and frosted a simple cake. This year, when he returned fromwork, hefoundherinherroomasusual.Aftertheyfinishedeatingdinner, therewasnocard, no small surprise. Her retreat from him, her new indifference, was toodeep.

One day when he was at work, Bela’s guidance counselor called. Bela’sperformance inmiddle school was concerning. According to her teachers shewas unprepared, distracted.On the recommendation of her sixth-grade teachershe’dbeenplacedinupper-levelclasses,buttheywereprovingtobetoogreatachallenge.

Putherindifferentclasses,then.Butitwasn’tjustthat.Shenolongerseemedconnectedtotheotherstudents,

thecounselorsaid.Inthecafeteria,atthelunchtable,shesatalone.Shehadn’tsignedupforanyclubs.Afterschoolshehadbeenseenwalkingbyherself.

She takes the bus home from school. She lets herself in and does herhomework.SheisalwaystherewhenIreturn.

But he was told that she’d been seen, more than once, wandering throughvariouspartsofthetown.

Belahasalwayslikedgoingonwalkswithme.Perhapsitrelaxesher,togetsomefreshair.

Therewere roadswhere cars traveled quickly, the counselor said. A smallhighway not meant for pedestrians. Not the interstate, but a highway all thesame. Thiswaswhere Bela had last been spotted. Balancing on the guardrailbesidetheshoulderlane,herarmsraised.

She’dacceptedaridehomefromastrangerwho’dstoppedtoaskifshewasallright.Fortunately,ithadturnedouttobearesponsibleperson.Anotherparent

attheschool.The counselor requested a meeting. She asked both Subhash and Gauri to

attend.Hefelthisstomachturningoveronitself.Hermothernolongerliveswithus,

hemanagedtosay.Sincewhen?Sincesummer.You should have notified us,Mr.Mitra.You and yourwife sat downwith

Belabeforeyouseparated?Youpreparedher?Hegotoffthephone.HewantedtocallGauriandscreamather.Buthehad

no phone number, only the address at the university where she taught. Herefusedtowritetoher.Stubbornly,hewantedtokeeptheknowledgeofBela,ofhowGauri’s absencewasaffectingher, tohimself.Youhave leftherwithmeandyetyouhavetakenheraway,hewantedtosay.

HebegantodriveBela,thesameeveningeveryweek,toseeapsychologisttheguidance counselor had suggested, in the same suite of offices where hisoptometristwas.He’d resistedat first, sayinghewould talk toBela, that therewasnoneed.Butthecounselorhadbeenfirm.

Shesaid thatshehadalreadyspoken toBelaabout itand thatBelahadnotobjected.ShetoldhimthatBelaneededaformofhelphecouldnotprovide.Itwas as if a bone had broken in her body, the counselor explained. Itwas notsimplyamatterof timebefore itmended,norwas itpossible forhim to set itright.

AgainhethoughtofGauri.Thoughhe’dtriedtohelpherhe’dfailed.HewasterrifiednowthatBelawouldshutdownpermanently,andthatshewouldrejecthiminthesameway.

Andsohewroteoutacheckinthepsychologist’sname,Dr.EmilyGrant,andplaceditinanenvelope,ashemightanotherbill.Thebillsweretypedonsmallsheets of paper, mailed to him at the end of the month. The dates of theindividualsessions,separatedbycommas,werewritteninbyhand.Hethrewoutthebillsafterhepaidthem.Intheledgerofhischeckbook,hehatedwritingDr.Grant’sname.

Bela attended the appointments alone. He wondered what she said to Dr.Grant, if she told a stranger the things she no longer told him. Hewonderedwhetherornotthewomanwaskind.

He remembered first learning that Udayan had married Gauri, and feeling

replacedbyher.Hefeltreplacednow,asecondtime.Ithadbeenimpossible,theoneoccasionhe’dseenDr.Grantinperson,toget

asenseofher.Adooropened,andhestooduptoshakeawoman’shand.Shewasyounger thanheexpected,short,withamopofunrulybrownhair.Apalesteadyface,sheerblacktights,plumpcalves,flatleathershoes.Likeateenagerdressedupinhermother’sclothes,thejacketalittletoobigforher,alittlelong,though through the open door of her office he saw the progression of frameddegreesonherwall.HowcouldawomanwithsuchaconfusedappearancehelpBela?

Dr.Granthadexpressednointerestinhim.She’dlockedeyeswithhimforaninstant,afirmbutimpenetrablelook.She’dusheredBelathroughthedoortoheroffice,thenshutitinhisface.

That look, knowing, withholding, unnerved him. She was like any otherintelligent doctor, examining the patient and already knowing the underlyingdisease.Inthecourseoftheirsessions,hadsheintuitedthesecrethekeptfromBela?Did sheknow thathewasnother real father?Thathe lied toheraboutthis,dayafterday?

He was never invited into the room. For some months he received noindicationofBela’sprogress.Sittinginthewaitingarea,withaviewofthedoorBelaandDr.Grantwereontheothersideof,madehimfeelworse.Heusedthehourtobuygroceriesfor theweek.Hetimedtheappointments,andwaitedforherintheparkinglot,inthecar.Whenitwasovershesatbesidehim,shuttingthedoor.

Howdiditgotoday,Bela?Fine.It’sstillahelptoyou?Sheshrugged.Wouldyouliketogotoarestaurantfordinner?I’mnothungry.Shewasdeflectinghim,asGauriwould.Hermindelsewhere,herfaceturned

away.Punishinghim,becauseGauriwasnottheretobepunished.Wouldyouliketowriteheraletter?Trytospeaktoheronthephone?Sheshookherhead.Itwaslowered,herbrowfurrowed.Hershoulderswere

hunched,pressedtowardoneanother,astearsfell.

Standinginherdoorwayatnight,watchingherassheslept,herememberedtheyounggirl she’dbeen.On thebeachwithherwhenshewassixor seven.The

beachnearlyempty,hisfavoritehour.Thedescendingsunpoursashaftoflightoverthewater,wideratthehorizon,taperingtowardland.

Bela’slimbsarepink,glowing.Sheneverseemsasaliveaswhenhebringsherhere,hersolitarybodybravelypoisedagainstthesea’simmensity.

Heisteachinghertoidentifythings,theyareplayingagame:onepointforamussel shell, two for scallop, three for crab. The plovers, darting single-mindedly from the dunes toward thewaves, get five.The first one to call outgetsthepoint.

She trails at a distance behind him, stopping every few paces to fingersomething on the ground. Over rocky sections she treads carefully. She ishummingalittletune,asectionofherhairtuckedbehindoneear.Theycalltooneanother,revisingthescore.

Hestopstowaitforher,butshehasasuddenburstofenergy,passinghim.Onandon she sprints, unobstructed, kickingupherheels at thewater’s edge.Darkhairtoherchin,rearrangedbythewind,obscuringherface.Justwhenhethinks shewillhave theenergy to run forever, toescapehis sight, shepauses.Turningback,breathinghard,herhandonherhip,makingsureheisthere.

•••

Thefollowingyear,slowly,areleasefromwhathadhappened.Anewclarityinhereyes,acalmnessinherface.Sheturnedoutward,towardothers.Shecarriedherselfdifferently,thewindnolongeropposingherbutatherback,thrustingherintotheworld.

Insteadofalwaysbeingathomeshewasnever therenow.Byeighthgradethe phone was ringing throughout the evening, different people, male andfemale,wanting to talk to her.Behind a closed door, for hours at a time, sheconversedwithherpeers.

Hergradesimproved,herappetitereturned.Shenolongersetdownherforkaftertwobitessayingthatshewasfull.She’djoinedthemarchingband,learningtoplaypatrioticsongsontheclarinet,fittingtogetherthepartsoftheinstrumentafterdinnerandpracticingscales.

OnVeteransDayhestoodonasidewalkinthecenteroftownandwatchedher filing past. Dressed in uniform, bearing the autumn chill, focused on thesheetmusichookedaroundherneck.Anotherday,emptyingthedustbininthebathroom,hesawthediscardedwrapperfromasanitarypadandrealizedshe’dbegun menstruating. She had mentioned nothing to him. She had bought thesupplies,keptthemhidden,maturingonherown.

Inhighschoolshejoinedthenaturestudiesclub,assistingthebiologyteacherinthetaggingofturtlesandthedissectionofbirds,goingtobeachestocleanupnestinggrounds.ShewenttoMainetostudyharborseals,andtoCapeMayforthemonarchbutterflies.Shebegantooccupyherselfwithotherpursuitshecouldnotobjectto:goingfromdoortodoorwithanotherstudent,seekingsignaturesforpetitionstorecyclebottles,ortoraisetheminimumwage.

Whenshereceivedherlearner’spermitshebegandrivingtolocalrestaurants,collectingdiscardedfoodandcontributingittoshelters.Insummersshegotjobsthatkeptheroutofdoors,wateringplantsatanurseryorassistingatchildren’scamps.Shewasuncovetous,uninterestedinbuyingthings.

Thesummeraftershegraduatedfromhighschoolshedidn’ttravelwithhimwhennewscamefromDeepa,sayinghismotherhadsufferedastroke.Shetoldhim shewanted to stay in Rhode Island, to spend timewith the friends fromwhomshe’d soonbe separated.Hearranged forher to staywithoneof them.And though he didn’t like the idea of being so far away fromBela for a fewweeks,inawayitwasarelief,nottohavetotakeherbacktoTollygungeagain.

Itwasunclear toSubhash, thedegree towhichhismother recognizedhim.Shespoke tohim in fragments, sometimesas ifhewereUdayan,oras if theywereboys.Shetoldhimnottomuddyhisshoesinthelowland,nottostayoutlateplayinggames.

He saw that hismotherwas dwelling in an alternate time, amore bearablereality.Thecoordinationofherlegswasgone,sotherewasnolongertheneedtoplace a chain across the stairwell.Shewasbound to the terrace, on the topfloorofthehouse,forgood.

Heunderstood that perhapsheno longer existed inhismother’smind, thatshe’dalreadyletgoofhim.He’ddefiedherbymarryingGauri;foryearshe’davoidedher,leadinghislifeinaplaceshe’dneverseen.Andyet,asachild,he’dspentsomanyhourssittingbyherside.

But now the distance between them was not merely physical, or evenemotional. It was intractable. It triggered a delayed burst of responsibility inSubhash.Anattempt,once itno longermattered, tobepresent.Everyyear forthefollowingthreeyearshe traveledbacktoCalcutta inwinter, toseeher.Hesatbesideher, readingnewspapers,drinkingteawithher.FeelingascutoffasBelamusthavefelt,fromGauri.

He stayed in Tollygunge as if he were a young boy again, never strayingfartherthanthemosqueatthecorner.Onlywalkingthroughtheenclavenowandagain,alwaysstoppingatUdayan’smemorial,thenturningback.Therestofthecity,alive, importunate,heldnomeaningforhim. Itwassimplyapassageway

fromtheairportandback.HehadwalkedawayfromCalcuttajustasGaurihadwalkedawayfromBela.Andbynowhehadneglecteditfortoolong.

In thecourseofhis lastvisithismotherhadneeded tobehospitalized.Herheartwastooweak,she’dneededoxygen.He’dspentalldayatherside,arrivingearlyeachmorningat thehospital toholdherhand.Theendwascoming,andthedoctorstoldhimhisvisithadbeenwelltimed.Buttheattackhappenedlateatnight.

Bijoli did not die in Tollygunge, in the house to which she’d clung. AndthoughSubhashhadreturned tobeclose toher, fromsofar,he’darrived, thatfinalmorningat thehospital, too late.She’ddiedonherown, in a roomwithstrangers,denyinghimtheopportunitytowatchherpass.

ForcollegeBelachoseasmallliberalartsschoolintheMidwest.Hedroveherthere,crossingPennsylvania,OhioandIndiana,occasionallylettinghertakethewheel.Hemetherroommate,herroommate’smotherandfather,andthenhelefther there. The college had an alternative curriculum, without exams or lettergrades. The atypical method suited her. According to the lengthy evaluationlettersherprofessorswroteattheendoftheyear,shedidwell.Shemajoredinenvironmental science.For her senior thesis she studied the adverse effects ofpesticiderunoffinalocalriver.

But graduate school, which he hoped would be the next step, was of nointeresttoher.Shetoldhimshedidnotwanttospendherlifeinsideauniversity,researching things. She had learned enough from books and labs. She didn’twanttocutherselfoffthatway.

Shesaidthistohimnotwithoutsomedisdain.ItwastheclosestshecametorejectinghowbothheandGauri lived.Andhe rememberedUdayan, suddenlyturningcoldtohiseducation,justasBelahad.

ShetalkedattimesaboutthePeaceCorps,wantingtotraveltootherpartsoftheworld.Hewonderedifshewouldjoin,ifmaybeshewouldwanttogobacktoIndia.Shewastwenty-one,oldenoughtomakesuchdecisions.Instead,aftergraduating, she moved not terribly far away from him, to WesternMassachusetts,whereshegotajobonafarm.

Hethoughtatfirstitwasinaresearchcapacitythatshewasthere,totestthesoil or help cultivate a new crop breed. But no, shewas there to work as anagricultural apprentice, in the field. Putting in irrigation lines, weeding andharvesting,cleaningoutanimalpens.Packingcratestosellvegetables,weighingthemforcustomersonthesideoftheroad.

Whenshecamehomeonweekendshesawthattheshapeandtextureofher

handswerebeingalteredbythedemandsofherlabor.Henoticedcallusesonherpalms,dirtbeneathhernails.Herskinsmelledofsoil.Thebackofherneckandhershoulders,herface,turnedadeeperbrown.

Sheworedenimcoveralls,heavysoiledboots,acottonkerchieftiedoverherhair. She woke at four in the morning. A man’s undershirt with the sleevespushed up to her shoulders, dark strips of leather knotted around herwrist inplaceofbangles.

Eachtimetherewassomethingnewtotakein.Atattoothatwaslikeanopencuffaboveherankle.Ableachedsectionofherhair.Asilverhoopinhernose.

Itbecameherlife:aseriesofjobsonfarmsacrossthecountry,somecloseby,othersfar.WashingtonState,Arizona,Kentucky,Missouri.Ruraltownshehadtolookuponamap,townswhereshesaidsometimestherewerenostoplightsformiles.She traveledfor thegrowingseasonor thebreedingseason, toplantpeachtreesormaintainbeehives,toraisechickensorgoats.

Shetoldhimshelivedinclosequarters,oftennotpaidinwagesbutsimplybythefoodandshelterthatwereprovided.She’dlivedwithgroupswhopooledtheirincome.She’dlivedforafewmonthsinMontana,inatent.Shefoundoddjobswhen she needed to, spraying orchards, doing landscapework. She livedwithoutinsurance,withoutheedforherfuture.Withoutafixedaddress.

Sometimes she sent himapostcard to tell himwhere she’dgone, or sent acardboardboxcontainingsofteningbunchesofbroccoli,orsomepearswrappedin newspaper. Dried red chilies, fashioned into a wreath. Hewondered if herworkever tookher toCalifornia,whereGauristill lived,or if thiswasaplacesheavoided.

He’dhadnocontactwithGauri.Onlyapostofficeboxtowhich,forthefirstfew years, he’d directed their tax returns, until they started filing separately.Apartfromthisofficialcorrespondencehehadnotsoughtherout.

On either side of the enormous country they lived apart, Bela roamingbetweenthem.Theyhadnotbotheredtoobtainadivorce.Gaurihadnotaskedforone,andSubhashhadnotcared.Stayingmarriedwasbetter thanhavingtonegotiate with her again. It appalled him that she had never contacted Bela,never sent a note. That her heart could be so cold. At the same time he wasgratefulthatthebreakwasclean.

Now and again, at a dinner he attended at the home of an Americancolleague, or one of the local Indian familieswithwhomhe kept cordial ties,therewouldbe someone, awidowor awomanwho’dnevermarried.Onceortwicehe’dcalledthesewomen,ortheywouldcallhim,invitinghimtoattendaclassicalmusicconcertinProvidence,oraplay.

Thoughhehadlittleinterestinsuchentertainments,he’dgone;onahandfulofoccasions,cravingcompany,hehadspentafewnightsinawoman’sbed.Buthehadnointerestinarelationship.Hewasinhisfifties,itwastoolatetostartanother family. He had overstepped with Gauri. He couldn’t imagine everwantingtotakethatstepagain.

The only company he longed forwas Bela’s. But shewas skittish, and hecouldneverbecertainofwhenhewouldseeheragain.Shetendedtoreturninthesummer,takingoffaweekortwoaroundthetimeofherbirthday,tovisitthebeachesandswiminthesea,intheplacewherehe’draisedher.Nowandthenshe cameduringChristmas.Onceor twice, promising tobe there, then tellinghimsomethinghadcomeupatthelastminute,shedidnotshowupintheend.

When she was there she slept in her old bed. She rubbed camphoraceoussalves onto her arms and legs, and soakedherself in the bathtub.She allowedhimtocookforher,totakecareofher,briefly,inthissimpleway.Shewatchedold movies on television with him, and they went on walks around NinigretPond,orthroughthegrovesofrhododendronsinHopeValley,astheyusedtodowhenshewassmall.

Still,sherequiredacertainamountoftimetoherself,sothatevenduringthecourseofhervisitsshewouldstayuplateafterhe’dgonetobed,bakingloavesofzucchinibread,orshewouldborrowhiscarandgoforadrive,not invitinghimtogowithher.Heknew,evenwhenshereturned,thatpartofherwasclosedoff from him. That her sense of limitswas fierce.And though she seemed tohavefoundherself,hefearedthatshewasstilllost.

Attheendofeachvisitshezippedherbagandlefthim,neversayingwhenshe’dbeback.Shedisappeared,asGaurihaddisappeared,hervocation takingprecedence.Definingher,directinghercourse.

•••

Over theyearsherwork startedmergingwith a certain ideology.He saw thattherewasaspiritofoppositiontothethingsshedid.

Shewasspendingtimeincities,inblightedsectionsofBaltimoreandDetroit.Shehelpedtoconvertabandonedpropertiesintocommunitygardens.Shetaughtlow-incomefamiliestogrowvegetablesintheirbackyards,sothattheywouldn’thavetodependentirelyonfoodbanks.ShedismissedSubhashwhenhepraisedherfortheseefforts.Itwasnecessary,shesaid.

InRhodeIsland,shewentthroughhisrefrigerator,chidinghimfortheappleshecontinuedtobuyfromsupermarkets.Shewasopposedtoeatingfoodthathad

to be transported long distances. To the patenting of seeds. She talked to himaboutwhypeople still died from famines,why farmers stillwent hungry.Sheblamedtheunequaldistributionofwealth.

She reproached Subhash for throwing out his vegetable scraps instead ofcomposting them. Once, during a visit, she went to a hardware store to buyplywoodandnails,buildingabininhisbackyard,showinghimhowtoturnthepileasitcooled.

Whatweconsumeiswhatwesupport,shesaid,tellinghimheneededtodohispart.Shecouldbeself-righteous,asUdayanhadbeen.

Heworried at times about her having such passionate ideals.Nevertheless,whenshewasgone,eventhoughitwasquickerandcheapersimplytogotothesupermarket,hebegantodriveouttoafarmstandonSaturdaymornings,togethisfruitsandvegetables,hiseggsfortheweek.

Thepeoplewhoworkedthere,whoweighedhisitemsandplacedtheminhiscanvasbag,whoaddedupwhatheowedwiththestubofapencilinsteadofatacashregister,remindedhimofBela.Theybroughtbacktomindherpragmaticsimplicity.ThankstoBelahegrewconsciousofeatingaccordingtowhatwasinseason,accordingtowhatwasavailable.Thingshe’dtakenforgrantedwhenhewasachild.

Herdedicationtobetteringtheworldwassomethingthatwouldfulfillher,heimagined, for the restofher life.Still,hewasunable to set asidehisconcern.Shehadeschewedthestabilityhehadworkedtoprovide.She’dforgedarootlesspath, onewhich seemed precarious to him.Onewhich excluded him. But, aswithGauri,he’dlethergo.

A loose confederation of friends, people she spoke of fondly but neverintroducedhimto,providedherwithanalternateformoffamily.Shespokeofattending these friends’ weddings. She knitted sweaters for their children, orsewed them cloth dolls,mailing them off as surprises. If therewas any otherpartnerinherlife,aromanticinterest,hewasunawareofit.Itwasalwaysjustthetwoofthem,whenevershecame.

Helearnedtoacceptherforwhoshewas,toembracetheturnshe’dtaken.AttimesBela’ssecondbirthfeltmoremiraculousthanthefirst.Itwasamiracletohimthatshehaddiscoveredmeaninginherlife.Thatshecouldberesilient, inthe face of what Gauri had done. That in time she had renewed, if not fullyrestored,heraffectionforhim.

And yet sometimes he felt threatened, convinced that it was Udayan’sinspiration; that Udayan’s influence was greater. Gauri had left them, and bynowSubhash trustedher to stayaway.But therewere timesSubhashbelieved

thatUdayanwouldcomeback,claiminghisplace,claimingBelafromthegraveashisown.

PartVI

Chapter1

In theirbedroom, inTollygunge, shecombsoutherhairbeforebed.Thedoorbolt is fastened, the shutters closed. Udayan lies inside the mosquito netting,holdingtheshortwaveonhischest.Onelegfolded,theanklerestingontheotherknee. On the bedcover, beside him, he keeps a smallmetal ashtray, a box ofmatches,apacketofWills.

It is 1971, the second year of their marriage. Almost two years since theparty’sdeclaration.AyearsincetheofficesofDeshabratiandLiberationwereraided. The issues Udayan continues to read are secretly published andcirculated. He hides them under themattress. Their content has been deemedseditious,andpossessingthemmightnowbeusedasevidenceofacrime.

RanjitGupta is the newpolice commissioner, and the prisons are swelling.The police seize comrades from their homes, from their campuses, from safehouses. They confine them in lockups throughout the city, extractingconfessions. Some emerge after a few days. Others are detained indefinitely.Cigarette butts are pressed into their backs, hotwax is poured into their ears.Metal rods pushed into their rectums. Peoplewho live nearCalcutta’s prisonscannotsleep.

Oneday,withinafewhours,fourstudentsareshotdeadnearCollegeStreet.Oneof themhadnothing todowith theparty.He’dbeenpassing through thegatesoftheuniversity,toattendaclass.

Udayanturnsofftheradio.Doyouregretyourdecision?heasks.Whichdecision?Becomingawife?Sheholdsthecombstillforamoment,glancingathisreflectioninthemirror,

unabletoseehisfaceclearlythroughthemosquitonetting.No.Becomingmywife?Shegetsupandliftsthenetting,sittingontheedgeofthebed.Shestretches

outbesidehim.No,shesaysoncemore.They’vearrestedSinha.When?Afewdaysago.

Hesaysthiswithoutdiscouragement.Asifithasnothingtodowithhim.Whatdoesitmean?Itmeanseitherthey’llgethimtotalk,orthey’llkillhim.Shesitsupagain.Shestartsbraidingherhairforsleep.Buthedrawsherfingersaway.Heundrapeshersari,lettingthematerialfall

fromherbreasts,revealingtheskinbetweenherblouseandpetticoat.Hedrapesherhairaroundhershoulders.

Leaveitlikethistonight.Thehairshedsintohishands,strandsofitscatteringontothebed.Thenthe

weightisgone,itturnsshortagain,ofacoarsertexture,streakedwithgray.But in the dream Udayan remains a boy in his twenties. Three decades

youngerthanGauriisnow,almostadecadeyoungerthanBela.Hiswavyhairissweptbackfromhisforehead,hiswaistnarrowcomparedtohisshoulders.Butshe is awomanof fifty-six, theyearsmadepresent byvirtueof the resiliencetheyhavetakenaway.

Udayan is blind to this disjuncture. He pulls her to him, unhooking herblouse,seekingpleasurefromherdormantbody,herneglectedbreasts.Shetriesto resist, tellinghim thathe shouldhavenothing todowithher.She tellshimthatshehasmarriedSubhash.

Theinformationhasnoeffect.Heremovestherestofherclothes,thetouchof her husband feeling forbidden. For she is coupled naked with a boy whoappearsasyouthfulasason.

WhenshewasmarriedtoUdayan,herrecurringnightmarewasthattheyhadnot met, that he had not come into her life. In those moments returned theconvictionshe’dhadbeforeknowinghim,thatshewouldliveherlifealone.Shehad hated those first disorienting moments after waking up in their bed inTollygunge,inchesawayfromhim,stillcloisteredinanalternateworldinwhichtheyhadnothingtodowithoneanother,evenasheheldherinhisarms.

She’dknownhimonlyafewyears.Onlybeginningtodiscoverwhohewas.But inanotherwayshehadknownhimpracticallyallher life.Afterhisdeathbegan the internal knowledge that came from rememberinghim, still trying tomakesenseofhim.Ofbothmissingandresentinghim.Withoutthattherewouldbenothingtohaunther.Nogrief.

Shewonderswhathemighthavelookedlikenow.Howhewouldhaveaged,the illnesses he might have suffered, the diseases to which he might havesuccumbed. She tries to imagine the flat stomach softening.Gray hairs on hischest.

In all her life, apart fromwhen Subhash asked, and the day she told Otto

Weiss,shehasnotspokentoasinglepersonaboutwhathadhappenedtohim.Nooneelseknowstoask.WhathadhappenedinCalcuttainthelastyearsofhislife.Whatshe’dseenfromtheterraceinTollygunge.Whatshe’ddoneforhim,becausehe’dasked.

InCalifornia,inthebeginning,itwasthelivingthathauntedher,notthedead.SheusedtofearthatBelaorSubhashwouldmaterialize,sittinginalecturehall,or walking into ameeting. She used to look up from the podium to scan theroomonthefirstdayofanewclass,halfexpectingoneofthemtobeoccupyingachair.

Sheusedtofearthattheywouldfindheronthesunnycampus,ononeofthesidewalksthatledfromonebuildingtoanother.Confrontingher,exposingher.Apprehendingher,thewaythepolicehadapprehendedUdayan.

Butintwentyyearsnoonehadcome.Shehadnotbeensummonedback.Shehad been given what she’d demanded, granted exactly the freedom she hadsought.

By the time Bela was ten, Gauri had been able, somehow, to imagine herdoubled, at twenty.By thenBela had spentmost of her time at school, she’dspent weekends sometimes at the home of a friend. She’d had no troublespendingtwoweeksatovernightGirlScoutcampinsummer.She’dsatbetweenGauriandSubhashatdinner,putherplateintothesinkwhenfinishedandthendriftedupstairs.

Still,Gauri hadwaiteduntil she’dbeenoffered a job, until the occasionofSubhash’s return toCalcutta. She knew that the errors she’dmade during thefirstyearsofBela’slifewerenotthingsshecouldgobackandfix.Herattemptskeptcollapsing,becausethefoundationwasnotthere.Overtimethisfeelingateawayather,exposingonlyherself-interest,herineptitude.Herinabilitytoabideherself.

She’d convinced herself that Subhash was her rival, and that she was incompetitionwithhim forBela, a competition that felt insulting,unjust.Butofcourseithadnotbeenacompetition,ithadbeenherownsquandering.Herownwithdrawal,covert,ineluctable.Withherownhandshe’dpaintedherselfintoacorner,andthenoutofthepicturealtogether.

Duringthatfirstflightacrossthecountrytheplanewassobrightshe’dputonsunglasses. Formuch of it she had been able to see the ground, her foreheadpressedagainst theovalwindow.Belowhera riverglinted likeacrudelybentwire. Brown and gold earth was veined with crevasses. Precipices rose likeislands,crackedfromthesun’sheat.

Therewereblackmountainsonwhichnothing,nograssor trees,seemedtogrow. Thin lines that twisted unpredictably,with tributaries arriving nowhere.Notrivers,butroads.

Therewasageometricsection,likeapatternedcarpetinshadesofpinkandgreen and tan. Composed of circular shapes in various sizes, close together,someslightlyoverlapping, somewitha sliceneatlymissing.She learned fromthepersonsittingnexttoherthattheywerecrops.ButtoGauri’seyestheywerelikeapileoffacelesscoins.

Theycrossedtheunpopulateddesert,featurelessandflat,andfinallyreachedthe opposite edge ofAmerica, and the low sprawl of LosAngeles, dense andongoing.Aplace she knewwould contain her,where she knew shewould beconvenientlylost.Withinherwastheguiltandtheadrenalineunleashedbywhatshe’ddone,thesheerexhaustionofeffort.Asif,inordertoescapeRhodeIsland,she’dwalkedeverystepoftheway.

Sheenteredanewdimension,aplacewhereafreshlifewasgiventoher.ThethreehoursonherwatchthatseparatedherfromBelaandSubhashwerelikeaphysicalbarrier,asmassiveasthemountainsshe’dflownovertogethere.She’ddoneit,theworstthingthatshecouldthinkofdoing.

Afterherfirstjobshe’dmovedbrieflynorth,toteachinSantaCruz,andtheninSanFrancisco.ButshehadcomebacktoSouthernCaliforniatoliveoutherlife, inasmallcollege townflankedbybiscuit-coloredmountainson theothersideofthefreeway.Acampusmainlyofundergraduates,atasmallbutwell-runschoolbuiltafterWorldWarII.

Itwasimpossible,atsuchanintimateinstitution,toleadananonymouslife.Herjobwasnotonlytoteachstudentsbut tomentorthem,toknowthem.Shewasexpectedtomaintaingenerousofficehours,tobeapproachable.

Intheclassroomsheledgroupsoftenortwelve,introducingthemtothegreatbooksofphilosophy, to theunanswerablequestions, tocenturiesof contentionanddebate.Shetaughtasurveyofpoliticalphilosophy,acourseonmetaphysics,aseniorseminaron thehermeneuticsof time.Shehadestablishedherareasofspecialization,GermanIdealismandthephilosophyoftheFrankfurtSchool.

Shebrokeherlargerclassesintodiscussiongroups,sometimesinvitingsmallbatchesofstudentstoherapartment,makingteaforthemonSundayafternoons.Duringofficehoursshespoketotheminherbook-linedofficeinthesoftlightofalampshe’dbroughtfromhome.Shelistenedtothemconfessthattheywerenotabletohandinapaperbecauseofapersonalcrisisthatwasoverwhelmingtheirlives.Ifneeded,shehandedthematissuefromtheboxshekeptinherdrawer,telling them not to worry, to file for an incomplete, telling them that she

understood.Theobligationtobeopentoothers,toforgethesealliances,hadinitiallybeen

anunexpectedstrain.ShehadwantedCaliforniatoswallowher;shehadwantedtodisappear.Butover timethese temporaryrelationshipscametofillacertainspace.Hercolleagueswelcomedher.Herstudentsadmiredher,wereloyal.Forthree or fourmonths they depended on her, they accompanied her, they grewfondofher,andthentheywentaway.Shecametomissthemeasuredcontact,oncetheclassesended.Shebecameanalternateguardiantoafew.

BecauseofherbackgroundshewasgivenaspecialresponsibilitytooverseestudentswhocamefromIndia.Onceayearsheinvitedthemtodinner,cateringbiriyani and kebabs. The students tended to be wealthy, pleased to be inAmerica,notintimidatedbyit.They’dbeenmadeinadifferentIndia.Atease,itseemed,anywhereintheworld.

Certain former students sent her notes at the holidays, invited her to theirweddings.Shemadetimeforthem,becauseshecametohavethetime,becauseshesawtotheneedsofnooneelse.

Her output, apart from the teaching,was steady, esteemed by a handful ofpeers.Shehadpublishedthreebooksinherlife:afeministappraisalofHegel,ananalysis of interpretive methods in Horkheimer, and the book that had beenbasedonherdissertation,thathadgrownoutofablunderingessayshe’dwrittenforProfessorWeiss:TheEpistemologyofExpectationinSchopenhauer.

She remembered the slowbirth of the dissertation, behind a closed door inRhode Island. Aware that the exigencies of her work were masking those ofbeingamother.Sherememberedfretting,astheyearspassed,astheprocessofthedissertationdeepened,thinkingthatitwouldneverbedone,thatperhapsshewouldfailatthisobjective,too.ButProfessorWeisshadcalledherafterreadingit,tellingherhewasproudofher.

ShecouldhavespokentoProfessorWeissinGermannow,havingstudieditforsolong,thenspendingayear,herfortieth,asavisitingscholaratHeidelbergUniversity.Hewas still alive. She’d heard that he’dmoved to Florida for hisretirement.He had helpedGauri get into the doctoral program inBoston, andthengetherfirstteachingjob,inCalifornia.Hewastheonetomentionittoher,wanting to do her a favor, always keeping her inmind, not realizing that shewouldchoosethisjoboverthejobofraisingherchild.

She’dnot kept in touchwithhim.She imaginedwordhad spread, and thatpeopleinRhodeIsland,attheuniversity,hadlearnedofwhatshe’ddone.AndsheknewthatWeiss,whohadmentoredher,whohadbelievedinher,whohadalwaysaskedafterBela,wouldhavelosthisrespectforher.

Her ideologywas isolated frompractice, neutered by its long tenure in theacademy.Longagoshe’dwantedherworktobeindeferencetoUdayan,butbynow it was a betrayal of everything he had believed in. All the ways he hadinfluencedandinspiredher,shrewdlycultivatedforherownintellectualgain.

A few times a year she attended conferences, held in various parts of thecountry,orinforeignones.Theyweretheonlylong-distancejourneysshemade.Attimessheenjoyedthebriefchangeofscene,theshiftinroutine.Attimessheenjoyedsharingtheinfrequentfruitofhersolitarylabor.

The embroidered turquoise shawl she liked to have on hand during flightswasalwaysfoldedupinsidehercarry-onbag.TheonethingSubhashhadgivenher that she’d kept. She had traveled back to the East Coast, though she’davoidedProvidence,evenBostonandNewHaven.Itfelttooclose.Tooillicit,tocrossthatline.

Impractically, she’d remained a citizen of her birthplace. She was still agreen-card holder, renewing her Indian passportwhen it expired. But she hadneverreturnedtoIndia.Itmeantstandinginseparatelineswhenshetraveled,itmeant extra questions these days, fingerprints when she reentered the UnitedStatesfromabroad.Butshewasalwayswelcomedback,usheredthrough.

Forthesakeofretirement,forthesakeofsimplifyingtheendofherlife,shewould need to become anAmerican. In thisway, too,Udayanwould soonbebetrayed.

Inanycase,Californiawasheronlyhome.Rightawayshehadadaptedtoitsclimate,bothcomfortingandstrange,hotbutseldomoppressive.Aridinsteadofdamp,apartfromtherichfogofcertainafternoons.

Gratefullysheembraceditslackofwinter,itspaucityofrainfall,itsblisteringdesertwinds.The only cold of the placewas visual, on themountaintops, theabbreviatedpatchesofwhitethatcollectedamongtheirpeaks.

She’dmet other refugees from the East Coast who had fled for their ownreasons,whohadslippedfromtheirformerskins,notknowingwhattheywouldfind but compelled to make the journey. Like Gauri, they had tetheredthemselvestoCalifornia,nevergoingback.Therewereenoughofthesepeoplethatitceasedtomatterwhereshewasoriginallyfrom,orwhathadbroughtherhere. Instead, at social gatherings,when required tomake small talk, shewasabletoparticipateinthatcollectivesenseofdiscovery,ofgratitudefortheplace.

Certainplantswerefamiliartoher.Stuntedbananatreeswithleavesthatwererustyattheiredges,bearingthepiercingvioletblossomshermother-in-lawhadtaught her to soak and chop and cook in Tollygunge. The bleached bark ofeucalyptus.Shaggydatetrees,sheathedwithpointedscales.

Thoughshewasclosetoanothercoast,themassiveoceanonthissideofthecountrykepttoitself;itneverfeltasencroaching,ascorrosive,astheharshseain Rhode Island that had stripped things down, that had always looked soturbulenttoherandatthesametimestarvedforcolor,forlife.Thenewsenseofscale, the vast distances between one place and another, had also been arevelation.Thehundredsofmilesoffreewayonecoulddrive.

She had explored little of it, and yet she felt protected by that impersonalongoingspace.Thespinygrowth,thehotair,thesmallconcretehouseswithred-tiledroofs—allofithadwelcomedher.Thepeoplesheencounteredseemedlessreserved, less censorious, offering a smile but then keeping out of her way.Tellingher,inthislandofbrightlightandsharpshadows,tobeginagain.

Andyetsheremained,inspiteofherWesternclothes,herWesternacademicinterests, a woman who spoke English with a foreign accent, whose physicalappearance and complexion were unchangeable and, against the backdrop ofmostofAmerica,stillunconventional.Shecontinuedtointroduceherselfbyanunusualname,thefirstgivenbyherparents,thelastbythetwobrothersshehadwed.

Her appearance and accent caused people to continue to ask herwhere shecamefrom,andsometoformcertainassumptions.Once,invitedtogiveatalkinSanDiego,she’dbeenpickedupbyadrivertheuniversityhadsent,sothatshewouldbe spared theeffortofdrivingherself.Shehadgreetedhimat thedoorwhenherangthebell.Butthedriverhadnotrealized,whenshetoldhimgoodmorning,thatshewashispassenger.Hehadmistakenherforthepersonpaidtoopenanotherperson’sdoor.Tellher,whenevershe’sready,he’dsaid.

In thebeginningshe’d retreatedwillingly into thepureandpropercelibacyofwidowhood that, because of Bela and Subhash, she was initially denied. Sheavoided situations where she might be introduced to someone, adopting theWesterncustomofwearingaweddingbandduringtheday.

Sheturneddowndinnerinvitations,offerstohavelunch.Shekepttoherselfat conferences, always retiring to her room, not caring if people found herunfriendly.Givenwhatshe’ddonetoSubhashandBela,itfeltwrongtoseekthecompanionshipofanyoneelse.

Isolationoffered itsown formofcompanionship: the reliable silenceofherrooms,thesteadfasttranquilityoftheevenings.Thepromisethatshewouldfindthingswhere sheput them, that therewouldbeno interruption, no surprise. Itgreetedherattheendofeachdayandlaystillwithheratnight.Shehadnowishtoovercomeit.Rather,itwassomethinguponwhichshe’dcometodepend,with

which she’d entered by now into a relationship,more satisfying and enduringthantherelationshipsshe’dexperiencedineitherofhermarriages.

When desire eventually began to push its way through, its pattern wasarbitrary, casual.Andgivenher life, thedinners shewasexpected toattendatthehomesofcolleagues,theconferences,opportunitieswerethere.

Mainly they were fellow academics, but not always. There was the manwhose name she’d forgotten, who’d built the bookshelves in her apartment.There was the idle husband of a musicologist at the American Academy inBerlin.

Sometimesshejuggledlovers,andatothertimes,forextendedperiods,therewasnoone.She’dgrown fondof someof thesemen, remaining friendlywiththem. But she’d never allowed herself to reach the point where they mightcomplicateherlife.

OnlyLornahadunraveledher.ShehadknockedonGauri’sdoorduringherofficehoursoneday,astrangerintroducingherself,tiltingherheadagainstthedoorframe.A tallwoman in her late thirties, her center-parted hair in a smallchignon.Nicelydressed,infittedtrousers,awhitebutton-downshirt.SothatatfirstGaurithoughtshewasanotherprofessoratthecollege,wanderinginfromsomeotherdepartment,withaquestiontoask.

But no, she was a graduate student at UCLA, she’d driven in and foundGauri, she’d read everything Gauri had written. She’d worked for years inadvertising, living inNewYork, inLondon, inTokyo, before quittingher joband going back to university. She was seeking an outside reader for herdissertation, a studyof relational autonomy,holdingapartial draft of it inherhand.Shewaswilling tohelpGauriwithany researchorgrading inexchangefortheprivilege.

Pleasesayyes.Herbeautywassober,initsprime.Alongneck,cleargrayeyes,abbreviated

brows. Earlobes so scant they seemed almost to be missing. Slightly visibleporesonherface.

IheardyourtalklastmonthatDavis,Lornasaid.Iaskedyouaquestion.Idon’tremember.Youdon’trememberthequestion?Idon’trememberyouraskingit.LornareachedintohersatchelandpulledoutaPowerBar.ItwasaboutAlthusser.I’msorry,Ihaven’thadlunch.Doyoumind?Gaurishookherhead.ShewatchedasLornaunwrappedandbrokeapartand

chewedthePowerBar,explaining,betweenbites,thegenesisofherproject,theparticular angle shewanted topursue.Herhands seemed small forherheight,thewristsdelicate.ShetoldGaurishe’dbeenworkingupthenervetoapproachherfornearlyayear.

Gaurifeltdisorientedin the littleoffice thatwassofamiliar toher.Atonceambushedandflattered.Howcouldshehaveforgottensuchaface?

The topic interested her, and they set up a schedule, exchanging e-mails,meeting at restaurants and coffee shops. Lorna worked in fits and starts,distracting herself for days, then suddenly producing coherent chapters. ShecalledGauriwhenshefeltstuck,whenevershedoubtedherself,wheneveritwasnotgoingwell.

AttractionmotivatedGauritopickupthephone,toallowtheconversationstoextendbeyondareasonablearc.ImagesofLorna,fragmentsoftheirexchanges,begantodistracther.Whentheymetinpersonshebegantodresswithcare.Shehadnorecollectionofcrossingalinethatdrovehertodesireawoman’sbody.WithLornashefoundherselfalreadyontheothersideofit.

There were times, as they sat together at a table, scrutinizing a page ofmanuscript,thatthesidesoftheirhands,eachholdingapenwithwhichtomarkthe text, brushed together. Times their faceswere close. Therewere times, asLorna talked and Gauri listened, the two of them alone in a room, perhapsstandingafewfeetapart,thatGaurifeltherbalancefaltering.Sheworriedthatshe would not be able to control the temptation to take one step closer, thenanother,untilthemomentthespacebetweenthemwasobliterated.

Sheactedonnoneoftheseimpulses.Whateverhadinducedthem,whatevercontinued toprovoke them,shecouldnotbecertainwhetherLorna thoughtofherinthesameway.

OneeveningLornashowedupatherofficewithoutcallingfirst.Shedidthisoftenenough.She’d just finished the finalchapter, thepages tucked ina thickmanillaenvelopethatshecradledinonearm.

Thefloorof thedepartmentwasquiet, thestudents in theirdorms,only thejanitorsandafewscatteredprofessorswereinthebuildingatthathour.

LornahandedtheenvelopetoGauri.Shelookedexhausted,exultant.Forthefirsttimeshewasdressedcasually,injeans,aT-shirt.She’dnotbotheredtoputupherhair.Shehadbeentoagrocerystore. Inside the totebagsheseton thedesk were wrapped wedges of cheese, grapes, a box of crackers. Two papercups,abottleofwine.

What’sthis?Ithoughtwemightcelebrate.

Here?Gauristoodupfromherdeskandshutthedoor,lockingit,knowingitshould

haveremainedopen.WhensheturnedaroundLornawasfacingher,lookingather,standingtooclose.

She took Gauri’s hand, putting it inside her T-shirt, on top of one of herbreasts,beneaththepliantmaterialofherbra.Gaurifeltthenippleunderthebrathickening,hardening,asherownwere.

Thesoftnessofthekisseswasnew.Thesmellofher,thesculpturalplainnessofherbodyastheclotheswereremoved,aspilesofpaperswerepushedasidetomake room on the daybed behind the desk. The smoothness of her skin, thefocuseddistributionofhair.ThesensationofLorna’smouthonhergroin.

She’dneverhadaloveryoungerthanherself.Gaurihadbeenforty-five,herbodybeginningtobreakdowninsmallways:molarsthatneededtobecrowned,apermanentlyburstbloodvesselthatforkedlikescarletlightninginthecornerofhereye.Consciousofhergrowingimperfections,shehadbeenpreparingtoretreat,notrushheadlong,asshe’ddone.

ThoughLornawasn’t technicallyherstudent—at least,notat the institutionthat employed her—it was still a breach of conduct. It would have been ascandalifanyonedetectedwhatwasgoingon.Notjustthateveninginherofficebutvariousothertimes,sporadicallybutoftenenough, ineitherGauri’sbedorLorna’s,andintheroomofahoteltheydrovetooneweekend,onthecoast.

WhenthedissertationwascompleteGaurisatatthedefense,amongtheotherreadersonLorna’scommittee,posingquestions.Asiftheyhadnotspentthoseoccasions,thoseevenings,together.

ThenLornawasofferedajobinTorontoandmovedaway.Therehadneverbeenanydiscussionoftheirencountersevolvingintoanythingelse.Theliaisonended,withoutrancorbutdefinitively.YetGauriwashumiliated,fornottakingitaslightly.

SomehowsheandLornahadremainedonfriendlyterms,makingtimeforacoffeeiftheyhappenedtorunintooneanotherataconference.Gaurisawhowthe relationship had shifted: how she had reverted from lover to colleague,nothingmore.

Itwasnotunlikethewayherrolehadchangedatsomanyotherpointsinthepast.Fromwife towidow,fromsister-in-lawtowife, frommother tochildlesswoman.With the exceptionof losingUdayan, shehadactivelychosen to takethesesteps.

She had married Subhash, she had abandoned Bela. She had generatedalternative versions of herself, she had insisted at brutal cost on these

conversions.Layeringherlifeonlytostripitbare,onlytobealoneintheend.

NowevenLornawasoveradecadeago, longenough tobreakawayfromthestemofherexistence.Receding,fading,alongside theotherdisparateelementsofherpast.

Herlifehadbeenpareddowntoitssolitarycomponents,itsself-reliantcode.Heruniformofblackslacksandtunics, thebooksandthelaptopcomputersheneededtodoherjob.Thecarsheusedtogetfromoneplacetoanother.

Herhairwasstillcutshort,amonkishstylewithamiddlepart.Sheworeovalglasses on a chain aroundher neck.Therewas a bluish tinge now to the skinbelow her eyes. Her voice raspy from years of lecturing. Her skin drier afterabsorbingthisstronger,southernsun.

Herworkhabitswerenolongernocturnal;onherown,shefollowedancientpatterns and cues, in bed by ten, upright at dawn. She allowed herself fewfrivolities.A group of plants she cultivated in pots on her patio. Jasmine thatopenedupintheevenings,flame-coloredhibiscus,creamygardeniawithglossyleaves.

Onthepatio,withitswoodentrellisoverhead,terra-cottatilesunderfoot,shelikedtositafteralongdayinherstudy,todrinkacupofteaandsortthroughherbills,tofeeltheafternoonlightonherface.Tolookoverasheafofprintedpagesshewasworkingon,andsometimestoeatdinner.

Inhercar,whenshetiredofpublicradio,shelistenedtoabiographyorsomeother commercially published book she’dmeant but nevermade time to read.Buteventhesesheborrowedfromthelibrary.

Beyondtheseelementsshedidnottendtoindulgeherself.Herexistenceallthese years, after Udayan, without Bela or Subhash, remained indulgenceenough.Udayan’slifehadbeentakeninaninstant.Buthershadgoneon.

Herbody, inspiteof itsyears,wasasstubbornly intactas themuddygreenteapot, shapedvaguely likeanAladdin’s lamp,awedgeofcork in its lid, thatshe’dboughtforadollaratayardsaleinRhodeIsland.Itstillkepthercompanyduringherhoursofwriting.IthadsurvivedherflighttoCalifornia,wrappedupinacardigan,andservedherstill.

One day, pausing to look through one of the catalogues that cluttered hermailbox, she came across a picture of a small roundwooden tablemeant foroutdoors. Itwasn’t essential, and yet she picked up the phone and placed theorder,havingmeant for too long to replace thedirtyglass-toppedwicker table

thathadbeenonthepatioforyears,coveredbyaseriesofprintedcloths.Aweekorsoaftershe’dplacedtheorder,adeliverytruckstoppedinfrontof

her building. She expected a flat heavy box, a day spent poring over aninstructionmanual,withabagofnutsandboltsthatshewouldhavetotightenherself. Instead the tablewas delivered to her fully assembled, carried off thetruckandintoherhomebytwomen.

She told themwhere to put it, signed a sheet of paper to acknowledge itsarrival, tipped them, and sat down. She put her hands flat on the table andsmelledthestrongodorofthewood.Ofteak.

Sheputherfacetothetable’ssurface,inhalingdeeply,hercheekagainsttheslats.Itwasthesmellofthebedroomfurnitureshe’dleftbehindinTollygunge,the wardrobe and dressing table, the bed with slim posts on which she andUdayanhadcreatedBela.OrderedfromanAmericancatalogue,deliveredoffatruck,ithadcometoheragain.

Thearomaof the tablewasn’taspowerful, asconstant, as thatof theotherfurniturehadbeen.Butnowandthenitroseupasshesatonthepatio,enhancedperhaps by the sun’s warmth, or circulated by the Santa Ana winds. Aconcentratedpepperysmellthatreducedalldistance,alltime.

WhathadSubhashtoldBela,tokeepheraway?Nothing,probably.Itwasthejustpunishmentforhercrime.Sheunderstoodnowwhatitmeanttowalkawayfromherchild.Ithadbeenherownactofkilling.Aconnectionshehadsevered,resulting inadeath thatappliedonly to the twoof them.ItwasacrimeworsethananythingUdayanhadcommitted.

ShehadneverwrittentoBela.Neverdaredreachout, toreassureher.Whatreassurance was hers to give? What she’d done could never be undone. Hersilence,herabsence,seemeddecentincomparison.

As for Subhash, he had done nothing wrong. He had let her go, neverbothering her, never blaming her, at least to her face. She hoped he’d foundsomehappiness.Hedeservedit,notshe.

Though theirmarriagehadnotbeena solution, it had takenher away fromTollygunge. He had brought her to America and then, like an animal brieflyobserved,brieflycaged,releasedher.Hehadprotectedher,hehadattemptedtoloveher.Everytimeshehadtoopenanewjarofjam,sheresortedtothetrickhe’dtaughther,ofbangingtheedgeofthelidthreeorfourtimeswithaspoon,tobreaktheseal.

Chapter2

Inthenewmillenniumapathwascompleted,aneasementofarailspurthathadoncetakenpassengersfromKingstonstationtoNarragansettPier.

Thecoursewasmoderate,throughforestcover,skirtingariver,somesmallercreeks. Therewere benches here and there to rest on if onewas tired, and atlonger intervals a sign, indicating his position on the trail, perhaps alsoindicatinganativespeciesoftree.

On Sundaymornings, after breakfast, he drove to thewooden train stationwherehehadfirstarrivedasastudent,wherehewentonoccasiontogreetBelaontheplatform,whenshevisited.Manyyearsagotherehadbeenafire,butintimethestationwasrestoredandahigh-speedrailputin.Heparkedthecarandbeganwalking,alone,throughtheshelteredinnardsofthetown.Attimes,evennow,Subhashcouldnotfathomtheextremesofhislife:comingfromacitywithsolittlespaceforhumans,arrivinginaplacewheretherewasstillsomuchofittospare.

He kept moving for at least an hour, sometimes a little more, for it waspossible to travelsixmilesandback.Itwas the townhehadlivedinformorethan half his life, towhich he had been quietly faithful, and yet the newpathalteredhisrelationshiptoit,turningitforeignagain.Hewalkedpastthebacksofcertainneighborhoods,alongsidefieldswhereschoolchildrenplayedsports,overawoodenfootbridge.Pastabogfilledwithcattails,pastaformertextilemill.

Hepreferred shade thesedays to the coastline.He’dbeenbornandbred inCalcutta, and yet the sun inRhode Island, bearing down through the depletedozone, now felt stronger than the sun of his upbringing.Merciless against hisskin,strikinghim,especiallyinsummer,inawayhecouldnolongerendure.Histawny skin never burned, but the sensation of sunlight overwhelmed him.Hesometimestookitpersonally,theenduringblazeofthatdistantstar.

Hepassedaswampatthestartofhiswalks,wherebirdsandanimalscametonest,where redmaple and cedar grew frommossymounds. Itwas the largestforested wetland in southern New England. It had once been a glacialdepression,andwasstillborderedbyamoraine.

According to signs he stopped to read, it had also once been the site of abattle.Growingcurious,heturnedonhiscomputeronedayathome,andbegan

learning,ontheInternet,detailsofanatrocity.OnasmallislandinthemiddleoftheswampthelocalNarragansetttribehad

builtafort.Inacampofwigwams,behindapalisadeofsticks,theyhadhousedthemselves,believing their refugewas impregnable.But in thewinterof1675,when the marsh ground was frozen, and the trees were bare, the fort wasattackedby a colonialmilitia.Threehundredpeoplewere burned alive.Manywho’descapeddiedofdiseaseandstarvation.

Somewhere, he read, there was a marker and a granite shaft thatcommemorated thebattle.ButSubhashgot lost thedayhe setout through theswamp to find it. When he was younger he had loved nothing more than towander like this,withBela.He’d been compelled, back then, to follow crudedirections, unmarked trails through woods, isolated with her, discoveringblueberry bushes, secluded ponds in which to swim. But he had lost thatconfidence,thatintrepidsenseofdirection.Hefeltonlyawarenowthathewasalone,thathewasoversixtyyearsold,andthathedidnotknowwherehestood.

OneSunday,lostinhisthoughts,hewassurprisedtoseeahelmetedmanwithafamiliarfaceapproachingonhisbike,ontheothersideofthepath,coastingtoastop.

Jesus,Subhash.Didn’tIteachyoutoalwayskeepyoureyesontheroad?Sittingastrideathin-framedten-speedwasRichard,hisapartmentmatefrom

decadesago,shakinghishead,smilingathim.Whatthehellareyoustilldoinghere?

Ineverleft.I thoughtyou’dgonebacktoIndiaafteryoufinished.Ididn’teventhinkto

lookyouup.There was a bench nearby, and here they sat and talked. The hair under

Richard’shelmetwasnolongerdark,apatchofitgoneattheback,butwhathehadhestillworeinaponytail.He’dputonsomeweight,butSubhashrecalledthe handsome, wiry graduate student he’d first met, who’d reminded him insomewaysofUdayan.Atimebeforeeitherofthemhadmarried,whentheyhadlivedwith one another, and driven together to buy groceries, and shared theirmeals.

Richardwasmarried,agrandfather.AfterleavingRhodeIslandhe’dmissedit,alwaysintendingsomedaytoretirehere.Ayearagoheandhiswife,Claire,hadsoldtheirhouseinEastLansingandboughtacottageinSaunderstown,notfarfromSubhash.

He’d foundedacenter fornonviolent studiesatauniversity in theMidwest

andstillservedasamemberofitsboard,thoughhe’dmanagednevertowearatieaday inhis life.Hewas fullof sundryplans—anotherbookhewas in themiddleofwriting,akitchenhewastryingtoremodelhimself,apoliticalbloghemaintained.AtriptoSoutheastAsia,toPhnomPenhandHoChiMinhCity,hewasplanningwithClaire.

Canyoubelieveit?hesaid.Afterallthat,I’mfinallygoingtoVietnam.Sitting beside him, Subhash delivered the sparse details of his own life. A

wife fromwhomhewas estranged, a daughterwhohadgrownup andmovedaway.Ajobatthesamecoastalresearchlabhe’dbeenwithnearlythirtyyears.Some consulting work on oil spills from time to time, or for the town’sDepartmentofPublicWorks.Hewaswithoutafamily,justashe’dbeenwhenhe’dknownRichard.Buthewasaloneinadifferentway.

Stillworkingfull-time?Foraslongastheyletme.Stilldrivingmycar?NotsinceNixonresignedandthetransmissiondied.IalwaystellClaireaboutthatcurryyouusedtomake.Howyou’dputonions

intheblender.RichardhadtraveledtoIndia,toNewDelhiandtovisitGandhi’sbirthplace

inGujarat.He’dwantedtoincludeCalcutta,buthadn’tmadeitthere.MaybeonthewaybackfromVietnam,hesaid.

Thenextquestioncameinnocently.Thatbrotherofyours,theNaxalite.Whateverhappenedtohim?

•••

HeandRichardexchangedphonenumbersande-mails.Theymetupforawalkalongthepaths,or in townforabeer.Twice they’dgonefishing,casting theirrodsofftherocksatPointJudith,hookingsearobins,throwingbackwhattheycaught.

Subhashwouldpromise,whenevertheyparted,thatthenexttimethey’dmeetwouldbeatSubhash’shome,thatClairewouldcome,andthatSubhashwouldprepare a curry. He thought of planning it for one of Bela’s visits, so thatRichardcouldmeether.Butthishadn’tyethappened.Thefriendshipremainedaloosebuteasybondbetweenthem,justasithadalwaysbeen.

By now he was used to Richard’s mass e-mails, announcing lectures andrallies,quotingstatisticsaboutthecostoftheIraqWar,directinghimtoalinktoRichard’sblog.HewasusedtothenumberandRichard’slastname,Grifalconi,

salutinghimfromtimetotimeinthelittlewindowofhistelephone.HesawitoneweekendmorningashewatchedaprogramonCNN.Heturned

down the volume with the remote. He did not expect the voice to belong toRichard’swife,Claire, awomanhe had not yet spoken to ormet, telling himRichardhaddiedafewdaysago.Abloodclotinhisleghadtraveledtohislungsthe day after a bike ride Richard andClaire had taken together, out to RomePoint.

Subhash put down the phone. He shut off the television. His eyes weredistractedbyamovementhesawthroughthewindowofhislivingroom.Itwastherestlessnessofbirds,rearrangingthemselves.

Hewalked to thewindow to have a better look.At the topof a tree in hisyard, a group of them, small and loud and dark, were frantically coming andgoing.Taking,inwinter,whatnourishmentthetreestillhadtogive.Therewasadeterminedfurytotheirmovements.Anactofsurvivalthatnowoffendedhim.

ForthefirsttimeinhislifeSubhashenteredafuneralhome,kneeleddownandregardedabodylaidoutinacoffin,neatlydressed.HeobservedthelackoflifeinRichard’sface,thefacilebetrayalofit,asifanexperthadcarvedaneffigyoutofwax.Herememberedhislastglimpseofhismother,coveredbyashroud.

AftertheservicehedrovetothereceptionatRichard’shome,notsodifferentfromotherAmericanreceptionshe’dattendedinhislife.Therewasalongtablewith food laidout,plattersofcheeseandsalads.Peopledressed indarkcolorsweredrinkingglassesofwine,carvingslicesfromaham.

Claire stood at one end of the room, flanked by their children, theirgrandchildren, thanking people for coming, shaking their hands. Saying therehadbeennosignofdistressuntilRichardcomplainedthathefeltshortofbreath.Thenextmorning,he’dshakenClaireawake,pointingat thetelephone,unabletospeak.He’ddiedintheambulance,Clairefollowingintheircarbehind.

Theguestsstoodincircles,talking.Somephotographsweretakenbydistantrelatives forwhomthegatheringwasa reunionaswellasa funeral.For thosewhohadtraveledlongdistancesitwasanopportunitytoexploreRhodeIsland,todrivetoNewportthefollowingday.

EliseSilvawasaneighbor.ShecameuptotheslidingglasswindowwhereSubhashwasstanding,taking

in the view of the descending birch-filled property behind Richard’s house.Whenheturnedtolookather,sheintroducedherself.

IsawRichardandClaireafewweeksago,handinhandlikethey’djustmet,she said. She told him that therewas a small pond behind the trees.When it

froze over, Elise said,Richard andClairewould go skatingwith their elbowslinked.

She had olive skin, nearly as tan as his.Her hair had turnedwhite but herbrowswerestilldark.ThehairwaspulledbackasBelasometimesworehers,asingleclipfastenedatthebackofherheadsothatitwouldnotinterferewithherface. Shewore a black dresswith long sleeves, gray stockings, a silver chainaroundherneck.

Theyspokeofhowlongthey’dbothknownRichard.But therewasanotherconnectionEliseandSubhashshared.Itemergedwhenhetoldherhisname,andthensheaskedifbyanychancehewasrelatedtoastudentnamedBelaMitra,who had taken her American history class many years ago at the local highschool.

I’mherfather.Hestillfeltnervous,proclaimingitthatway.Helookedatthiswomanwhohadoncetaughther.EliseSilvawasoneofso

manythingshehadnotknownabouthisdaughter,aftershe’dreachedacertainage. He still remembered the names of some of her teachers in elementaryschool. But by high school it was just the report card, the list of grades hescanned.

Youdon’tknowme,andyetyou’veletmedriveyourdaughtertoHancockShakerVillage,shesaid.ShehadtakenBelawithasmallgroupofotherstudentsonafieldtripthere.

Myignoranceisshameful.Idon’tevenknowwhereHancockShakerVillageis.

Shelaughed.Thatisshameful.Whydoesonevisit?Sheexplained.Areligioussectbegunintheeighteenthcentury,dedicatedto

celibacy,tosimplelife.Autopianpopulationwhoseveryfaithhadcausedtheirnumberstodwindle.SheaskedwhereBelalivednow.

Nowhere.She’sanomad.Letmeguess,shecarriesherlifearoundinabackpack,doingthingstomake

theworldabetterplace?Howdidyouknow?Somekidsformearly.They’refocused.Belawasone.Hehadasipofwine.Shehadnochoice,hesaid.Eliselookedathim,nodding.Indicatingthatsheknewthecircumstances,that

Gaurihadleft.

Shetalkedtoyouaboutit?No.Butherteachersweretold.Doyoustillteach?Afterfifty-fiveIcouldn’tkeepupwiththem.IsupposeIneededachange.Sheworkedpart-time at the local historical societynow, she said.Shewas

transferringarchivesonline,editingtheirnewsletter.Hetoldherhe’dbeenreadingabouttheGreatSwampMassacre.Heaskedif

anyrecordsremained.Ohsure.Youcanevenfindmusketballsifyoupokearoundtheobelisk.Itriedtofinditonce.Igotlost.It’stricky.Youusedtohavetopayafarmerwhomaintainedtheroad.He felt tired from standing.He realized he had not eaten. I’mgoing to get

somefood.Wouldyouliketojoinme?Theyapproachedthebuffettable.Richard’swidowstoodatoneend.Shewas

crying,beingembracedbyoneofherguests.Iwent throughthis,yearsago,Elisesaid.Shehadwatchedherhusbanddie

from leukemia at forty-six. He’d left her with three children, two sons and adaughter.Theyoungesthadbeenfour.Afterherhusband’sdeathshe’dmovedwithherchildrenintoherparents’home.

I’msorry.Ihadmyfamily.Soundslike,withBela,youwereonyourown.HerdaughterhadmarriedaPortugueseengineerandlivedinLisbon.Itwas

where Elise’s ancestors were from, but she’d never visited Europe until herdaughter’swedding.HersonslivedinDenverandAustin.Forawhile,aftersheretired,she’dsplithertimeamongthoseplaces,helpingoutwithgrandchildren,goingtoLisbononceayear.ButshehadmovedbacktoRhodeIslandaboutadecadeago,afterherfatherdied,tobeclosertohermother.

Shementionedatourthefollowingweekend,ahouseinthevillagethat thehistoricalsocietyhadrestored.Shehandedhimapostcardthatwasinherpurse,withthedetails.

Heacceptedthecard,thankingher.Hefoldedittofitintohisjacketpocket.TellBelahellofromme,shesaid,leavinghimwithnoonetotalkto,turning

tosomeoneelseintheroom.

After the funeral, for several nights, sometimes as late as three o’clock in themorning,he layawake,unable to lose consciousness for any sustainedperiod.Thehousewassilent,theworldsurroundingitsilent,nocarsontheroadatthat

hour.Nothingbutthesoundofhisownbreathing,orthesoundhisthroatmadeifheswallowed.

Thehouse,alwaystohisregret,wastoofarfromthebaytohearthewaves.Butsometimesthewindwasstrongenoughtoapproximatetheroaroftheseaasit blew inland. A violent power, insubstantial, rooted in nothingness.Threatening, as he lay unmoving under his blanket, to tear the rooms of thehousefromthefoundation,tofellthetremblingtrees,todemolishthestructureofhislife.

Acolleague,noticinghisfatigueatwork,suggestedgettingmoreexercise,oraglassofwineintheeveningswithdinner.Acupofchamomiletea.Therewerepillshecouldtake,butheresistedthisoption.Alreadytherewasapilltolowerhis cholesterol, another to raise his potassium, a daily aspirin to promote thepassageofbloodtohisheartthroughhisveins.Hestoredtheminaplasticboxwithsevencompartments,labeledwiththedaysoftheweek,countingthemoutwithhismorningoatmeal.

Againitwasanxietythatkepthimup,thoughnotthesameanxietythatusedtorousehimfromsleepafterGaurifirstleftandhewasalonewithBelainthehouse,asleepinthenextroom.Awarethatshewassuffering,awarethathewastheonlypersonintheworldresponsibleforraisingher.

HerememberedBelaasaninfant,whenthedistinctionbetweennightanddaydidnotexistforher:awake,asleep,awake,asleep,shallowalternatingphasesofanhourortwo.He’dreadsomewherethatatthestartoflifetheseconceptswerereversed, that timewithin thewombwas the inverse of time outside of it.Heremembered learning, the first time he was at sea, about how whales anddolphinsswamclosetothesurfaceofthewater,howtheyemergedtodrawairintotheirlungs,eachbreathaconsciousact.

Hedrewbreaththroughhisnostrils,hopingthisessentialfunction,asfaithfulas the beating of his heart,might release him for a few hours.His eyeswereclosed,buthismindwasunblinking.

It was like this now since the news of Richard’s death: a disproportionateawareness of being alive. He yearned for the deep and continuous sleep thatrefusedtoaccommodatehim.Areleasefromthenightlytormentthattookplaceinhisbed.

Whenhewasyoungerwakefulnesswouldnothave troubledhim;hewouldhavetakenadvantageoftheextrahourstoreadanarticle,orstepoutsidetolookat the stars.At times evenhis body felt full of energy, andhewished itweredaylight,sothathecouldgetupandwalkalongthebikepath.Hewouldwalkasfarasthebenchwherehe’dbumpedintoRichardtwoyearsago,tositandthink.

Instead,inhisbed,hefoundhimselftravelingintothedeeperpast,siftingatrandomthroughthedetritusofhisboyhood.Herevisitedtheyearsbeforehelefthis family. His father returning from the market every morning, the fish hismotherwouldsliceandsaltandfryforbreakfast,silver-skinnedpiecesspillingoutofaburlapbag.

He saw his mother hunched over the black sewing machine she used tooperatewithherfeet,pumpingapedalupanddown,unabletotalkbecauseofthepinssheheldbetweenher lips.Shesatbefore it in theevenings,hemmingpetticoatsforhercustomers,stitchingcurtainsforthehouse.Udayanwouldoilthemachineforher,fixthemotorfromtimetotime.AbirdinhisyardinRhodeIsland,itscallarapidstoppingandstarting,mimickedthesoundofit.

Hesawhisfather teachinghimandUdayanhowtoplaychess,drawingthesquaresonasheetofpaper.Hesawhisbrotherhunchingover,cross-leggedonthefloor,extendinghisindexfingerashewasfinishingupameal,toconsumethefinalsaucethatcoatedhisplate.

Udayanwas everywhere.WalkingwithSubhash to school in themornings,walking home in the afternoons. Studying in the evenings on the bed they’dshared.Booksspreadbetween them,memorizingsomany things.Writing inanotebook,concentrating,hisfacejustinchesabovethepage.Lyingbesidehimatnight,listeningtothejackalshowlingintheTollyClub.Quick-footed,assured,controllingtheballinthefieldbehindthelowland.

Theseminorimpressionshadformedhim.Theyhadwashedawaylongago,only to reappear, reconstituted. They kept distracting him, like pieces oflandscape viewed from a train. The landscapewas familiar, but certain thingsalwaysjoltedhim,asifseenforthefirsttime.

Untilhe leftCalcutta,Subhash’s lifewashardlycapableof leavinga trace.Hecouldhaveputeverythingbelongingtohimintoasinglegrocerybag.Whenhewasgrowingupinhisparents’house,whathadbeenhis?Histoothbrush,thecigarettes he andUdayan used to smoke in secret, the cloth bag in which hecarriedhis textbooks.A fewarticles of clothing.Until hewent toAmericahehadnothadhisownroom.HehadbelongedtohisparentsandtoUdayan,andtheytohim.Thatwasall.

Here he had been quietly successful, educating himself, finding engagingwork,sendingBelatocollege.Ithadbeenenough,materiallyspeaking.

But he was still too weak to tell Bela what she deserved to know. Stillpretendingtobeherfather,stillhoardingwhathadnotbeenearned.Udayanhadbeenrightincallinghimself-serving.

The need to tell her hung over him, terrified him. It was the greatest

unfinishedbusinessofhislife.Shewasoldenough,strongenoughtohandleit,andyet,becauseshewasallheloved,hecouldnotmusterthestrength.

Hewasincreasinglyawarethesedaysofhowmuchheowned,oftheongoingefforthisliferequired.Thethousandsoftripstothegrocerystorehehadmade,alltheheapingbagsoffood,firstpaper,thenplastic,nowcanvassacksbroughtfrom home, unloaded from the trunk of the car and unpacked and stored incupboards,all tosustainasinglebody.Thepillsheswallowedeverymorning.Thecinnamonstickshepriedoutofatintoflavortheoilforapotofcurryordal.

Onedayhewoulddie, likeRichard, andhis thingswould remain forotherpeople to puzzle over or sort through, to throw away. Already his brain hadstoppedholdingontodirectionshewouldneverhavetofollowagain,thenamesofpeoplehewouldspeaktoonlyonce.Somuchofwhatoccupiedhismindwasnegligible.Therewasonlyonething,thestoryofUdayan,thathewantedtolaybare.

Herecognized thehouseatonce. Itwas theroominghousehe’donce lived inwithRichard,acrossfromthehandpumpandthevillagewell.Awhitewoodenhouse with black shutters. Because the addresses of the houses had changedsincethen,becausetherehadnotbeenapictureonthepostcardElisehadgivenhim,hehadnotknown.

Elise smiledwhen she sawhim, handing himhis ticket off a fat spool, hischange.Shelookeddifferenttoday,wearingalooseshiftofsage-coloredlinen,hersilverhairframingherface,apairofsunglassesonherhead.

Thankyouforcoming.Howhaveyoubeen?Iknowthishouse.Iusedtolivehere.WithRichard.Youdid?WhenIfirstgothere,yes.Youdidn’tknow?Herfacechanged, thesmilefading,but therewasa lookofconcernnowin

hereyes.Ihadnoidea.Shedidn’tsharewhathe’d toldherwith therestof thegrouponce the tour

began.The layout had changed, thenumberof rooms fewer than they’dbeen.The roomswere sparsely furnished, the doorways fittedwith iron latches, thefurniture made of dark wood. The tables had dropped leaves that partiallyconcealed their pedestals, like a modest woman’s skirt. The surface of thewritingdeskcouldbe tuckedawayand locked.The lintelof the fireplacewasmadeofoak.

He remembered nothing. And yet he had lived here, he had looked outthroughthesesmallwindowsashe’dstudied.Atimesolongago,whenhewasnewtoRhodeIsland,whenUdayanwasstillalive.HerehehadreadUdayan’sletters.HerehehadlookedataphotographofGauri,wonderingabouther,notrealizingthathewastomarryher.

Elise pointed to the different styles of chairs that were popular: slat-back,banister back, fiddleback. The street had been the town’s commercial district,she told the group. Next door there had been a hat shop, and after that abarbershop,wherethevillagemenwenttogetshaved.

Thishousehadfirstbeenatailor’sshopandresidence,thenalawyer’soffice,thenafamily’shomeforfourgenerations.Itwascutupintoaroominghouseinthe sixties. When the last landlord died, he’d bequeathed it to the historicalsociety,andslowlytheyhadraisedfundstorestoreit,collaboratingwithalocalartgallerysothattherewouldbeexhibitsintheroomsdownstairs.

He was struck by the effort to preserve such places. The corner cupboardencasedplattersandbowlspeoplehadeatenfrom,candlesticksfromwhichtheirlighthadburned.Thekitchenwallsdisplayed the ladlesandgriddles theyhadcookedwith.Thepinefloorswerethesamehuethey’dbeenwhenthosepeoplehadwalkedthroughtherooms.

Theeffectwasdisquieting.Hefelthispresenceonearthbeingdenied,evenashestoodthere.Hewasforbiddenaccess;thepastrefusedtoadmithim.Itonlyremindedhimthatthisarbitraryplace,wherehe’dlandedandmadehislife,wasnot his. Like Bela, it had accepted him, while at the same time keeping adistance.Amongitspeople,itstrees,itsparticulargeographyhehadstudiedandgrowntolove,hewasstillavisitor.Perhapstheworstformofvisitor:onewhohadrefusedtoleave.

Hethoughtofthetwohomesthatbelongedtohim.ThehouseinTollygunge,whichhehadnotreturnedtosincehismother’sdeath,andthehouseinRhodeIsland in which Gauri had left him, which he imagined would be his last. ArelativemanagedthehouseinTollygungeonhisbehalf,collectingtherentanddepositing it intoabankaccount there,drawingon the income tooverseeanyrepairs.

Hewouldnevergobacktolivethere,andyethecouldnotbringhimselftosell it; thatsmallplotof land,and theprosaichouse thatstoodon it, stillborefamily’sname,ashisparentshadhopeditwould.

A doctor and his family lived in it now, the bottom floor serving as hischamber.Perhapsignorantofitshistory,perhapshavingheardsomeversionofitfrom neighbors.No groupwould go out of itsway to admire it, two hundred

yearsfromnow.Attheendofthetourheaddedhisnameandphonenumber,hise-mail,toa

list for the historical society. He accepted another postcard from Elise,announcingaplantsalethefollowingmonth.

Aftertheirbriefexchangeshehadpaidhimnospecialinterestthatafternoon,always speaking to the group. She had not approached him, as he hoped shemight, when he had lingered alone in the upstairs hallway, in the part of thehousethathadfeltmostfamiliartohim.

He concluded it had been for the sake of the historical society that she’dinvitedhim,thatithadmeantnothingelse.Butafewdayslater,shecalled.

You’reallright?Whydoyouask?Youseemedshakentheotherday.Ididn’twanttointrude.She wanted to invite him to something else. Not a play or a concert,

something he might have turned down. She said she remembered himmentioning,atRichard’sfuneral,thathelikedwalkingalongthebikepath.Shebelongedtoahikingclubthatgottogetheronceamonth,toexploretucked-awaylandmarksandtrails.

We’remeetingattheGreatSwampnexttime,soIthoughtofyou,shesaid,beforeaskingifhewantedtocomealong.

Chapter3

Theginkgoleaves,yellowafewdaysago,glowapricotnow.Theyaretheonlysourceofbrightnessthismorning.Rainfromthenightbeforehascausedafreshbatchofleavestofallontothebluestoneslabsthatpavethesidewalk.Theslabsareuneven,forceduphereandtherebytherootsofthetrees.Thetreetopsaren’tvisiblethroughthewindowsofBela’sroom,twostepsgroundlevel.Onlywhensheemergesfromthestoop,pushingopenawrought-irongate,tostepoutintotheday.

Theblock is linedwith rowhouses facingoneanother.Mostly inhabited, afew boarded up. She’s been in the neighborhood a few months, because theopportunity arose. She’d been living upstate, east of Albany. Driving downeverySaturday tooneof the farmers’markets in thecity,unloading the truck,settinguptents.Someonementionedaroominahouse.

ItwasanopportunitytolivecheaplyinBrooklynforawhile.Therewasajobshe could walk to, clearing out a dilapidated playground, converting it intovegetable beds. She trains teenagers towork there after school, showing themhow to shovel out the crabgrass, how toplant sunflowers along the chain-linkfence.Sheteachesthemthedifferencebetweenarowcropandacovercrop.Sheoverseesseniorcitizenswhovolunteer.

She liveswith ten other people in a housemeant for one family. They arepeoplewritingnovelsandscreenplays,peopledesigningjewelry,peoplewhosecomputerstart-upshavefailed.Peoplewho’verecentlygraduatedfromcollege,and older people with pasts they don’t care to discuss. They all keep tothemselves, operating on different schedules, but they take turns feeding oneanother.Thereisonesetofbills,onekitchen,onetelevision,rotatingchores.Inthemorningstheysignupfortimeslotstousethebathrooms.Onceaweek,onSundays,thosewhocanmakeitsitdowntoacollectivemeal.

Peoplestilltalkabouttheshootingafewyearsago,inthemiddleoftheday,outside the drugstore on the corner. They talk about a fourteen-year-old boy,whose parents live across the street, who was killed. Most people get theirgroceries from bodegas or run-down supermarkets. But now there’s a coffeeshopwithanespressomachine,wedgedamongtheotherstorefronts.Therearefathersinsuits,walkingchildrentoschool.

One of the houses at the end of the block is shrouded with netting. Thepeeling facade is being scraped down to reveal a base layer of thickly ridgedgray.Climbingroses,acombinationoforangeandred,areinbloominthesmallplotbehindthegate.Thenameofthecontractor,accordingtothesignpostedoutfront, is Italian, but the workmen come from Bangladesh. They speak in thelanguageBela’sparentshadusedwithoneanother.Alanguageshe’dunderstoodbetterthanshe’dspokeninherchildhood.Alanguageshestoppedhearingafterhermotherleft.

Hermother’s absencewas like another language she’dhad to learn, its fullcomplexity and nuance emerging only after years of study, and even then,becauseitwasforeign,alanguageneverfullyabsorbed.

Shecan’tunderstandwhat thesemenare saying. Just somewordshereandthere. The accent is different. Still, she always slows down when she passesthem.She’snotnostalgicforherchildhood,butthisaspectofit,atoncefamiliarand foreign, gives her pause. Part of her wonders whether the dormantcomprehensioninherbrainwilleverbejostled.Ifonedayshemightrememberhowtosaysomething.

Somedayssheseestheworkmensittingonthestoopofthehouse, takingabreak,jokingwithoneanother,smokingcigarettes.Oneofthemisolder,withawispywhitebeardnearly tohis chest.Shewondershow long they’ve lived inAmerica,whetherand inwhatway theymightbe related.Shewonders if theylike it here. Whether they’ll return to Bangladesh, or stay permanently. Sheimaginesthemlivinginagrouphouse,asshedoes.Sheseesthemsittingdownto dinner together at the end of their long day, eating rice with their hands.PrayingatamosqueinQueens.

Whatdotheymakeofher?Ofherfadedgrayjeans,theunlacedbootsonherfeet?Longhairshe’lltiebacklater,mostofittuckedfornowinsideherhoodedsweatshirt. A face without makeup, a day-pack strapped across her chest.Ancestorsfromwhatwasonceasinglecountry,acommonland.

Apart from their vocabulary, their general coloring, none of these menresemble her father.But somehow they remind her of him.They cause her tothinkofhiminRhodeIsland,towonderhowhe’sdoing.

Noelremindsherinanotherwayofherfather.Helivesinthehouse,withhisgirlfriend,Ursula,andtheirdaughter,Violet,intworoomsonthetopfloorthatBela’s never seen. Noel spends his days with Violet; Ursula, a cook in arestaurant,aprettywomanwithapixiehaircut,istheonewhoworks.

BelaseesNoeltakingViolettokindergarteninthemorningsand,afewhourslater,bringingherhome.Sheseeshimtakinghertothepark,teachinghertoride

a bike. She sees him running behind his daughter as she struggles to gain herbalance,grabbingontoawoolenscarfhe’stiedaroundherchest.SheseeshimfixingViolet’sdinners,grillingasinglehamburgerforheronthehibachibehindthehouse.

Violetdoesn’tbegrudgeUrsulaallthetimeshe’saway.NordoesNoel.Theykisshergood-byeinthemornings,theyfallintoherarmswhenshecomeshome,sometimeswithdesserts from the restaurant.Because she’s the exception, andnot the rule, Violet forms a different relationship to Ursula. Less frequentcontact,butmoreintense.Sheadjustsherexpectations,justasBelaoncedid.

NoelandUrsulasometimesknockonBela’sdoorastheypreparetheirowndinner,lateratnight,afterViolethasgonetobed.Thereisalwaysplenty,sheisalwayswelcome,theysay.Breadandcheese,abigsaladUrsulatosseswithherfingers.Ursulaisalwaysalittlewiredwhenshegetshomefromhershiftsattherestaurant. She likes to roll a joint for the three of them, listen tomusic, tellstoriesaboutherday.

Belaenjoysspending timewith them,and tries tobegenerous inkind.ShelooksafterViolet,ifUrsulaandNoelwanttogoseeamovie.She’stakenUrsulaout to the communitygarden, sendingher backwithherbs and sunflowers forher restaurant.But she doesn’twant to come to dependon them.She says nowhenNoel andUrsula decide, onUrsula’s birthday, to have a picnic on FireIsland. She’s been in too many friendships with other couples like Noel andUrsula.Coupleswhogooutoftheirwaytoincludeher,toofferherthecompanyshelacks,onlytoremindherthatshe’sstillonherown.

She’s used to making friends wherever she goes, then moving on, neverseeing them again. She can’t imagine being part of a couple, or of any otherfamily.She’sneverhadaromanticrelationshipthat’senduredforanylengthoftime.

She feels no bitterness, seeing Noel and Violet and Ursula together. Theirclosenessfascinatesher,alsocomfortsher.Evenbeforehermotherleft, they’dneverreallybeenafamily.Hermotherhadneverwantedtobethere.Belaknowsthisnow.

Visitingher father last summer, she’d learned that hewas seeing someone.Notjustanyone,butsomeonesheknew.Mrs.Silvahadbeenherhistoryteacher.ButBelawasasked,thedaytheyallwentouttobreakfast,tocallherElise.

She’d been astonished to learn of their involvement; the most significantfigureofherupbringing,pairedwithaminorone.She’dbeensecretlyupsetbyit,atfirst.Butsheknewitwasunfairofher,giventhatshebarelysawherfather,giventhatshecontinuedtomeasureouthercontactwithhim,whether todeny

herselfortodenyhim,shecouldnotbesure.Shesawhe’dbeennervous,tellingher.Shesawthathewasafraidshewould

react badly, that maybe she would use this as further cause to keep away.Intuiting his hesitance, not wishing to intimidate him, she had reassured him,sayingshewashappyhe’d foundacompanion, thatofcourseshewishedhimwell.

Thetruthis,shehadalwayslikedEliseSilva.Belahadforgottenabouther,but she remembered looking forward to her class. Last summer, right away,she’d perceived the affection between Elise and her father. The way they’dstudiedthemenutogetheratbreakfast,herfatherlookingoverElise’sshoulderwhenhemighthavepickeduphisown.ThewayEliseencouragedhimtoforgotheoatmealand indulge inBelgianwaffles.Sheobserveda tranquility in theirfaces. She saw how, shyly, in contrast to her mother and father, they werealreadyunited.

She wonders if her father and Elise will eventually marry. But this wouldmeanhisdivorcinghermotherfirst.Belawillnevermarry,sheknowsthisaboutherself. The unhappiness between her parents: this has been the most basicawarenessofherlife.

Whenshewasyoungershe’dbeenangryatherfather,moreangrythanshe’dbeenathermother.She’dblamedhimfordrivinghermotheraway,andfornotfiguring out a way to bring her back. Perhaps a remnant of that anger is thereasonshedoesn’tbothertotellhimnowthatshe’slivingjustthreehoursawayinNewYorkCity.Butthishasbeenherpolicy:seeinghimonherownterms,nevermakingitclearwheresheis.

Atthispointshe’slivednearlyhalfherlifeapartfromhim.EighteenyearsinRhodeIsland,fifteenonherown.She’llbethirty-fouronhernextbirthday.Shecravesadifferentpacesometimes,analternativetowhatherlifehascometobe.Butshedoesn’tknowwhatelseshemightdo.

Shewishes itwere easier, the time she spendswith her father. ShewishesRhodeIsland,whichshe’dlovedasachild,wouldn’tremindherofhermother,who’d hated it.WhenBela’s there she’s aware that she is unwanted, that hermotherisnevercomingbackforher.InRhodeIslandshefeelswhateverissolidwithinherdraining.Andso,thoughshecontinuesvisiting,thoughshe’smoreorlessmadepeacewithherfather,thoughheisheronlyfamily,shecanneverbearitforverylong.

Yearsago,Dr.Granthadhelpedher toputwhat she felt intowords.She’dtoldBelathatthefeelingwouldebbbutneverfullygoaway.Itwouldformpartofherlandscape,wherevershewent.Shesaidthathermother’sabsencewould

alwaysbepresent inher thoughts.She toldBela that therewouldneverbe ananswerforwhyshe’dgone.

Dr. Grant was right, the feeling no longer swallows her. Bela lives on itsperiphery, she takes it in at a distance.Thewayhergrandmother, sittingon aterrace inTollygunge,used tospendherdaysoverlookinga lowland,apairofponds.

She approaches the workmen. Once again she absorbs their conversation,both foreign and familiar. They have no idea that their talk affects her. Shemovesdowntheblock,salutingthem,wonderingwhereshe’llgoafterBrooklyn.Theyseeherandwave.

Thenext timeshevisitsherfathershe’llspeak tohiminEnglish.Werehermotherevertostandbeforeher,evenifBelacouldchooseanylanguageonearthinwhichtospeak,shewouldhavenothingtosay.

But no, that’s not true. She remains in constant communication with her.EverythinginBela’s lifehasbeenareaction.IamwhoIam,shewouldsay,IliveasIdobecauseofyou.

Chapter4

Junebroughtcloudsthatconcealedthesun,stormsthatturnedtheseagray.Theatmosphere was raw enough for Subhash to keep wearing corduroy slippersinsteadofflip-flops;tocontinuetopreheattheelectricblanketonthebed.Therhythmoftherainwasnocturnal,drummingheavilyontherooftop,taperingtoadrizzle in the mornings, pausing but never clearing. It gathered strength andweakened,thenintensifiedagain.

At the side of the house he scraped scales of fungus off the shingles. Hisbasementsmelledofmildew,hiseyesstingingwhenheputinthelaundry.Thesoilofhisvegetablegardenwas toowet to till, the rootsof theseedlingshe’dplantedwashingaway.Therhododendronsshedtheirpurplepetalstoosoon,thepeoniesbarelyopeningbeforethestalksbentover,theblossomssmashedacrossthedrenchedground.Itwascarnal,thesmellofsomuchmoisture.Thesmelloftheearth’sdecay.

Atnighttherainwouldwakehim.Hehearditpeltingthewindows,washingthepitchofthedrivewayclean.Hewonderedifitwasasignofsomething.Ofanother junctureinhis life.HerememberedrainfallingthefirstnighthespentwithHolly,inhercottage.HeavyraintheeveningBelawasborn.

Hebeganexpectingittoleakthroughthebricksaroundthefireplace,todripthrough the ceiling, to seep in below the doors. He thought of the monsooncoming every year in Tollygunge. The two ponds flooding, the embankmentbetweenthemturninginvisible.

In July his garden started filling with weeds. The evenings were long, themorningskyturnedlightatfive.Belacalledtosayshewasarriving.Sometimesshe came by train, other times she flew into Boston or Providence.Once sheshowedupafterdrivingherselfhundredsofmilesinaborrowedcar.

Hevacuumedthecarpetinherbedroom,launderedthesheets,thoughnoonehadsleptonthemsinceBela’slastvisittoRhodeIsland.Hebroughtupanotherboxfanfromthebasementnowthatithadturnedwarmandsunny,abithumid,even,unscrewingtheplasticgrillesandwipingthebladesbeforesettingit intoherwindow.

Onhershelveswerecertainthingsthey’ddiscoveredtogether,inthecanopy

ofthewoods,oralongtheshore.Asmallbird’snestofwoventwigs.Theskullof a garter snake. The vertebra of a porpoise, shaped like a propeller. Herememberedtheexcitementoffindingthesethingswithher,howshe’dpreferredthemtotoysanddolls.Herememberedhowshe’dputpineconesandstonesintothehoodofhercoat,when itwaswinter,whenherpocketsgot too full,whenshewassmall.

She would stir up the staid atmosphere of his life. She would scatter herthings through the house, shed her clothes on the floor; her long hairs wouldslowtheshowerdrain.Thefoodsshelikedtoeat,thatshewouldgotothehealthfoodstoretobuy,wouldstandoutforawhileonthekitchencounter:amaranthflakes, chunks of carob, herbal teas. Buttermade from almonds,milk derivedfromrice.Thenshewouldgoaway.

HesetoutforBostontogreether.HerememberedthedrivetomeetGauriattheairport,in1972,believinghewouldspendhislifewithher.HerememberedcomingbackfromthesameairportwithBela,twelveyearslater,todiscoverthatGauriwasgone.

She arrived with a duffel bag, a backpack. Her plane had landed fromMinnesota. She stood out from the others in their suits and wind-breakers,checking messages on their cell phones, tensely rolling their luggage behindthem. She was brown, sturdy, unadorned. She stood undistracted. Sheapproachedhim,herskinradiant,embracinghimwithherstrongarms.

Howareyou,Bela?I’mgood.I’mwell.Areyouhungry?Wouldyouliketogoouttoeatsomewhere,inBoston?Iwanttogohome.Let’sgotothebeachtomorrow.Howhaveyoubeen?Hetoldherthathishealthwasfine,thathewasbusywithhisresearch,with

anarticlehewascontributingto.Hesaidthatthetomatoesinhisgardenweren’tthriving;therewereblackspotsontheleaves.

Don’tbotherwiththem.Toomuchrainthisspring.HowisElise?He told her Elisewas fine.But such small talk felt imbalanced, given that

Belahadneverbroughtaboyfriendhome.She’dnever soughthis permission,when shewas a teenager and still lived

withhim, to date.Shehadgivenhimno trouble in that regard.The lackof ittroubledhimnow.

Even todaypart ofhimhadhoped that shewould surprisehim, andappearwith a companion at the airport. Someone to care for her, to share theunconventionallifesheled.Iwon’tbehereforever,he’doncegoneasfarastosay, conveying the news of Richard’s death by phone. But Bela had only

reproachedhimforbeingmelodramatic.He had learned to set aside the responsibility he’d once believedwould be

his: to do his part to secure a daughter’s future by pairing it with anotherperson’s.Ifhe’draisedherinCalcuttaitwouldhavebeenreasonableforhimtobringupthesubjectofhermarriage.Here itwasconsideredmeddlesome,out-of-bounds. He had raised her in a place free from such stigmas. When he’dvoicedhisconcernsoneevening toElise, shehadadvisedhim to saynothing,reminding him that so many people these days waited until their thirties tomarry,eventheirforties.

Thenagain,howcouldheexpectBelatobeinterestedinmarriage,giventheexample he andGauri had given?Theywere a family of solitaries. They hadcollided anddispersed.Thiswasher legacy. If nothing else, shehad inheritedthatimpulsefromthem.

ShemissedNewEngland.Shealwayssaidsoashedroveherbacktothehouse.Theexpressiononherfaceasshelookedthroughthewindowofthecarwasoneofunfiltered recognition.Sheaskedhim topulloverwhenshesawoneof thetrucks that appeared here and there in summer, that sold cups of frozenlemonade.

At the house she opened up her bags, unwrapping fragrant plums andnectarinesfromsheetsoftissue,arrangingtheminbowls.

Howlongwillyoustay?heaskedoverdinner,over the lambandricehe’dmade.Twoweeksthistime?

Shehadeatentwohelpings.Sheputherforkdown.Itdepends.Onwhat?Issomethingthematter?She looked into his eyes. He saw nervousness in hers, combined with

eagerness,andacertainresolve.Herememberedhowshewouldpressherpalmstogetherwhen shewas a little girl, bobbing up and down inwaist-deepwaterwhenshewas learning toswim.Pausing,deliberating,preparingfor theeffort,fortheleapoffaithitrequired.

There’ssomethingIneedtotellyou,Baba.Somenews.His heart skipped a beat, then started racing. He understood it now. The

reasonforthesmilethathadbeenonherfacewhenhesawherattheairport,thecontentmentthathe’dsensedallevening,hummingwithinher.

Butno,shehadnotmetanyone.Therewasnospecial friendshewanted tointroducehimto,toinvitetothehouse.

Shetookadeepbreath,exhaled.I’mpregnant,shesaid.

Shewasmorethanfourmonthsalong.Thefatherwasnotapartofherlife,notawareofher condition.Hewas simply someoneBelahadknown,withwhomshehadbeeninvolved,perhapsforayear,perhapsmerelyforanevening.Shedidnotsay.

Shewantedtokeepthechild.Shewantedtobecomeamother.Shetoldhimthatshe’dthoughtaboutitcarefully,thatshewasready.

She said itwasbetter that the fatherdidnotknow. Itwas less complicatedthatway.

Why?Because he’s not the kind of father Iwant formy child. She added after a

moment,He’snothinglikeyou.Isee.But he did not see.Whowas thismanwho had turned his daughter into a

mother?Whowasunaware,undeserving,ofpaternity?Hebegangently.It’snotsoeasy,Bela,bringingupachildalone.Youdidit.Lotsofpeopledo.Ideally,achildhasbothparentsinitslife,hecontinued.Afatheraswellasa

mother.Doesitbotheryou?What?ThatI’mnotmarried?Youhavenofixedincome,Bela.Nostablehome.Ihavethisone.Andyouarewelcomehere,always.Butyoustaywithmetwoweeksofthe

year.Therestofthetimeyouareelsewhere.Unless.Unless?Shewantedtocomehomeagain.Shewantedtostaywithhim,togivebirthin

Rhode Island.Shewanted toprovide the samehome forher child thathehadprovidedforher.Shewantednottohavetoworkforawhile.

Wouldthatbeallrightwithyou?The coincidence coursed through him, numbing, bewildering. A pregnant

woman, a fatherless child. Arriving in Rhode Island, needing him. It was areenactment of Bela’s origins. A version of what had brought Gauri to him,

yearsago.

Afterdinner,afterclearingthetableandwashingthedishes,Belatoldhimshewantedtotakeadrive.

Where?IwanttowatchthesunsetfromPointJudith.Youdon’tneedtorest?I’mfullofenergy.Willyoucomewithme?Buthesaidhewastiredfromthetrip toBostonandback, thathepreferred

nottogooutagain.I’llgo,then.Onyourown?Hecouldnothelpit,thethoughtofherdrivingthecar,somethingshe’ddone

capably since shewas sixteen,worriedhimnow.Hehadan irrational impulsenottoletheroutofhissight.

Sheshookherheadashehandedherthekeys.I’llbecareful.I’llbebackinalittlewhile.

Andthoughtheyhadnotseeneachotherinayear,thoughshe’daskedhimtoaccompany her, he felt, as shemust have felt, the need to be alone, to thinkprivatelyaboutwhatshe’dsaid.

Heturnedthelightsonoutside.Butinsidewherehesat,aftersheleft,hedidnotbother.Hewatchedtheskyturnpalebeforedeepening,thesilhouettesofthetrees turning black, the contrast acute. They looked two-dimensional, lackingtexture.Afterafewmoreminutestheiroutlineswereindistinguishablefromthenightsky.

Gaurihadwalkedoutonher.Butheknewthathisownfailingwasworse.AtleastGauri’s actionshadbeenhonest, definitive.Not craven,notongoing,notstealthilyleechinghertrust,likehis.

Andyetthischild,theirchild,wasnowdeterminedtobeamother.Alreadyheknewshewouldbeadifferentmother thanGauri.He sensed thepride, theease,withwhichshecarriedthechild.

Herrefusal torevealwhothefatherwas,her insistenceuponraisingachildwithoutone;he couldnot set this concernaside.But itwasn’t theprospectofBelabeingasinglemotherthatupsethim.Itwasbecausehewasthemodelshewasfollowing;thathewasaninspirationtoher.

Aconversationbetweenthemrosetohismemory,fromlongago.Whyaren’ttheretwoofyou?she’dasked,sittingacrossfromhim.

Thequestionhadstartledhim.Atfirsthehadnotunderstood.Ihavetwoeyes,she’dpersisted.WhydoIseeonlyoneofyou?Aninnocentquestion,anintelligentone.She’dbeensixorseven.He’dtold

her that in fact each eye did take in a different image, at a slightly differentangle.He’dcoveredoneofhereyes,thentheother,soshecouldseeforherself.Sothathe’dappearedtodouble,shiftingbackandforth.

He’dtoldherthebrainfusedtheseparateimagestogether.Matchingupwhatwasthesame,addinginwhatwasdifferent.Makingthebestofboth.

SoIseewithmybrain,notmyeyes?She would have to see with her mind now. Somehow, she would have to

processwhathewouldsay.Hewasstillsittinginthedarkwhen,aboutanhourlater,heheardthecar’s

approach.Thesharpcroakoftheemergencybrake,thesoftthudofthedoor.Hewalked to theentry,opening the frontdoorbeforeshe rang thebell.He

sawherontheothersideofthescreenthatwascoveredwithmoths.Foryearshehadworried about howmuch the informationwould upset her, but therewasnowadoubledworry,for thechildshewascarrying.Shehadreturnedtohim,seeking stability. Now was the worst time. And yet he was unable to waitanothermoment.

Thepresenceofanothergenerationwithinherwasforcinganewbeginning,alsodemandinganend.HehadreplacedUdayanandturnedintoherfather.Buthecouldnotbecomeagrandfatherinthesamesurreptitiousway.

HewasafraidBelawouldhatehimnow,justasshehatedGauri.Becauseshehad not married, he had not given her away, symbolically or otherwise, toanotherman.Butthiswaswhathefelthewasabouttodo.HepreparedhimselftogiveherbacktoUdayan.Topushherawayattheverymomentshewantedtocomebacktohim.Torisklettinghergo.

Whatareyoudoing,Baba?shesaid,causing the insects toscatter,steppingintothehouse.It’sgettinglate.Whyareallthelightsoff?Whyareyoustandingherelikethis?

In thedarkenedhallway, she couldnot see the tears already forming inhiseyes.

Allnighttheystayedup.Untilitgrewlightagain,heattemptedtoexplain.I’mnotyourfather.Whoareyou,then?Yourstepfather.Youruncle.Boththosethings.

Sherefusedtobelievehim.Shethoughtsomethinghadhappenedtohim,thathe’d losthismind, thatperhapshe’dsufferedastroke.Shekneeled infrontofhimonthesofa,grippinghimbytheshoulders,inchesfromhisface.

Stopsayingthat,shesaid.Hesat,passive,inherclutches,andyethefeltasifhewerestrikingher.Hewasawareofthebruteforceofthetruth,worsethananyphysicalblow.Atthesametimehehadneverfeltmorepathetic,morefrail.

She shouted at him, asking why he’d never told her, pushing him angrilyagainst the sofa.Thenshestarted tocry.Shebehaved justashe felt—as ifhehadsuddenlydiedinfrontofher.

Shestartedshakinghim,willinghimtocomebacktolife,asifhewerejustashellnow,asifthepersonshe’dknownweregone.

As thenightworeonand the information settledoverher, sheaskeda fewquestionsaboutthecircumstancesofUdayan’sdeath.Sheaskedabitaboutthemovement,ofwhichshewasignorant,andwasnowcurious;thiswasall.

Washeguiltyofanything?Certainthings.Yourmothernevertoldmethefullstory.Well,whatdidshetellyou?He told her the truth, that Udayan had plotted violent acts, that he had

assembled explosives. But he added that after all these years it remaineduncertain,theextentofwhathehaddone.

Didheknowaboutme?DidheknowIwasgoingtobeborn?No.Shesatacrossfromhim,listening.Somewhereinthehouse,hetoldher,there

wereafewlettershe’dsaved,thatUdayanhadsenttohim.LettersthatreferredtoGauriashiswife.

He offered to read them to Bela, but she shook her head. Her face wasimplacable.Nowthathe’dcomebacktolife,hewasastrangertoher.

He was unaware of the conversation reaching any conclusion, only of hisgrowing exhausted. He covered one of his eyeswith his hand because of thestrain, the impossibilityofkeeping itopen.All the sleeplessnights, ever sinceRichard’s death, were crushing him, and he excused himself, unable to stayawake,goinguptohisbed.

Whenhewoke in themorningshewasalreadygone.Partofhimknewshewouldbe, that theonlyway tokeepher in thehouse afterwhat he’d toldherwouldbetotiehertoit.Still,herushedintoherbedroomandsawthatthoughthebedhadbeensleptin,andremade,thebagsshe’dbroughtwithherwerenotthere.

Downstairs on the kitchen counter, among the bowls filled with fruit, thephonebookwasstillopen, turnedto thepagethat listed the taxicompanythatservedthetown.

•••

Thefactsofherpaternityhadchanged.Twoinsteadofone.Justasshewasnowinpregnancy,fusedwithabeingshecouldnotseeorknow.

This unknown person maturing inside her was the only being with whomBelafeltanyconnectionasshetraveledawayfromRhodeIslandtocalmherself,to take in what she’d been told. It was the only part of her that felt faithful,familiar.AsshestaredoutthewindowofaPeterPanbusatthesceneryofherchildhood,sherecognizednothing.

She’dbeenliedtoallherlife.Butthelierefusedtoaccommodatethetruth.Herfatherremainedherfather,evenashe’dtoldherhewasn’t.Ashe’dtoldherthatUdayanwas.

Shecouldnotblameher father fornot tellingheruntilnow.Herownchildmightblameher,someday,forasimilarreason.

Here was an explanation for why her mother had gone. Why, when Belalookedback,sherememberedspendingtimewitheitheroneparentortheother,butsoseldomwithbothatthesametime.

Herewasthesourceofthecompunctionthathadalwaysbeeninher,ofbeingunabletobringpleasuretohermother.Offeelinguniqueamongchildren,beingachildwhowasincapableofthis.

Around Bela her mother had never pretended. She had transmitted anunhappinessthatwassteady,anambientsignalthatwasfixed.Itwastransmittedwithoutwords.And yetBelawas aware of it, as one is aware of amountain.Immovable,insurmountable.

Now therewas a third parent, pointed out to her like a new star her fatherwould teachher to identify in thenightsky.Something thathadbeen thereallalong,contributingauniquepointoflight.Thatwasdeadbutnewlyalivetoher.Thathadbothmadeherandmadenodifference.

SherememberedvaguelytheportraitinTollygunge,onthewallaboveastackof receipts. A smiling face, a dirty frame of pale wood. A young man hergrandmotherreferredtoasherfather,untilherfathertoldheritwasaportraitofUdayan.Shenolongerrememberedthefaceindetail.Afterbeingtolditwasnotherfather,she’dstoppedpayingattentiontoit.

Sheunderstoodnowwhyhermotherhadnotreturnedwiththemthatsummer

toCalcutta.Whyshe’dnevergonebackatanyothertime,andwhyshe’dnevertalkedaboutherlifethere,whenBelahadasked.

When hermother had left Rhode Island, she’d taken her unhappinesswithher,nolongersharingit,leavingBelawithalackofaccesstothatsignalinstead.Whathadseemedimpossiblehadtakenplace.Themountainwasgone.

Initsplacewasaheavystone,likecertainstonesembeddeddeepinthesandwhenshedugonthebeach.Toolargetounearth,itssurfacepartlyvisible,butitscontoursunknown.

Shetaughtherselftoignoreit,towalkaway.Andyettheholeremainedherhollowpointoforigin,thecoldcrosshairsofherexistence.

Shereturnedtoitnow.Atlastthesandgaveway,andshewasabletopryoutwhat was buried, to raise it from its enclosure. For a moment she felt itsdimensions, its heft in her hands. She felt the strain it sent through her body,beforehurlingitonceandforallintothesea.

For a fewdaysSubhash heard nothing.He tried her cell phone, not surprisedwhen shedidn’t answer.Hehadno ideawhere she’dgone.Therewasnoonewhomhemighthaveasked.HewonderedifshehadgonetoCalifornia,totrackGauridown,tohearhersideofit.Hebegantoconvincehimselfthatthismusthavebeenwhatshe’ddone.

The next time he spoke to Elise he said that Bela’s plans for visiting hadchanged. Many times he’d wanted to explain to Elise that he was not reallyBela’sfather—thatthiswaspartofthereasonGaurihadleft.He’dfeltthatshewouldhaveunderstood.ButoutofloyaltytoBelahe’dsaidnothing.ItwasBelawhodeservedtoknowfirst.

He slept and slept, waking only briefly, never refreshed.When he was nolongerabletorestheremainedinbed.Herememberedtheisolationofbeingatsea, the silence when the captain would cut the engine. Though he hadunburdenedhimself,hisheadfeltheavy,therewasadiscomfortthatwouldnotgoaway.Forafewdayshecalledinsicktothelab.

Hewondered if he should retire. If he should sell the house andmove faraway.HewantedtocallGauri,tolashoutather,totellhershehaddefeatedhimutterly.Thathehadsurrenderedthetruth,thatfromnowonBelawouldalwaysseehim forwhathewas.But reallyheonlywantedBela somehow to forgivehim.

Atnight,inspiteofthesultrydays,thewindgusted,thecoolairchillinghimthrough the openwindows, the season threatening to slip away though it hadonlyjustarrived.

Attheendoftheweek,thephonerang.Hisstomachfeltvacant,hehadeatenalmost nothing. Only tea now and again, and the softening fruit Bela hadbrought.Thestubblewasstiffagainsthisface.Hewasinbed,thinkingitmightbeElise,checkinginonhim.

Hethoughtoflettingitring,butpickedupatthelastminute,wantingtohearhervoice,needingnowtotellherwhathadhappened,toseekheradvice.

ButitwasBela.Whyaren’tyouatwork?sheaskedhim.Quicklyhesatup.Itwasasifshe’dsteppedintotheroomandfoundhimthat

way,disheveled,desperate.Iam—Idecidedtotakethedayoff.Isawpilotwhales.TheyweresoclosetotheshoreIcouldhaveswumoutto

touchthem.Isthatnormalatthistimeofyear?Hecouldnotthinkstraightenoughtofullygraspwhatshewassaying,never

mind respond. As relieved as hewas to hear from her, he was afraid that hewouldsaythewrongthing,andthatshewouldhangup.

Whereareyou?Wheredidyougo?She’d takena taxi toProvidence, abus toCapeCod.Sheknewa friend in

Truro to stay with, a friend from high school, married now, who’d spentsummers there,who’dmoved therepermanently someyears ago.Thebeacheswerebeautiful,shesaid.Shehadn’tbeenupthatwaysinceshewasateenager.

Herememberedtakingher to theCapewhenshewaslittle.Latespring, thefirst year that Gauri was gone. When they’d walked together along the bay,she’drunaheadofhim,excitedtolookatsomething.

Hecaughtup toher and saw that itwasabeacheddolphin, its eye socketshollow, still seeming to grin. He’d taken out his camera to photograph it.Loweringthecamerafromhisface,herealizedBelawascrying.Silentlyatfirst,thenaudiblywhenheputhisarmsaroundher.

Howlongwillyoubethere?heaskedhernow.I’m getting a ride back to Hyannis. There’s a bus from there that gets in

tonightateight.Getsinwhere?Providence.Foramomenthewassilent,asshewas.Shewascallingfromhercellphone;

hecouldn’ttellifshewasstillthere,orifthelinehadgonedead.Baba?Hehadheardher.He’dheardherstillcallinghimthis.Canyoupickmeup,

heheardhersay,orshouldIgetacab?

InthedaysthatfollowedshethankedhimfortellingheraboutUdayan—itwasbynamethatshereferredtohim—sayingthatithelpedtoexplaincertainthings.She’dheardwhatwasnecessary;shedidn’tneedhimtotellheranythingmore.

Inaway,shesaid,ithelpedhertofeelclosertothechildshewashaving.Itwasadetail,anelementoflifethat,fordifferentreasons,theywouldshare.

In autumn her daughter was born. After she became a mother she toldSubhashitmadeherlovehimmore,knowingwhathe’ddone.

PartVII

Chapter1

OnherpatioinCalifornia,Gaurihashertoastandfruitandtea.Sheturnsonherlaptop,raisesherspectaclestoherface.Shereadstheday’sheadlines.Buttheymight be from any day. A click can take her from breaking news to articlesarchivedyearsago.Ateverymomentthepastisthere,appendedtothepresent.It’saversionofBela’sdefinition,inchildhood,ofyesterday.

Once in a while Gauri notices a piece in American papers mentioningNaxaliteactivityinvariouspartsofIndia,orinNepal.ShortpiecesaboutMaoistinsurgents blowingup trucks and trains.Setting fire to police camps.FightingcorporationsinIndia.Plottingtooverthrowthegovernmentalloveragain.

She skims these articles only sometimes, not wanting to know too much.Some of them refer back to Naxalbari, providing context for those who havenever heard of it. They offer links to time lines of the movement, whichsummarize the events of those half-dozen years as a doomed critique ofpostcolonial Bengal. And yet the failure remains an example, the embersmanagingtoigniteanothergeneration.

Who were they? Was this new movement sweeping up young men likeUdayan and his friends? Would it be as rudderless, as harrowing? WouldCalcuttaeverexperiencethatterroragain?Somethingtellsherno.

Toomuchiswithinhergraspnow.Firstatthecomputersshewouldlogontoat the library, replaced by the wireless connection she has at home. Glowingscreens, increasingly foldable, portable, companionable, anticipating anypossiblequestionthehumanbrainmightgenerate.Containingmoreinformationthananyonehasneedfor.

Somuchof it, she observes, is designed to eliminatemystery, tominimizesurprise.Therearemapstoindicatewhereoneisgoing,imagesofhotelroomsonemight stay in. The delayed status of a plane one need not rush to board.Linkstopeople,famousoranonymous—peopleonemightreunitewith,orfallin love with, or hire for a job. A revolutionary concept, already taken forgranted. Citizens of the Internet dwell free from hierarchy. There is room foreveryone, given that there are no spatial constraints. Udayan might haveappreciatedthis.

Someofher studentsno longergo to the library.Theydon’t turn toadog-

eareddictionarytolookupaword.Inawaytheydon’thavetoattendherclass.Her laptopcontainsa lifetimeof learning,alongwithwhatshewillnot live tolearn. Summaries of philosophical arguments in online encyclopedias,explanationsofmodesof thinking that tookheryears tocomprehend.Links tochaptersinbooksshe’doncehadtohuntdownandphotocopy,orrequestfromotherlibraries.Lengthyarticles,reviews,assertions,refutations,it’sallthere.

SheremembersstandingonabalconyinNorthCalcutta, talkingtoUdayan.ThelibraryatPresidencywherehewouldcometofindhersometimes,sittingatatablebarricadedwithbooks,agiantfanrustlingthepapers.He’dstandbehindher,sayingnothing,waitingforhertoturnaround,tosensethathewasthere.

SheremembersreadingsmuggledbooksinCalcutta,theparticularstalltotheleftoftheSanskritCollegethatcarriedwhatUdayanliked,thatwentoutofitsway for him. Ordering foreign volumes from publishers. She remembers theincremental path of her education, hours sifting through card catalogues, atPresidency,theninRhodeIsland,evenearlyoninCalifornia.Writingdowncallnumberswithshortpencils,searchingupanddownaisles thatwouldturndarkwhenthe timerson the lightsexpired.Sherecalls,visually,certainpassages inthe books she’d read. Which side of the book, where on the page. Sheremembers the strap of the tote bag, digging into her shoulder as shewalkedhome.

She cannot avoid it; she is amemberof thevirtualworld, an aspect of hervisibleonthenewseathathascometodominatetheearth’ssurface.Thereisaprofileofheronthecollegewebsite,arelativelyrecentphotograph.Alistofthecoursessheteaches,atrailmarkingheraccomplishments.Degrees,publications,conferences,fellowships.Here-mail,andhermailingaddressatthedepartment,shouldanyonewanttosendhersomethingorgetintouch.

A little more digging would yield footage with a small group of otheracademics,historiansandsociologists,participatinginarecentpaneldiscussionatBerkeley.There she iswalking into the room, takingher place at the table,behind a placard bearing her name. Patiently listening, reviewing her indexcards,aseachmemberofthepanelclearshisthroat,leansforward,andslowlycomestohispoint.

Too much information, and yet, in her case, not enough. In a world ofdiminishingmystery,theunknownpersists.

She’s found Subhash, still working at the same lab in Rhode Island. ShediscoversPDFfilesofarticleshecoauthors,hisnamementionedinconnectiontoanoceanographysymposiumheattends.

Only once, unable to help herself, she’d searched for Udayan. But as she

mighthavepredicted, inspiteofall the informationandopinion, therewasnotraceof his participation, nomentionof the thingshe’ddone.Therehadbeenhundreds like him in Calcutta at that time, foot soldiers who’d beenanonymouslydedicated, anonymously executed.His contributionhadnotbeennoted,hispunishmentwasstandardforthetime.

Like Udayan, Bela is nowhere. Her name in the search engine leads tonothing.Nouniversity,nocompany,nosocialmediasiteyieldsanyinformation.Gaurifindsnoimage,notraceofher.

It doesn’t mean anything, necessarily. Only that Bela doesn’t exist in thedimensionwhereGaurimightlearnsomethingabouther.OnlythatsherefusesGaurithataccess.Gauriwondersiftherefusalisintentional.IfitisaconsciouschoiceonBela’spart,toensurethatnocontactismade.

Onlyherbrother,Manash,hassoughtherout,reconnectingtoherviae-mail.Askingafterher,askingifshewouldeverreturntoCalcuttatovisithim.She’stold him she’s separated from Subhash. But she’s invented a vague andpredictabledestinyforBela,sayingshe’dgrownup,thatshe’dgottenmarried.

EverysooftenGauricontinuestosearchforher,continuestofail.Sheknowsthatit’suptoher,thatBelawon’tcometoherotherwise.Andshedoesn’tdareaskSubhash.Theeffortflopslikeajust-caughtfishinsideher.Abriefburstofpossibility as the name is typed onto the screen, as she clicks to activate thesearch.Hopethrashingintheprocessofturningcold.

•••

Dipankar Biswas was a name new to her in-box, but stored in memory. ABengali student of hers frommany years ago.Hewas born the same year asBela, raised in a suburb of Houston. She’d felt generous toward him. They’dexchangedafewwordsinBengali.She’dregardedhim,fortheyearshewasherstudent,asagaugeforhowBelamightbe.

He’dspentsummersinCalcutta,stayingathisgrandparents’houseonJamirLane.Shethoughthe’dgoneofftolawschool,butno,he’dchangedhismind,explaining inhis e-mail that hewas a visitingprofessor of political science atoneof theothercollegesintheconsortium,specializinginSouthAsia.Tellinghershe’dbeenaninfluence.

Hewaswriting to say hello, to say hewas nearby.Hewas coming to hercollege the followingweek, toattendapanel.HeaskedGauri ifhecould takehertolunch.Hewasputtingtogetherabook,hopingshemightcontributetoit.Wouldshebeopentodiscussingthepossibility?

Sheconsideredsayingno.Instead,curioustoseehimagain,shesuggestedaquietrestaurantsheknewwell,whereshecamefromtimetotimeonherown.

Dipankar was already at the table. No longer in the shorts and sandals hewouldwear to her class, no string of shells around his neck.A striped cottonshirtnow,loafers,beltedtrouserscoveringhislegs.He’dgonetoNebraskaforgraduateschool,Buffaloforhisfirstjob.HewasgladtobeinCaliforniaagain.HetookouthisiPhone,showingherpicturesofhistwins,aboyandgirl,inthearmsofhisAmericanwife.

Shecongratulatedhim.ShewonderedifBelareallywasmarriedbynow.Ifshe’dalsohadachild.

They ordered their food. She had an hour, she told Dipankar, before sheneededtogetbacktocampus.Tellme,what’sthisbookabout?

YouwereatPresidencyinthelatesixties,right?He’dgottenacontractfromanacademicpress,towriteahistoryofstudents

at the collegewhen theNaxalitemovementwas at itsheight.The ideawas tocompareittotheSDSinAmerica.Hewashopingtowriteitasanoralhistory.Hewantedtointerviewher.

Hereyelidtwitched.Itwasanervousticshe’ddevelopedatsomepoint.Shewonderedifitwasnoticeable.ShewonderedifDipankarcoulddetectthenervefiring.

Iwasn’tinvolved,shesaid.Hermouthfeltdry.Sheliftedherglasstoherlips.Shedranksomewater.Shefelttinycubesof

ice,slippingdownherthroatbeforeshecouldcatchthem.It doesn’tmatter,Dipankar said. Iwant to knowwhat the atmospherewas

like.Whatstudentswerethinkinganddoing.Whatyouobserved.I’msorry,Idon’twanttobeinterviewed.Notevenifweprotectyouridentity?Shewassuddenlyafraidthatheknewsomething.Thatmaybehernamewas

on a list. That an old file had been opened, an investigation of a long-agooccurrenceunderway.Sheputahandoverhereyelid,tosteadyit.

Butno,shesawthathe’dsimplybeencountingonher.Thatshewas justaconvenientsource.Therewasapauseastheirfoodwasbroughttothetable.

Listen,IcantellyouwhatIknow.ButIdon’twanttobepartofthebook.Fairenough,Professor.Heaskedherpermission,andturnedonasmallrecordingdevice.Butitwas

Gauriwhoposedthefirstquestion.Whatgotyouinterestedinthis?

He told her his own father’s brother had been involved. A college studentwho’dgotteninoverhishead,who’dbeenimprisoned.Dipankar’sgrandparentshadmanagedtogethimout.They’dsenthimtoLondon.

Whatdoeshedonow?He’sanengineer.He’sthesubjectofthefirstchapterofthebook.Underan

alias,ofcourse.Shenodded,wonderingwhat thefatehadbeenofsomanyothers. If they’d

beenasfortunate.Therewassomuchshemighthavesaid.He talked to me about the rally the day the party was declared, Dipankar

continued.She remembered standing in the heat on May Day, under the Monument.

WatchingKanuSanyalattherostrum,setfree.SheandUdayanhadbeenamong thousandson theMaidan, listening tohis

speech.Sherememberedtheseaofbodies,theflutedwhitecolumn,withitstwobalconiesatthetop,risingintothesky.Therostrum,decoratedwithalife-sizedportraitofMao.

She rememberedKanu Sanyal’s voice, emitted through the loudspeaker. Ayoungmanwithglasses,ordinary-looking,charismaticnevertheless.Comradesandfriends!shestillheardhimcallingout,greetingthem.Sherememberedthesingleemotionshe’dfeltapartof.Sherememberedbeingthrilledbythethingshe’dsaid.

Her impressions were flickering, from a lifetime ago. But they were vividinsideDipankar.Allthenames,theeventsofthoseyears,wereathisfingertips.HecouldquotefromthewritingsofCharuMajumdar.Heknewabout therift,toward the end, between Majumdar and Sanyal, Sanyal objecting to theannihilationline.

Dipankar had studied the movement’s self-defeating tactics, its lack ofcoordination,itsunrealisticideology.He’dunderstood,withouteverhavingbeenapartofthings,farbetterthanGauri,whyithadsurgedandfailed.

MyunclewasstilltherewhenSanyalgotarrestedagain,in1970.HewassentawaytoLondonsoonafter.

This, too, she remembered. His followers had begun rioting. It was afterSanyal’s arrest, a year after the party’s declaration, that theworst violence inCalcuttahadbegun.

Iwasmarriedthatyear.Andyourhusband?Washeaffected?HewasinAmerica,studying,shesaid.Hehadnothingtodowithit.Shewas

gratefulthatthesecondrealitycouldpaperoverthefirst.I’mplanningtodosomefieldworkinCalcutta,hesaid.Isthereanyoneyou

stillknow,peopleImightwanttotalkto?I’mafraidnot.I’msorry.I’dliketogetuptoNaxalbariifIcan.I’dliketoseethevillagewhereSanyal

lived,afterhewasreleasedfromprison.Shenodded.Youshould.Itfascinatesme,theturnhislifetook.Whatdoyoumean?Thewayhewaschastenedbutremainedahero.Stillcyclingthroughvillages

inNaxalbariyearslater,mobilizingsupport.Iwouldhavelikedtospeaktohim.Whydon’tyou?He’sdead.Youhadn’theard?Ithadhappenednearlyayearago.Hishealthwasindecline.Hiskidneysand

eyesightfailing.He’dbeensufferingfromdepression.Astrokein2008hadlefthimpartlyparalyzed.He’drefusedtobetreatedinagovernmenthospital.He’drefusedtoapproachthestatewhilehewasstillfightingit.

Hediedofkidneyfailure?Dipankarshookhishead.Hekilledhimself.

Shewent home, to her desk, and switched on the computer. She typedKanuSanyal’s name into the searchbox.Thehits appeared, one after the next, in aseriesofIndiansitesshe’dneverlookedatbefore.

Shebeganclicking themopen, readingdetailsofhisbiography.Oneof thefoundingmembers of themovement, alongwithMajumdar.Amovement thatstillthreatenedtheIndianstate.

Bornin1932.EmployedearlyonasaclerkinaSiliguricourt.He’dworkedasaCPI(M)organizerinDarjeeling,thenbrokenwiththeparty

aftertheNaxalbariuprising.He’dgonetoChinatomeetwithMao.He’dspentclose to a decade in jail. He’d been the chairman of the Communist Party ofIndia, Marxist-Leninist. Following his release, he’d renounced violentrevolution.

He’d remained a communist, dedicating his life to the concerns of teaplantationworkers, rickshawdrivers.He’dnevermarried.He’dconcluded thatIndiawasnotanation.HesupportedtheindependenceofKashmir,ofNagaland.

Heowneda fewbooks, clothes, cookingutensils.FramedpicturesofMarxandLenin.He’ddiedapauper. Iwaspopularonce, Ihave lostmypopularity,

he’dsaidinoneofhisfinalinterviews.Iamunwell.Manyof thearticlescelebratedhis life,hiscommitment toIndia’spoor,his

tragicpassing.Theyreferredtohimasahero,alegend.Hiscriticscondemnedhim,sayingthataterroristhaddied.

Itwasthesamesetofinformation,repeatedinvariousways.Sheopenedthelinksanyway,unabletostop.

Oneofthemledtoavideo.AtelevisionnewssegmentfromMarch23,2010.A female newscaster’s voice was summarizing the details. There was someblack-and-white footage of Calcutta streets in the late sixties, banners andgraffiti,afewsecondsofaprotestmarch.

It cut to a shot of weeping villagers, their faces in their hands. Peoplegathered at the doorway of a house, the thatchedmud hut that had served asSanyal’s home, his party office. His cook was being interviewed. She wasagitated,nervousinfrontofthecamera.Speakingintheparticularaccentofthevillage.

She’dcometocheckonhimafterhislunch,sheexplainedtothereporter.Shelookedthroughthewindowbutdidn’tseehimrestinginhisbedroom.Thedoorwasn’t latched. She checked again. Then she saw him in another part of theroom.

Gauri saw him, too. On the screen of her computer, on her desk, in herdarkenedstudyinCalifornia,shesawwhatthecookhadseen.

A seventy-eight-year-old man, wearing an undershirt and cotton pajamas,hangingfromanylonrope.Thechairhe’dusedtosecuretheropestillstoodinfront of him. It had not been knocked over.No spasm, no final reaction, hadkickeditaway.

His headwas cocked to the right, the back of his neck exposed above theundershirt. The sides of his feet were touching the floor. As if he were stillsupported by the earth’s gravity. As if all he had to do was straighten hisshouldersandmoveon.

Forafewdaysshewasunabletoridhermindoftheimage.Shecouldnotstopthinkingaboutthefinalpassivityofamanwho’drefused,untilthemomenthislifeended,tobowhishead.

She could not rid herself of the emotion it churned up in her. She felt aterribleweight,combinedwithavoid.

Thefollowingweek,steppingoffastaircaseoutsideacampusbuilding,notpaying attention, she lost her footing and fell. She reached out, broke the fall

withherhand.Theskinhadsplitfromitscontactwiththepathway.Shelookedandsawbloodbeadingacrossit,highlightingtheetchedlinesofherpalm.

Someone rushedover,asking if shewasall right.Shewasable to stand, totakeafewsteps.Thegreaterpainwasinherwrist.Herheadwasspinning,andtherewasathrobbingononeside.

A university ambulance took her to the hospital. The wrist was badlysprained, and because the pain in her head had not subsided, because it hadspreadtotheothersidealso,shewouldneedtogetsomescans,sometests.

Shewasgivenformstofilloutandaskedtonamehernextofkin.Allherlife,onsuchforms,havingnootherchoice,she’dputSubhash’sname.Buttherehadneverbeenanemergency,neveraneedtocontacthim.

Weakly she formed the letters with her left hand. The address in RhodeIsland, and the phone number she still remembered. She used to dial itsometimeswhenthereceiverwasstillonitshook,whenthinkingofBela.Whenshewasappalledbyhertransgression,overtakenbyregret.

Shehadnotbeenapatient inahospitalsinceBelawasborn.Evennowthememorywasintact.Arainyeveninginsummer.Twenty-fouryearsold.Atypedbracelet aroundherwrist.Everyone congratulatingSubhashwhen itwasover,flowerscomingfromhisdepartmentattheuniversity.

Againshewasgivenabracelet,enteredintothehospital’ssystem.Shegavethemtheinformationtheyneededabouthermedicalhistory,theinsurancecard.Therewasnoone tohelpher this time.Shewasdependenton thenurses, thedoctors,whentheycame.

AfewX-rayswere taken,aCTscan.Her righthandwasboundup, justasUdayan’shadbeenafterhis accident.They toldher shewas abit dehydrated.Theyputfluidsintoherveins.

Shewaskeptthereuntilevening.Thescansshowednobleedingonthebrain.She went home with nothing more than a prescription for painkillers and areferraltoaphysicaltherapist.Shehadtocallacolleague,forshewastoldthatshewould be unable to drive for a fewweeks, unable to negotiate the simpletown,withitsshortgrassyblocks,whereshehadlivedforsomanyyears.

Thecolleague,Edwin,drovehertothepharmacytopickupherprescriptions.He invitedher tostaywithhimandhiswife fora fewdays,offeringher theirguestroom,sayingitwouldbenotrouble.ButGauritoldhimtherewasnoneed.Shereturnedtoherownhome,satatthedeskinheroffice,pulledoutapairofscissors,andmanagedtoclipawaythetypedbraceletaroundherwrist.

Sheswitchedon thecomputer, then lit theburneron thestove tomake tea.Shestruggledtoremovetheteabagfromitswrapper,toraisetheboilingkettle

overthecup.Everythingdoneslowly,everythingfeelingclumsyinthehandshewasnotaccustomedtousing.

Therefrigeratorwasempty,thecartonofmilknearlyfinished.Onlythendidsherememberthatshe’dintendedtobuygroceriesasshewaswalkingtohercar,whenshe’dfallen.ShewouldhavetocallEdwinlater,andaskhimifhemindedpickingupafewthings.

Itwaseleveno’clockonaFridaymorning.Shehadnoclasses to teach,noplansfortheevening.Shepouredherselfaglassofwater,spillingsomeofitonthecounter.Somehowshemanagedtoopenthebottleofpills.Sheleftthecapoff,sothatshewouldnothavetodoitagain.

Notwantingtoburdenanyone,butunabletomanagealone,shewentaway,aweekend’sjourneythathadnothingtodowithwork.Withonehandshepackeda small suitcase. She left her laptop at home. She called a car service andcheckedintoahotelthatsomeofhercolleaguesliked,inadeserttown.Aplacewhereshecouldwalkinthemountainsandsoakherbodyinaspring,whereshewouldnothavetocookforafewdays.

Ontheroofofthehotel,atthepoolsurroundedbysteephills,sheobservedanelderly, wealthy-looking Indian couple taking care of a little boy. They weretrying to teach the boy not to fear the water, showing him how little plasticfigures floated, the grandfather swimming a few strokes to demonstrate. Thehusbandandwifelightlyquarreled,inHindi,abouthowmuchsunscreentoputonthechild,whetherornothisheadshouldbeprotectedbyahat.

Thehusbandwasnearlybaldbutstillvigorous.Whathairwasleftwreathedthe lower portion of his head. Thewife seemed younger, her hair tintedwithhenna, her toenails polished, pretty sandals on her feet. At breakfast Gauriwatchedthemfeedingtheboyyogurtandcerealfromaspoon.

They asked Gauri, in English, where she was from, saying they came toAmericaeverysummer, that thiswaswhereboththeirsonslivedandthattheylikeditverymuch.OnesonlivedinSacramento,theotherinAtlanta.

Since becoming grandparents, they took each of their grandchildren on aseparatevacation,togettoknowthemontheirownterms,andtogivetheirsonsanddaughters-in-lawsometimetothemselves.

At our age, what else is there to live for? the man asked Gauri, the childtuckedintohiselbow.AndyettheypreferredIndia,notwantingtoretirehere.

Doyougobackoften?thewifeasked.It’sbeenawhile.Areyouagrandmother?Gaurishookherhead,thenadded,wantingsuddenlytoalignherselfwiththis

couple,I’mstillwaiting.Howmanychildrendoyouhave?One.Adaughter.Normallyshetoldpeopleshedidnothaveanychildren.Andpeoplebacked

awaypolitelyfromthisrevelation,notwantingtopress.But todayGauricouldnotdenyBelaherexistence.And thewomanmerely

laughed,nodding,sayingthatchildrenthesedayshadmindsoftheirown.

In time her wrist grew stronger. In her therapy sessions they wrapped it inwarmedwax.Againshewasabletograsphertoothbrushandcleanherteeth,tosignacheck,or turn theknobofadoor.Thenshewasable todriveagain, toseizethegearshiftandmakeaturn,toeditdraftsandcorrectstudentpaperswithherdominanthand.

Thesemesterwenton,she taughther lastclasses, turned inhergrades.Shewouldbeonleavethecomingfall.Oneafternoon,afterfinishingupatherdesk,she walked across the parking lot of her apartment complex and opened hermailbox.Withsomeeffortshetwistedthekey.

Shereturnedtoherapartmentandpushedbacktheslidingglassdoorthatwasoffthelivingroom,leadingtoherpatio.Shesetthemailontheteaktableandsatdowntogothroughit.

Among the bills, the catalogues that had come to her that day, therewas apersonalletter.Subhash’shandwritingwasontheenvelope,thereturnaddressofthehouseinRhodeIsland,closetothebay.Hehadboileddowntotheproofofhispenmanship,thedriedsalivaonthebackofastamp.

He’dsent itcareofherdepartment.Thesecretaryhaddone thecourtesyofforwardingittoherhome.

InsidewasashortletterwritteninBengali,ontwosidesofasheetofofficestationery.ShehadnotreadBengalipenmanshipindecades;hercommunicationwithManashwasbye-mail,inEnglish.

Gauri,The Internet tells me this is your address, but please

confirmthatthishasreachedyou.Asyousee,Iaminthesameplace.Iamindecenthealth.Ihopeyouare,too.ButI will be seventy before too long, and we are entering aphase of life when anythingmight happen.Whatever lies

ahead,Iwould like tobegin tosimplify things,giventhat,legally, we remain tied. If you have no objection, I amgoing to sell the house in Tollygunge, to which you stillhaveaclaim.Ialsothinkit’stimetoremoveyournameasjointownerofthehouseinRhodeIsland.IwillleaveittoBela,ofcourse.

She paused, warming her hand against the surface of the table beforecontinuing. The hand had turned vulnerable while it was bound up. Now herveinsprotruded,sothattheyresembledapieceofcoralrootedtoherwrist.

Hetoldherhedidn’twanttodragherbacktoRhodeIslandintheeventofanemergency,notwantingtoburdenherincaseheweretogofirst.

Idon’tmeantorushyou,butI’dliketoresolvethingsbytheendoftheyear.Idon’tknowifthere’sanythingelsewe have to say to one another. Though I cannot pardonwhatyoudidtoBela,itwasIwhobenefited,andcontinueto benefit, from your actions, however wrong they were.Sheremainsapartofmylife,butIknowsheisnotapartof yours. If it were easier I’d be open to our meeting inperson,and concluding things face-to-face. I bear younoill will. Then again it’s just amatter of some signatures,andofcoursethemailwilldo.

Shehadtoreadtheletterasecondtimetorealizethepointofit.Thatafterallthistime,hewasaskingherforadivorce.

Chapter2

Tellingnooneintheirfamilies,notevenManash,they’dmarriedeachother.ItwasJanuary1970.AregistrarcametoahouseinChetla.ItbelongedtooneofUdayan’s comrades, a senior party member who was also a professor ofliterature.Agentleman,mildofmanner,apoet.TheycalledhimTarun-da.

Afewothercomradeshadbeenthere.Theyaskedherquestions,andtoldherhowtoconductherselffromnowon.UdayanplacedhishandoveracopyoftheRedBookbeforetheysignedthepapers.Hissleevesrolledbackastheyalwayswere, his forearms exposed. A beard and moustache by then. When they’dfinished,andbothofthemwereperchedontheedgeofasofa,leaningtogetherover the low tablewhere thepapershadbeenspread,he turned to lookather,grinning,takingamomenttoconveytoher,onlytoher,howhappyhewas.

Shedidnotcarewhatherauntsanduncles,hersisters,wouldthinkofwhatshewasdoing.Thiswould serve toput thembehindher.Theonlyone inherfamilyshecaredaboutwasManash.

Somecutlets and fish frieswerebrought in anddistributed, a fewboxesofsweets. This was the extent of the celebration. They spent their first week ashusbandandwifetogetherinthehouseinChetla,inaroomtheprofessorhadtospare.

Itwasthere,atnight,aftertheirmanysharedconversations,thattheybegantocommunicate inadifferentway.There that she first felthishandexploringthesurfaceofherbody.There,ashesleptnexttoher,thatshefeltthecoolofhisbareshouldernestledinherarmpit.Thewarmthofhiskneesagainstthebacksofherlegs.

Theentrance to thehousewasat theside,offa longalley,hiddenfromthestreet. The staircase turned sharply, once and then again, leading to roomsorganized tightly around the balcony.The floorswere cracked here and there,brownishred.

The rooms were filled with Tarun-da’s books, piled in stacks as tall aschildren.Housedincabinetsandonshelves.Thesittingroom,atthefrontofthebuilding, had a narrow balcony overlooking the street. They were told not tostandthere,nottodrawattentiontothemselves.

AfewdayslatershewrotetoManash,sayingshehadnot,afterall,goneona

triptoSantiniketanwithherfriends.ShetoldhimthatshehadmarriedUdayan,andthatshewouldnotbereturninghome.

ThenUdayanwenttoTollygunge,totellhisparentswhattheyhaddone.Hetoldhisparents that theywereprepared to liveelsewhere.Theywere stunned.But his brother was in America, and they wanted their remaining son home.Secretly Gauri had hoped that his parents would not take them in. In thatcluttered but cheerful house inChetla, hidingwithUdayan, she’d felt at oncebrazenandprotected.Free.

Udayantalkedabouttheirlivingontheirownoneday.Hedidn’tbelieveinajointfamily.Andyet,forthetimebeing,becausetheycouldnotgoonstayingattheprofessor’shome,because thehomewasasafehouseandtheroomthey’dbeen given was needed to harbor someone, because he did not make enoughmoneyforthemtorentaflatelsewhere,hetookhertoTollygunge.

Itwasonlyafewmilesaway.Still,travelingtowardit,afterHazraRoad,Gauriperceivedadifference.Thecitysheknewatherback.Thelightbrighterinhereyes,thetreesmoreplentiful,castingadappledshade.

His parents stood in the courtyard, waiting to receive her. The house wasspacious but utilitarian, plain. She understood immediately the circumstancesfromwhichUdayanhadcome,theconventionshe’drejected.

Theendofhersariwasdrapedoverherhead inagestureofpropriety.Hismother’s headwas draped also.Thiswomanwas nowhermother-in-law.Shewaswearingasariofcrispcream-coloredcotton,checkedwithgoldenthreads.Her father-in-law was tall and lean, like Udayan, with a moustache, a placidexpression,swept-backgrayinghair.

Hermother-in-lawaskedUdayanifheobjectedtoafewabbreviatedrituals.Heobjected,butsheignoredhim,blowingherconchshell,thenputtingtuberosegarlandsaroundtheirnecks.AwoventraywasraisedtowardGauri’shead,herchest,herbelly.Atrayheapedwithauspiciousitems,withfruit.

Shewaspresentedwith a box, opened to show thenecklace inside.On thetraywas a pot of vermillion powder.Hermother-in-law instructedUdayan toapply it to the parting of her hair. Taking Gauri’s left hand, she pressed herfingerstogetherandslidanironbangleoverherwrist.

Afewstrangers,nowherneighbors,hadgatheredtowatch,lookingoverthecourtyardwall.

Youareourdaughternow,her in-laws said, acceptingher though theyhadnotwantedher,placingtheirhandsinagestureofblessingoverherhead.Whatisoursisyours.Gauriboweddown,totakethedustfromtheirfeet.

The courtyard had been decorated with patterns in her honor, painted byhand.Atthethresholdofthehouseapanofmilkwassimmeringonacoalstove,comingtoaboilassheapproached.Thereweretwostuntedbananatrees,oneoneithersideofthedoor.Insidetherewasanotherpanofmilk,tintedwithred.Shewas told to dip her feet into the red liquid, then walk up the staircase. Thestaircasewasstillunderconstruction,therewasnotabanistertohold.

The steps had been covered loosely with a white sari, like a thin slipperycarpetlaidoverthetreads.Everyfewstepstherewasanoverturnedclaycupshehadtocrush,bearingdownwithallherstrength.Thiswasthefirstthingaskedofher,tomarkherpassageintoUdayan’shome.

Because the lanewassonarrow therewas rarely the soundofacarorevenacyclerickshawgoingpast.Udayantoldheritwaseasier,whenreturningtotheenclave, to get out at the corner by themosque andwalk the rest of theway.Thoughmanyofthehouseswerewalledoff,shecouldhearthelivesofotherscarrying on.Meals being prepared and served, water being poured for baths.Childrenbeing scolded and crying, reciting their lessons.Plates being scouredand rinsed. The claws of crows striking the rooftop, flapping their wings,scavengingforpeels.

Everymorning shewas up at five, climbing stairs to a new portion of thehouse,andacceptingthecupofteahermother-in-lawpoured,abiscuitstoredinthecreamcrackertin.Thelineforthegashadn’tbeenhookedupyet,sothedaybegan with the elaborate process of lighting the clay stove with coals, dungpatties,kerosene,amatch.

Thicksmokestunghereyes,blurringhervisionasshefannedtheflame.Hermother-in-law had told her, the first morning, to put away the book she’dbroughtwithher,andtoconcentrateonthetaskathand.

The workers arrived soon afterward. Barefoot, with soiled rags twistedaround their heads. They hollered and hammered throughout the day, so thatstudyinginthehousewasimpossible.Dustcoatedeverything,bricksandmortarbroughtinbythebarrowful,additionalroomscompletedonebyone.

Afterherfather-in-lawbroughtbackafishfromthemarket,itwasherjobtocutthepieces,coatthemwithsaltandturmeric,andfrytheminoil.Shesatinfrontofthestoveontheflatsofherfeet.Shereducedthesaucetheywouldputthe fish into for evening, seasoning it according to her mother-in-law’sinstructions.Shehelpedcutupcabbage,shellpeas.Ridspinachofsand.

Iftheservantwaslateorhadadayoffshehadtogrindtheturmericrootandchilies on a stone slab, to poundmustardor poppy seeds if hermother-in-law

wantedtocookwiththemthatday.Whenshegroundthechiliesherpalmsfeltasiftheskinhadbeenscrapedoff.Tippingthericepotontoaplate,sheletthewater drain,making sure the cooked grains didn’t slip out. Theweight of theinvertedpanstrainedherwrists,steamscaldingherfaceifsheforgot to turnitaway.

TwiceaweeksheaccomplishedallthisbeforebathingandpackingherbooksandtakingthetrambacktoNorthCalcutta,tovisitthelibrary,toattendlectures.Shehadn’tcomplainedtoUdayan.Buthehadknown,tellinghertobepatient.

Hetoldherthatoneday,whenhisbrother,Subhash,returnedfromAmericaandgotmarried, therewouldbe anotherdaughter-in-law todoher share.AndfromtimetotimeGaurihadwonderedwhothatwomanwouldbe.

IntheeveningsshewaitedforUdayantoreturnfromhistutoringjob,watchingfrom the terrace of her in-laws’ home. And when he pushed through theswingingwoodendoorshealwayspausedtolookupather,asheusedtolookupfromtheintersectionbelowhergrandparents’flat,shehopinghewouldstopby, he hoping to find her there. But now it was different: his arrival wasexpected,andthefactthatshestoodwaitingforhimwasnotasurprise,becausetheyweremarried,andthiswasthehousewheretheybothlived.

Hewouldwashupandhavesomethingtoeat,and thenshewouldputonafresh sari and theywould go out for a walk. Behaving at first like any otherrecentlymarriedcouple.Sheenjoyedbeingoutof thehousewithhim,butshewasunsettledbythequietofTollygunge,therawsimplicitysheperceived.

Theneighborhoodwassetinitsways.MoreuniformlyBengalithaninNorthCalcutta, where Punjabis and Marwaris occupied many of the flats in hergrandparents’building,wheretheradioshopacrossfromChacha’sHotelplayedHindifilmsongsthatfloatedoverthetraffic,wheretheenergyofstudentsandprofessorswasthickintheair.

Heretherewaslittletodistracther,thewaytheviewfromhergrandparents’balconycouldoccupyherdayandnight.Fromherin-laws’housetherewaslittletosee.Onlyotherhomes, laundryonrooftops,palmsandcoconut trees.Lanescurvingthiswayandthatway.Thehyacinththatteemed,greenerthangrass,inthelowlandandtheponds.

Hebegantoaskhertodocertainthings.Andso,inordertohelphim,inordertofeelapartof it, sheagreed.At first the tasksweresimple.Hedrewhermaps,tellinghertowalkhereorthereinthecourseofanerrand,toobservewhetherascooterorcyclewasparkedoutside.

Hegavehernotestodeliver,atfirsttoaletterboxsomewhereinTollygunge,theninperson.Hetoldhertoplacethesheetofpaperundertherupeessheusedtopaythemanatthestationer’s,ifsheneededtobuysomeink.Thenoteusuallycontained a piece of information. A location or a time of day. Somecommunicationthatmadenosensetoherbutwasessentialtosomeoneelse.

One seriesofnoteswent to awomanwhoworkedat a tailor’s shop.GauriwastoaskspecificallyforawomannamedChandra,totakemeasurementsforablouse.The first time,Chandragreetedher as if theywereold friends, askinghowshe’dbeen.Apudgywomanwithabitofkinktoherhair.

She tookGauribehindacurtain,callingoutdifferentnumberswithouteverplacing the tape against Gauri’s body, yet writing them in her pad. It wasChandrawhoundrapedherself,takingadvantageofthedrawncurtain,takingthenote fromGauri’shand, readingand refolding it.She tucked it insideherownblouse,underneathherbrassiere,beforeopeningthecurtainagain.

Thesemissionsweresmalljointsinalargerstructure.Nodetailoverlooked.She’d been linked into a chain she could not see. Itwas like performing in abriefplay,withfellowactorswhoneveridentifiedthemselves,simplelinesandactions that were scripted, controlled. She wondered exactly how she wascontributing,whomightbewatchingher.SheaskedUdayanbuthewouldnottellher,sayingthiswashowshewasbeingmostuseful.Sayingitwasbetterforhernottoknow.

ThefollowingFebruary, justafter their firstmarriageanniversary,hearrangedforhertohaveatutoringjob.EffigiesofSaraswatistoodonthestreetcorners,studentsoffered textbooksather feet.Thekokilswerebeginning tosing, theircalls plaintive, yearning.Abrother and sister in JadavpurneededhelppassingtheirSanskritexams.

Every day she went to their home, taking a cycle rickshaw to get there,introducingherselfbyafictitiousname.Beforeshewentthefirsttime,Udayandescribedthehousetoher,asifhe’dalreadybeenthere.Hetoldherabouttheroomwhereshe’dsit,thearrangementofthefurniture,thecolorofthewalls,thestudytablethatwasbeneaththewindow.

Hetoldherwhichofthechairsatthetableshewastotake.Topullthecurtainslightlytooneside,sayingshewantedtoletinabitoflight,ifithappenedtobedrawn.

Atacertainpointduringthehour,hetoldher,apolicemanwouldwalkpastthehouse,crossingthewindowfromlefttoright.Shewastojotdownthetimehepassedby,andobservewhetherornothewasinuniform.

Why?This time he told her. The policeman’s route passed a safe house, he said.

Theyneededtoknowhisschedule,hisdaysoff.Therewerecomradesneedingshelter.Theyneededhimoutoftheway.

Sittingwith her students, helping themwith their grammar, herwristwatchrestingon the table,herdiaryopen,shesawhim.Aman inhis thirties,clean-shaven, in his khaki uniform, heading off for duty. From a window on thesecond floor she saw the black of his moustache, the top of his head. ShedescribedhimtoUdayan.

WiththebrotherandsistershereadlinesfromtheUpanishads,theRigVeda.Theancient teachings, thesacred textsshe’dfirststudiedwithhergrandfather.Atmadevanam,bhuvanasyagarbho.Spiritofthegods,seedofalltheworlds.Aspiderreachesthelibertyofspacebymeansofitsownthread.

Oneday,aThursday, thepolicemanwasnot inuniform.Insteadofwalkingfrom left to righthecame from theoppositedirection, incivilianclothing.Hewasaccompanyinga littleboyhomefromschool. Itwas twentypast thehour.Hewaswalkinginamorecasualway.

WhenshereportedthistoUdayan,hesaid,Keepobservinghim.Nextweek,whenhe’soffdutyagain,tellmewhichday.Remembertojotdownthetime.

Again the followingThursday,at twentypast, shesawthepoliceman inhisalternate guise, holding the hand of the young boy, coming from the oppositedirection.Itwastheboywhowouldbeinuniformthosedays.Whiteshortsanda shirt, a water canteen over one shoulder, a satchel in his hand. Damp hairneatlycombed.Shesawtheboyskipping, twoor three livelypaces toeachofhisfather’sslowerstrides.

Sheheardtheboy’svoice,tellinghisfatheraboutwhathe’dlearnedinschoolthatday,andheardhisfather,laughingatthethingshesaid.Shesawtheirjoinedhands,theirarmsslightlyswinging.

Fourweekspassed.ItwasalwaysaThursday,shetoldUdayan.Thatwasthedayhewalkedhissonhomefromschool.

Youarepositive,Thursday?Neveranotherday?No,never.Heseemedsatisfied.Butthenheasked,You’recertainit’shisson?Yes.Howoldishe?Idon’tknow.Sixorseven.Heturnedhisfacefromher.Heaskedhernothingmore.

The week before going to America to be with Subhash, she went back toJadavpur,totheneighborhoodofthebrotherandsistershe’dtutored.Shehiredarickshaw.Sheworeaprintedsarinowthatshewasmarriedagain,lookingasshehadwhenshe’dbeenUdayan’swife.

Shewas fivemonths pregnant, carrying a childwhowould not know him.Shehadleatherslippersonherfeet,banglesonherwrists,acolorfulpurseinherlap. Shewore sunglasses, not wanting to be noticed. Soon the heat would beunbearable,butshewouldbefarawaybythen.

Sheapproachedthestreetofthebrotherandsister,thentoldtherickshawtostop.Continuingonfoot,shelookedattheletterboxesmountedtoeachhome.

Thelastoneborethenameshe’dbeenlookingfor.Thenametheinvestigatorhadmentioned theday sheandSubhashhadbeenquestioned. Itwasa single-storyhouse,asimplegrilleenclosingtheverandah.Thenameofadeadmanwaspainted carefully on thewood of the letter box, inwhite block letters.NirmalDey.Thepolicemanthey’dneededoutoftheway.

Theoccupantsofthehousewerevisible,standingontheverandah,facingthestreet, staring out though there was nothing to see. It was as if they’d beenwaiting for her.Therewas the little boyGauri used to see skipping down theroadwhileholdinghisfather’shand.Allthistimeshe’dseentheboyonlyfromtheback,forhe’dalwaysbeenwalkingawayfromher.Butsheknew,justfromlookingathisbody,thatitwashim.

For the first time she saw his face. She saw the loss that would never bereplaced,alossthatthechildforminginsidehershared.

Hewashomefromschool,nolongerinhisbrightwhiteuniform,butinapairof faded shorts and a shirt instead.He stood still, his fingers hooked over thegrille.Brieflyhelookedather,thenavertedhisgaze.

She imagined the afternoon at school he’d waited to be picked up by hisfather.Beingtold,finally,bysomeone,thathisfatherwouldnotbecomingforhim.

Next tohimwasawoman, theboy’smother.Awomanperhapsonlyafewyears older thanGauri. Itwas themotherwhoworewhite now, asGauri hadworn until a few weeks ago. The colorless fabric was wrapped around thewoman’s waist, draped over her shoulder, over the top of her head. Her lifeturnedupsidedown,hercomplexionlookinglikeithadbeenscrubbedclean.

SeeingGauri, themotherdidnot lookaway.Whoareyou looking for?sheasked.

Gauri said theonly reasonable thing shecould thinkof, the surnameof thebrotherandsistershe’dtutored.

They live back that way, the woman told her, pointing in the oppositedirection.You’vecometoofar.

Shewalkedaway,awarethatthewomanandboyhadalreadyforgottenher.Shewaslikeamoththathadstrayedintoaroom,onlytoflutteroutofitagain.UnlikeGauri,theywouldneverthinkbacktothismoment.Thoughshe’dhadahandinsomethingtheywouldmournalltheirlives,shehadalreadyslippedfromtheirminds.

Chapter3

Meghna was four. Old enough to be apart from Bela for a time. She wasattending a summer program run by the school where she would beginkindergarteninthefall.Itwasoutpastthetrainstation,onacampsitebyapond.

Afewtimesaweekshespenthermorningsinthecompanyofotherchildren,learningtoplaywiththeminagroveoftrees,andsitwiththematapicnictable,to share food. They baked brown rolls that she brought home in small paperpackets. When it rained she sat in a teepee, resting on sheepskin. Moldingbeeswax,watchingfelteddollsenactstoriesthatwerereadaloud.

BecauseBelahad to leave thehousesoearly, itwasSubhashwhodroppedMeghnaoffthosemornings.Belapickedherupwhenhershiftwasdone.Itwasgoodtobeworkingagain.Towakeupbeforethesunrose,tosweatonceitwasinthesky,tofeeltightnessinherarmsandlegsattheendoftheday.

She’dcometothisfarmasachildonfieldtripswithherclass,towatchtheshearingofsheep.She’dcomewithherfathertopickoutpumpkinsinOctober,beddingplantsinspring.Nowshesowedseedsintherocky,acidicsoil,scrapingitwithahoetoremoveweeds.

She’dduglongtrenchesforpotatoes.She’dcreatednarrowfootpathsbetweenthe rows for microorganisms to thrive. She’d started the early crops in ahoophouse,andincut-uppiecesofsod,beforemovingseedlingstoopenground.

One afternoon, taking advantage of the sunshine after a cloudy start to theday, needing to cool off her body, she drove with Meghna to the cove inJamestownwhere her father used to bring her,where she had first learned toswim.Onthewaybackfromthebeachshenoticedcornforsale,andstoppedthecar.

Onthetabletherewasacoffeecanwithaslitintheplasticlid,askingadollarforthreeears.Therewasapricelistforafewotheritems.Bundlesofradishesandbasil.Apicniccoolercontainingoak-leaf.Butterheads,freefromtipburn.

She picked up the can, heard a few coins rattling inside. She bought somecorn,someradishes,pushingthebillsthroughtheslot.Thefollowingweekshewentback,makingtheshortdriveoverthebridgefromherfather’shouse.Stilltherewasnoone.Shebegantowonderwhohadgrownthesethings,whowassotrusting.Who left them,untended, foraseagull tocarryaway, forstrangers to

buyorsteal.Then,onaSaturday,someonewasthere.Hehadmorevegetablesintheback

ofapickuptruck,onionsandcarrotsinbaskets,tatsoiwithspoon-shapedleaves.Twosmallblack lambssat inacage,onabedofstraw,wearingmatchingredcollars.WhenMeghna approached he showed her how to feed them fromherhand,andletherpettheirwool.

Yougrowthisstuffontheisland?Belaasked.No.Icomeheretofish.Afriendletsmekeepastandonhisproperty,given

howmanytouristspassthroughthistimeofyear.Shepickedupalemoncucumber.Shesmelleditsskin.Wetriedgrowingthesethisseason.Where’sthat?Keenans’,off138.IknowtheKeenans.AreyounewtoRhodeIsland?Sheshookherhead.They’dbothbeenbornhere.They’dattendeddifferent

highschools,notsofarapart.Hehadgreeneyes,afewcreasesintheskin,salt-and-pepperhairthatstirred

inthebreeze.Hewascourteous,buthewasnotafraidtolookather.NexttimeI’llbringtherabbits.I’mDrew.Hekneeleddownandputouthishand,not toBelabut toMeghna.What’s

yourname?ButMeghnawouldn’tanswer,andBelahadtosayitforher.Pretty.What’sitmean?ItwasoneoftheriversthatflowedintotheBayofBengal,Belatoldhim.A

nameSubhashhadchosen,hadgiven.AnyonecallyouMegforshort?No.CanI?Nexttimeyourmommystopsby?He began bringing other animals, chicks and puppies and kittens, so that

Meghna started talking about Drew during the week, asking Bela when theywouldvisithimagain.HegaveBelathingsshewasn’tpayingfor,tuckingthemintoherbagandrefusinghermoney.Purplebushbeansthatturnedgreenwhenshecookedthem.Pinkheadsofgarlic,peasintheirpods.

Thefarmbelongedtohisfamily.He’dlivedonitallhislife.Itwasjustafewacresnow,somethingonecouldtakeinataglance.Thereusedtobemoreofit,land lived off for several generations. But his parents had had to sell a largeportion todevelopers.Hehad the support of somecommunity shareholders to

runitnow.Onedayheofferedtoshowthemthefarm.Itwasontheothersideofthebay,

closetotheMassachusettsborder.Itwaswheretherestoftheanimalslived—apeacock,guineahens,sheepgrazingbyasaltmarshthatborderedtheproperty.

Shouldwefollowyou?Saveyourgas.Comewithme.You’llhavetodriveusbackhere,then.Needtoheadthiswaylateranyway.And so Bela got into the roomy sun-warmed cab of Drew’s pickup truck,

placingMeghnabetweenthem,shuttingthedoor.

Shebeganseeinghimonweekends.She’dneverallowedherselftobecourted.He was attentive, never aggressive. He started showing up when she wasworkingarow,askingwhenherbreakwas,suggestingtheygoforaswim.

Shestarted tokeephimcompanyoncertainSaturdays,standingbesidehimunderawhitetentatanoutdoormarketinBristol,slicingtomatoesforcustomersto sample. She drovewith him tomake deliveries to restaurants, dropping offboxesofproduceforhissubscribers.Shewalkedonthebeachwithhim,helpingto collect the seaweed he used for mulch. When he sat still he kept busy,working with wood. He started making things for Meghna. Furniture for herdollhouse,amarblerun.

She’dbeentosomanyplaces;he’dbeenhereallhislife.Heemployedafewpeoplewholeftattheendoftheday.Helivedonhisown.Hisparentswerebothdead. He’d married a girl he’d gone to high school with. They’d never hadchildren,anddivorcedlongago.

AfteramonthBelaintroducedhimtoherfatherandtoElise.Hecamebythehouseon themorningof her birthday so they could allmeet.He removedhisbootsinthetruck,walkingbarefootacrossthelawn,intothehouse.Hebroughta watermelon they shared, and admired the zucchini her father grew in thebackyard, promising to come back another time to taste the way her fatherpreparedtheblossoms,batteredandfried.Herfatherhadlikedhim,wellenoughtoencourageBelatospendtimewithhim,lookingafterMeghnawhenshedid.

BelatoldDrewthathermotherwasdead.Itwaswhatshealwayssaidwhenpeopleasked.InherimaginationshereturnedGauritoIndia,sayinghermotherhadgonebackforavisitandcontractedanillness.OvertheyearsBelahadcometo believe this herself. She imagined the body being burned under a pile ofsticks,ashesfloatingaway.

Drewbegantowanthertospendthenightswithhim.TowakeuptogetheronaSundaymorning,and toeatbreakfast in thebarnhe’d restored.Where,onasoft bed, she made love with him some afternoons. From the top rung of aladder,thatledtothecupola,onecouldseeasmallwedgeofthesea.

She said it was too soon. At first she said that it was for Meghna—notwantingtotakethatstepcasually,wantingtobesure.

DrewsaidtherewasabedroomforMeghna;thathewantedhertobethere,too. He could build her a loft bed, an area to play underneath, a tree houseoutside.TowardtheendofsummerhetoldBelahewasinlovewithher.Hesaidhe didn’t need more time, that he was old enough to know what he felt. Hewanted tohelpher raiseMeghna.Tobea father toher, if thiswas somethingBelawouldallow.

Thatwas theday she toldDrew the truthabouthermother.That she’d leftandneverreturned.

She said it was the reason she’d avoided ever being with one person, orstayinginoneplace.Thereasonshe’dwantedtohaveMeghnaonherown.Thereason,thoughshelikedDrew,thoughshewasalmostforty,shedidn’tknowifshecouldgivehimthethingshewasseeking.

Shetoldhimhowsheusedtositinsidetheclosetwherehermotherhadkepther things.Behind thecoatsshehadn’t takenwithher, thebeltsandpursesonhooks thather fatherhadn’tyetgivenaway.Shewouldstuffapillow intohermouth, in case her father came home early, and heard her crying. Sherememberedcryingsohardthattheskinbeneathhereyeswouldswell,markingherforatimewithtwoinflatedsmilesthatwerepalerthantherestofher.

Finally she toldhimaboutUdayan.That though she’dbeencreatedby twopeoplewho’dlovedoneanother,she’dbeenraisedbytwowhoneverdid.

Drewheldherashelistened.I’mnotgoinganywhere,hesaid.

Chapter4

Itwasanhour’sdrivetoProvidence,alittlelessafterthat.Sheenteredthezipcode in the car’s GPS, but soon found that directions weren’t necessary. Thenamesoftheexitsleadingtothedifferentsuburbsandtownscamebacktoher:Foxborough, Attleboro, Pawtucket. Wooden houses, shingles and siding, aglimpse of the State House dome. She remembered, after passing throughProvidence, then Cranston, that the exit to the town was to the left—thatotherwisetheinterstateledtoNewYork.

She’dflowntoBoston,rentingacarattheairporttodrivetherestoftheway.ItwashowSubhashhad firstbroughther, along the samesectionofhighway.Howsheusedtotraveltwiceaweektogotograduateschool.ItwasautumninNewEngland,theairbracing,leavesjuststartingtoturn.

Soonafter theexit, another leftat thesetof traffic lightswouldhave takenher to him.Therewas thewooden tower among the tall pines that lookedoutoverthebay.ApictureinGauri’sdrawerinCaliforniashowedBelastandingatthetopofthistower,squintinginthebrightcold,wearingayellowquiltedjacketwith a fur-trimmed hood. Gauri had lifted it hastily out of an album, beforeleaving.

Shehadtried,atfirst,towritetoSubhash.Tograntwhathe’drequested,andtosendaletterinreply.Forafewdaysshe’dworkedontheletter,dissatisfiedwithherattempts.

She knew a divorcemade no difference; their marriage had run its courselongago.Andyethisrequest,reasonable,rational,hadupendedher.Shefelttheneedtoseehim.

Evenapart,evennow,shefeltyokedtohim,inunspokencollusionwithhim.HehadtakenherawayfromTollygunge.HeremainedtheonlylinktoUdayan.His enduring love forBela, the stabilityof his heart, had compensated for thedevianceofherown.

Thetimingoftheletterhadfeltlikeasign.Forshesupposedhecouldhavewanted a divorce ten years ago, or two years from now. She was alreadycommitted to travelingover theEastCoast, toLondon, toattendaconference.She arranged for a connecting flight, a one-night stay in Rhode Island. Shewouldgivehimwhathewasseeking.Sheonlyhopedtostandbeforehim,and

severtheirconnectionface-to-face.Inhisletterhe’dsaidhewasopentothis.But ithadnotbeenan invitation.Andwithoutaskinghim,withoutwarning

him,unableevennowtoconductherselfdecently,she’dcome.Theleaveshadnotyetfallen,shecouldnotseethebay.Sheturneddownthe

longundulating two-laneroad thathadbeencut into thewoods, leading to themaincampusoftheuniversity.Homessetbackontheirproperties,giantazaleas,flatstonewalls.

Shepulledintoagraveldrive.Groundscoveredwithivy.Apaintedwoodensignhungfromhooks,swinginginthebreeze,withthenameoftheinn,theyearitwasbuilt.Thiswasthebed-and-breakfastwhereshe’dbookedaroom.

Shecarriedhersuitcase to the frontdoorand tapped theknocker.Whennoonecameshetriedtheknobandfoundthedoorunlocked.Afteradjustingtothedarkinteriorshesawalivingroompasttheentrance,adeskwithalittlebellonit,andasignaskingvisitorstotapit.

A woman about her age came to greet her. Silver hair, side-parted, wornloose.Ruddyskin.Shewasdressedinjeansandafleecejacket,apaint-stainedcanvasapron.Apairofclogsonherfeet.

You’reMrs.Mitra?Yes.I was in my studio, the woman said, wiping her hand on a rag before

extendingit.HernamewasNan.The living room was full of things, enamel pitchers resting in matching

platters, glass-fronted cabinets filled with porcelain and books. On a separatetable were works of pottery, platters andmugs, deep bowls glazed in muddyshades.

Those are all for sale, Nan said. Studio’s out back.More stuff in there, ifyou’reinterested.Happytoshipit.

Gauri handed over her credit card, her university ID. Shewatched as Nanenteredinformationintoaledger.

Mightgetsomeraintonight.Thenagain,mightnot.Firsttimeouthere?IusedtoliveinRhodeIsland.Whatpart?Afewmilesdownthisroad.Oh,youknowit,then.Nandidn’taskwhyshe’dreturned.Sheledherupthestaircase,toahallway

linedwithdoors.Gauriwasgivenakey toher room,anotherkey to the frontentrancewereshetocomeinafterelevenatnight.

The bedwas high, the headboard thin, the doublemattress coveredwith awhitecottonspread.Asmalltelevisiononthedressingtable,lacecurtainsinthewindow, filtering a quiet light. She looked at the bookcase by the bed. ShepulledoutavolumeofMontaigneandputitonthenightstand.

Those were my father’s books. He taught at the university. Lived in thishouseuntilhediedatninety-five.Refused to leave it.Had togethimachild-sizedwheelchairintheend,becausethedoorwaysaresotight.

Theprofessor’sname,whenGauriasked,soundedfamiliar,butonlyvaguely.Perhapsshe’doncetakenaclasswithhim,shecouldn’trecall.

Shefreshenedup,puttingonthesweatershe’dpacked.Theroomwasdrafty,thefireplacejustforshow.Downstairstherewasarealfireburning,andayoungcouple standingwith their backs toher.On the coffee tablewas a traywith ateapotandcups,cookiesandgrapes.ThecouplewerelookingatNan’spotterydisplay,wonderingwhichofthelargeplatterstheywantedtobuy.Gaurilistenedtotheirdiscussion,howcarefullytheyconsideredthechoice.

Thecoupleturnedaround,introducedthemselves.TheycamefromMontreal.She leanedover to shake their hands, their names sliding instantlyoffGauri’sbrain. Theywere not her students, it did notmatter. Neither of themwas thepersonshe’dcometosee.

Theysettledtogetheronachampagne-coloredsofa.Thehusbandrefilledtheirteacups.

Willyoujoinus?No,thankyou.Enjoyyourevening.Youaswell.Shewent out to the car. The daywas ending, already the skywas turning

pale. She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled down to Subhash’s number.Something had catapulted her back here, amotivation as unstoppable, also asegregious,astheonethathadcausedhertoleave.

Shewastrespassing,breakingtherulethey’dlongcometoobey.Hemightbebusythisweekend.Hemighthavegonesomewhere.Thoughhisletterhadbeenfriendly,ofcoursehemightnotwanttoseeheratall.

Nowtheabsurdity,thegreatindiscretion,ofwhatshe’ddonepermeatedher.She’dalwaysfeltlikeanimpositioninhislife,anintrusion.

Shetoldherselfshedidnothavetodoitrightaway,thattherewastime.Herflight to London was not until the following evening. She would go to himtomorrow, in the lightofday, thengostraightback to theairport.Tonightshewouldsimplyconfirmthathewasthere.

Shedrove to thecampus,pastbuildingswhere shehad takenclasses,paths

whereshehadwalkedwithBelainherstroller.Shedrovepastthemixofstonebuildingsandsixtiesarchitecture,thebuildingsthathadgoneupsince.Pasttheapartmentcomplexwheretheyhadfirstlived,wherethey’dbroughtBelahomefrom the hospital. She turned around by the little outbuilding where she hadlearnedtodothelaundry.Thenshedroveintothetown.

ThesupermarketwhereSubhashhadlikedtobuygrocerieswasnowalargepostoffice.Thereweremoreplacestobuymorethings,moreoften:apharmacythatstayedopentwenty-fourhours,agreatervarietyofplacestoeat.

Shechosearestaurantsheremembered,anicecreamshopwhereBelalikedtogetaconeatthewindow.Aflavorcalledpeppermintstick,studdedwithredandgreencandies,hadbeenherfavorite.Therewasacounterwithstoolsinside,afewboothsat theback.ItwasaSaturday,andshesatamonggroupsofhighschoolstudentswhowereoutwithouttheirparents,drinkingmilkshakes,jokingwithoneanother.A fewolderpeoplewere sittingalone, eatingplatesof friedchickenandmashedpotatoes.

Againthediscomfortshe’dalwaysfeltinRhodeIsland,whenevershesetfootoutside the university. Where she’d felt at once ignored and conspicuous,summed up, in the way. She ate quickly, burning her tongue on a bowl ofchowder, gulping down a small dish of ice cream. She imagined running intoSubhash.Hadhebecomethetypetogoouttorestaurants?

After dinner she drove to the bay, along a promenade where people werejoggingandwalking in the twilight.Througha stonearchway, flankedby twotowers, like the gateway of a castle by the sea. She continued on toward thehouse.

Thelightswereon.Shesloweddown,toonervoustocometoastop.Therewere twocars in thedriveway; shewasunprepared for this.Was therea thirdone in the garage? Who was visiting him? Who were his friends now? Hislovers?Itwastheweekend,washeentertainingguests?

Shedrovebacktotheinn,exhaustedthoughitwasstillearlyforher,eveningjust beginning on theWest Coast. The couple fromMontreal were out, Nantuckedawayinwhateverunseenpartofthehousesheoccupied.

Shewentupstairstoherroomandsawthattwogingersnapshadbeenleftonaplatebyherbed,andamugwithanherbalteabagonthesaucer,nexttotheelectrickettle.

Nan’shospitalitywasmeasured,andyetGauriwasgratefulfortheovertures,howeverimpersonal.Astrangerhadreceivedher,accommodatedher.ButGaurihadnowayofknowing,tomorrow,ifSubhashwoulddothesame.

In themorning, after breakfast, she repacked her suitcase and settled the bill.Already it was over, she was departing, and yet the objective of the journeyremained.Sheerasedthetemporarytracesofherselffromtheroom,smoothingthepillowcaseshehadcreased,readjustingthepieceoflaceonthenightstand.

Handingoverthekey,shefelteagertogobutalsoreluctant,awarethattherewasnowherebut the rentedcar tocallherown.Nothing left todo,other thanfulfillthepurposeforwhichshe’dcome.

Shedrovebacktothehighway.Thetrafficlightwasherlastchancetoturnback towardBoston.Brieflyshepanicked,puttingonherblinker.She irritatedthedriverbehindherwhenshechangedhermindagain,continuingstraight.

Todaytherewasonlyonecar inthedriveway.Asmallhatchbackthatmusthavebeenhis, though it surprisedher toseehowbeaten-up itwas, thatat thisstage of his life hewould still drive the kind of car he drovewhen hewas agraduatestudent.ARhodeIslandlicenseplate,anObamabumpersticker.AlsoonethatsaidBeaLocalHero,BuyLocallyGrown.

Shesaw theJapanesemaple,a twigso tenderonecouldsnap itapartwhenSubhash had planted it; it was three times her height now, the branchesspreadingclosetotheground,thegraybarkassmoothasglazedceramic.Therewere more flowers, black-eyed Susans and daylilies, defying the coming ofwinter, thickly growing at the front of the house. Chrysanthemums in potsdecoratedthesteps.

Shouldshehavebroughtsomething?SomeofferingfromCalifornia,abagofpistachiosorlemons,tospeakforherexistencethere?

Shehad already signed the divorce papers, grantedher consent. Shewouldhand him the documents in person. She would tell him she happened to bepassingthrough.

Shewould agree that theirmarriage should be terminated formally, that ofcourse thehouse inTollygunge,and theone inRhode Island,werehis to sell.Sheimaginedastrainedconversationinthelivingroom,acursoryexchangeofinformation,asinglecupofteahemightoffertoprepare.

Thiswasthescenarioshe’dmappedoutontheplane,thatshe’dreviewedinbedthenightbefore,andagainduringherdrivethatmorning.

Shesatinthecar,lookingatthehouse,knowinghewasinside,knowinghowmuch itwould surelyupsethim to seeher, unbidden.Knowing shewas innopositiontoexpecthimtoopenhisdoortoher.

Sherememberedlookingforthepoliceman’smailboxinJadavpur.Terrifiedofwhatshewasseeking,partofheralreadyknowingwhatshe’dfind.

Shewas temptednot tobotherhim.Toleave thepapers in themailboxand

turnback.Andyetsheunfastenedherseatbelt,andremovedthekeyfromtheignition.Thoughshedidnotexpecthimtoforgiveher,shewantedtothankhimforbeingafathertoBela.ForbringingGauritoAmerica,forlettinghergo.

The shame that had flooded her veinswas permanent. Shewould never befreefromthat.

Ultimately,shehadcomeseekingBela.She’dcometoaskaboutBela’slife,to ask Subhash if she might contact her now. To ask if there was a phonenumber,anaddress towhichshemightwrite.Toask ifBelamightbeopentothis,beforeitwastoolate.

Cold air stung her face as she stepped out of the car, thewind off the seawilderhere than inland.Shereached intoherpurse,coveringherhandswithapairofgloves.

It was not too early, ten-thirty. Subhash would be sitting reading thenewspaper, the Providence Journal that had already been removed, she saw,fromthemailboxatthefootofthedrive.

AlongsideSubhash,shewouldbeseeingaversionofUdayanasanoldman.Hearing his voice again. Subhash had remained his proxy, at once alien andkindred.Shewalkedupthepathandrangthebell.

Chapter5

ItwasaSundaymorning, theskiescalmafter latesummer’sstorms.Soon thekale, theBrussels sprouts,would be ready for harvesting.A few frostswouldimprove the taste. Last night, because the temperature had suddenly dropped,they’dputcomfortersbackonthebeds.Soonthetimewouldchange.

Meghnawasdrawingatthecoffeetable.SubhashandElisehadgoneoutfortheirbreakfast,theirwalk.

BelawaswashingdisheswhenMeghnacameuptoher,tuggingontheedgeofhersweater.

Someone’satthedoor.She thought maybe it was Drew stopping by without calling first, as he

sometimesdid.Sheturnedoffthewateranddriedherhands.Shesteppedawayfromthecounterandlookedthroughthewindowofthelivingroom.

But Drew’s pickup wasn’t in the driveway. There was a small white carlookingbrand-new,parkedbehindBela’s.Shelookedthroughthepeephole,butthevisitorwasstandingtotheside.

Sheopenedthedoor,wonderingwhatwouldbeaskedofher,asignatureorcontribution for what cause. The glass of the storm door had been recentlyreplacedforthecomingcold.

Awomanstoodbehindit,puttingaglovedhandtohermouth.Theywerethesameheightnow.Hairfleckedwithgray,croppedclosetoher

head.Diminishedinbuild.Theskinwassofteraroundtheeyes,subduingtheirintensity.Sheseemedslightenoughtopushaway.

She had devoted some attention to her appearance. A layer of lipstick,earrings,ascarftuckedintohercoat.

Belawasbarefoot.Wearingthesweatpantsshe’dsleptin,anoldpulloverofDrew’s. She reached for the handle of the storm door. She felt for the catch,lockingitfromtheinside.

Bela, sheheardhermothersay.Shesaw tearsonhermother’s face.Relief,disbelief.Thevoicesheremembered,mutedthroughtheglass.

Meghnaapproached.Mama,sheasked.Whoisthatlady?Shedidn’tanswer.Whydon’tyouopenthedoor?

Sheunlocked thedoor,opened it.Shewatchedhermother enter thehouse,hermovementsmeasured,but instinctivelyknowingthearrangementof things.Downtheshortsetofsteps,tothelivingroom.

Here,whereguestswerereceived,theysat.BelaandMeghnaonthesofa,hermother across from them in a chair. Hermother was taking in the dirt underBela’sfingernails,theroughenedskinofherhands.

Someofthefurniture,Belaknew,wasthesame.Thepairofstandinglampsoneither sideof the sofa,withcream-colored shadesand little tableswrappedaround their midsections, on which to put a cup or a glass. A cane-backedrockingchair.ThebatikwallhangingofanIndianfishingboat,stretchedoveraframe.

But proof of Bela’s life was here also. Her basket of knitting. Her plantcuttingsonthewindowsill.Herjarsofbeansandgrains,hercookbooksontheshelves.

NowhermotherwaslookingatMeghna,thenbackatBela.Sheisyours?Yes, I can see that, she continued, answering her own question after some

momentshadpassed.Belasaidnothing.Belawasunabletospeak.Whenwassheborn?Whendidyougetmarried?They were simple questions, ones that Bela did not mind answering when

posedbystrangers.Butcomingfromhermothereachfeltoutrageous.Eachwasanaffront.Shewasunwillingtosharewithhermother,socasually,thefactsandchoicesofherlife.Sherefusedtoutterthewords.

HermotherturnedtoMeghna.Howoldareyou?Sheraisedherhand,showingfourfingers,saying,Almostfive.Whenisyourbirthday?November.Belawasshivering.Shecouldnotcontrol it.Howhad thishappened?Why

hadsheyielded?Whyhadsheopenedthedoor?Youlookjustlikeyourmotherwhenshewasagirl,hermothersaid.What’s

yourname?Meghnapointed to adrawing she’dmade,onwhichhernamewaswritten.

Sheturneditaround,sothatitwouldbeeasiertoread.Meghna,doyoulivehere?Orareyouvisiting?Meghnawasamused.Ofcoursewelivehere.Withyourfather?Idon’thaveafather,Meghnasaid.Whoareyou?

Iamyour—Aunt,Belasaid,speakingforthefirsttime.NowBelawas looking atGauri, glaring at her.With a single shake of her

head, silencingGauri, theadmonishment slicing throughher, remindingherofherplace.

Gauri felt the same suspension of certainty, the same unannounced butimminentthreat,aswhenthewallsinCaliforniawouldtrembleduringaminorquake.Neverknowinguntilitwasover,asacuprattledonthetable,astheearthroiledandresettleditself,whetherornotshewouldbespared.

This lady was a friend of your grandmother’s, Bela said toMeghna. Thatmakesheryourgreat-aunt.Ihaven’tseenhersinceyourgrandmotherdied.

Oh,Meghna said. Shewent back to her drawing. Shewas kneeling at thecoffeetable,herheadtiltedtooneside.Astackofwhitepaper,awoodenboxcontainingarowofcrayons.Shewasfocusedonherwork,regardingitfromanangleofconcentration,alsoofrepose.

Gauri sat, perched on an armchair, in a room whose views had remainedconstant.Buteverythinghadchanged,thedecadescollapsingbutalsoassertingthemselves.Theresultwasanabyssthatcouldnotbecrossed.

She’dcome seekingBela, andhere shewas.Three feet away,unattainable.She was a grown woman, nearly forty years old. Older than Gauri had beenwhen she’d left her. The proportions of her face had altered. Wider at thetemples, longer, more sculptural. Inattentive to her appearance, her browsunshaped,herhairtwistedmessilyatthenapeofherneck.

Willyouplaytic-tac-toewithme?MeghnaaskedBela.Notnow,Meglet.MeghnalookedupatGauri.HerfacewasbrownlikeBela’s,herhazeleyes

justaswatchful.Willyou?GaurithoughtBelawouldobject,butshesaidnothing.Sheleanedover,takingthecrayonfromthechild’shand,markingthepaper.Youandyourmotherliveherewithyourgrandfather?Gauriasked.Meghnanodded.AndElisecomeseveryday.Shecouldnotpreventthequestionfromforming,escapinghermouth.Elise?WhenDadumarriesherI’llhaveagrandmother,Meghnasaid.I’mgoingto

betheflowergirl.Bloodwasdrainingfromherhead.Shegripped thearmrest,waitingfor the

feelingtopass.

ShewatchedMeghnadrawalineonthesheetofpaper.Look,Iwon,Gauriheardhersay.

She pulled the envelope of signed documents out of her bag. She set theenvelopeonthecoffeetableandslidittowardBela.

Theseareforyourfather,shesaid.Belawaswatchingherasonewatchedan infant just learning towalk,as if

shemight suddenly toppleover andcause some formofdamage, even thoughGauriwassittingperfectlystill.

Heiswell?Hishealthisgood?Still she would not answer her, not speak to her directly. There was no

indulgenceinherface.Nochange,fromthemomentGaurihadarrived.Allright,then.She was burning with the failure of it. The effort of the journey, the

presumptuouschanceshe’dtaken,thefoolishanticipationofcomingback.Thedivorcewasnottosimplifybuttoenrichhislife.Thoughshetookupnospaceinit,hewasstillinapositiontoeradicateher.

Shethoughtoftheroomthathadoncebeenherstudy.ShewonderedifitwasMeghna’sroomnow.Backthenshehadonlywantedtoshutthedoortoit,tobeapart from Subhash and Bela. She’d been incapable of cherishingwhat she’dhad.

Shestoodup,adjustedherbagoverhershoulder.I’llbeonmyway.Wait,Belasaid.ShewalkedovertoaclosetandputajacketonMeghna,apairofshoes.She

openedtheslidingglassdooroff thekitchen.Willyoupicksomenewflowersforthetable?shesaidtoher.Pickabigbunch,okay?Andthengocheckthebirdfeeders.Seeifweneedtogivethemmorefood.

Theslidingdoorwasshut.NowsheandBelawerealone.BelawalkedovertowhereGauriwasstanding.Shecameupclose,soclose

thatGauritookasmallstepbackward.Belaraisedherhands,asiftopushGauriawayfurtherstill,butdidnottouchher.

Howdareyou,Belasaid.Hervoicewasjustaboveawhisper.Howdareyousetfootinthishouse.

Noonehadeverlookedatherwithsuchhatred.Whyhaveyoucomehere?Gaurifeltthewallbehindher.Sheleanedagainstitforsupport.Icametogiveyourfatherthepapers.Also—Alsowhat?

I wanted to ask him about you. To find you. He said he was open to ourmeeting.

Andyou’vetakenadvantageofit.Thewayyoutookadvantageofhimfromthebeginning.

Itwaswrongofme,Bela.Icametosay—Getout.Gobacktowhateveritwasthatwasmoreimportant.Belashuther

eyes,puttingherhandsoverherears.Ican’tstandthesightofyou,shecontinued.Ican’tbearlisteningtoanything

youhavetosay.Gauri walked toward the front door. Her throat was raw with pain. She

neededwaterbutshedidn’tdareaskforit.Sheputherhandontheknob.I’msorry,Bela.Iwon’tbotheryouagain.Iknowwhyyouleftus,Belasaid,directingthewordsatGauri’sback.I’veknownforyearsaboutUdayan,shewenton.IknowwhoIam.Now it was Gauri unable to move, unable to speak. Unable to reconcile

hearingUdayan’sname,comingfromBela.Anditdoesn’tmatter.Nothingexcuseswhatyoudid,Belasaid.Bela’s words were like bullets. Putting an end to Udayan, silencing Gauri

now.Nothingwilleverexcuseit.You’renotmymother.You’renothing.Canyou

hearme?Iwantyoutonodifyoucanhearme.There was nothing inside her. Was this what Udayan felt, in the lowland

whenhestoodtofacethem,asthewholeneighborhoodwatched?Therewasnoonetowitnesswhatwashappeningnow.Somehow,shenoddedherhead.

You’re as dead tome as he is. The only difference is that you leftme bychoice.

Shewasright;therewasnothingtoclarify,nothingmoretoconvey.There was a knock on the sliding glass door, and Bela went to open it.

Meghnawantedtocomein.ShesawMeghnastandingatthediningtablewithBela,seekingapprovalfor

the flowers she’d chosen. Bela was composed, attentive to her daughter,behavingasifGauriwerealreadygone.Togethertheyweretakingoldflowersoutofamasonjarandreplacingthemwithnewones.

Gauri could not help herself; before leaving, she crossed the room,walkedovertothetable,andplacedherhandonthegirl’shead,thenonthecoolofhercheek.

Good-bye,Meghna.Ienjoyedmeetingyou.

Politely,thechildlookedupather.Takingherinandthenforgettingher.Nothingmorewassaid.Gauriwalkedtowardthefrontdoor,brisklythistime.

Bela,notlookingupfromwhatshewasdoing,didnothingtodetainher.

She opened the envelope as soon as hermotherwas out of the house, beforeshe’devenstartedtheignitionofthecar.Shemadesureshe’dsignedandagreedtowhather fatherhadasked.Whathe’d toldBela, a fewmonths ago,hewasreadytodo.

Therewerethesignatures,alloftheminplace.Shewasthankfulforthis.Asbewildering as it had been, she was thankful that it was she, not her father,who’d had to confront Gauri. She was thankful that she’d shielded him fromthat.

Her mother’s brief presence had shocked Bela as a dead body might. Butalreadyshehadvanishedagain.Shelistenedtothesoundofthecarfading,thendisappearing,andthenitwasas ifhermotherhadnevercomeback,andthosefewmoments had never happened. And yet she’d returned, stood before her,spokentoher,spokentoMeghna.Belahaddreameditsomanytimes.

This morning, seeing her mother, the force of her anger had crushed her.She’dneverfeltsuchviolentemotionbefore.

It twisted through the loveshefelt forher father,herdaughter,herguardedfondness for Drew. Its destructive current uprooted those things, splinteringthemandflingingthemaside,shearingtheleavesfromthetrees.

Foramomentshewasflungbackto thedaythey’dreturnedfromCalcutta.TheripeheatofAugust,thedoortothestudyleftopen,thedesktopnearlybare.Thegrasssproutingtohershoulders,spreadingbeforeherlikeasea.

EvennowBelafelttheurgetostrikeher.Toberidofher,tokillheralloveragain.

Chapter6

VIPRoad, the oldway to and from the airport inDumDum, had once beenremote enough for bandits, avoided after dark. But now she passed high-riseapartment buildings, glass-fronted offices, a stadium. Lit-up malls andamusementparks.Foreigncompaniesandfive-starhotels.

ThecitywascalledKolkatanow, thewayBengalispronounced it.The taxitraveledalongaperipheralarterythatbypassedthenorthernportionofthecity,the congested center. It was evening, the traffic dense but moving quickly.Flowersandtreeswereplantedalongthesidesof theroad.Newflyovers,newsectors replacing what used to be farmland and swamp. The taxi was anAmbassador.Butmostoftheothercarswereimported,smallersedans.

After the bypass, turning after a fancy hospital, a few familiar things. ThetraintracksatBallygunge,thetangledintersectionatGariahat.Lifepouringoutof crooked lanes, seated on broken steps. Hawkers, selling clothes, sellingslippersandpurses,liningthestreets.

ItwasDurgaPujo,thecity’smostanticipateddays.Thestores,thesidewalks,wereoverflowing.Attheendsofcertainalleys,oringapsamongbuildings,shesawthepandals.Durgaarmedwithherweapons, flankedbyherfourchildren,depictedandworshipedinsomanyversions.Madeofplaster,madeofclay.Shewasresplendent,formidable.Alionhelpedtoconquerthedemonatherfeet.Shewasadaughtervisitingherfamily,visitingthecity,transformingitforatime.

TheguesthousewasonSouthernAvenue.Theflatwasontheseventhfloor.Overlooking the lake. A women’s fitness club below. The elevator seemedhardly more spacious than a telephone booth. Yet somehow she and thecaretakerandhersuitcasemanagedtofit.

You’vecomeforPujo?thecaretakerasked.She’dbeenonherwaytoLondon,nothere.SomewhereovertheAtlantic,the

destinationhadbecomeclear.InLondonshehadn’tlefttheairport.Thelectureshewassupposedtodeliver,

theprintedpagesinafolderinhersuitcase,wouldgounheard.Shehadn’tbotherede-mailingtheorganizersoftheconferencetoexplainher

absence.Itdidn’tmattertoher.Nothingdid,afterthethingsBelahadsaid.She’dgonetothebookingofficeinHeathrow,askingaboutflightstoIndia.

The Indian passport she continued to carry, the citizenship she’d neverrenounced,enabledher,thefollowingmorning,toboardanotherplane.

It tookher toMumbai. Itwasadirect flight, therewasno longeraneed torefuel in the Middle East. Another night at another airport hotel, cold whitesheets,Indiantelevisionprograms.Black-and-whitefilmsfromthesixties,CNNInternational.Unabletosleep,turningonherlaptop,shelookedupguesthousesinKolkata,bookedaplacetostay.

The kitchen would be stocked in the morning. The durwan could sendsomeoneouttobringindinnertonight,sheheardthecaretakersay.

Thatwon’tbenecessary.ShouldIsetupadriver?She couldpayhima flat rate for theday, the caretaker toldher.Hewould

show up as early as she liked. He would take her, within the city limits,anywhereshewantedtogo.

I’llbereadyateight,shesaid.

Shewokeindarkness,hereyesopenatfive.Atsixsheshoweredwithhotwater.She shed her clothes in a corner of the bathroom, brushed her teeth at a pinksink.OnthepantryshelvesinthekitchenshefoundaboxofLipton,litaburner,andmadeherselfacupoftea.Shedrankit,andateapacketofcrackersleftoverfromtheplane.

Atseventhedoorbellrang.Amaidcarryingabagoffruit,breadandbutter,biscuits,thenewspaper.Thecaretakerhadmentionedsomethingaboutthis.

HernamewasAbha.Shewasawomaninherthirties,atalkativemotheroffourchildren.Theeldest,shetoldGauri,wassixteen.Intheafternoonsshehadajob,atoneofthefancyhospitals,cleaning.Shebrewedmoretea,setoutaplateofbiscuits.

Abha’s teawasbetter,stronger,servedwithsugarandwarmedmilk.Afewminuteslater,shebroughtoutanotherplate.

What’sthis?She’dpreparedanomelette,slicedtoastwithbutter.Thebutterwassalty,the

omelettespicedwithpiecesofchili.Gauriateeverything.Shedrankmoretea.At eight o’clock, looking down from the small balcony off the bedroom,

Gaurisawacarparkedbelow.Thedriverwasayoungmanwithcurlyhairandapotbelly, wearing trousers, leather slippers. He was leaning against the hood,smokingacigarette.

She went to the north, up College Street, past Presidency, to visit her old

neighborhood, to findManash.ButManashwas inShillong,whereoneofhissons lived; he went every year at this time. His wife received her in hergrandparents’oldflat,wherethedarkstairwellwasstilluneven,wherethedooropenedforher,whereManashandhisfamilycontinuedtolive.

She sat with them in one of the bedrooms. She met his other son, thegrandchildren from that family.Theywere incredulous to seeher,welcoming,polite. They offered her sandesh, mutton rolls, tea. Behind her, beyond theshuttereddoor,sheheardaconstable’swhistle,theclangingofthetram.

She was tempted to ask if she could step outside for a moment, onto thebalconythatwrappedaroundtheroomsoftheflat,thenchangedhermind.Howmanyhourshadshespentstaringdownatthetraffic,theintersection,herbodybentslightlyforward,elbowsontherailing,chincuppedinherhand?Shewasunabletopictureherself,suddenly,standingthere.

Usingacellphone,theyrangManashinShillong.Sheheardhisvoiceonthephone.Manash,whom she’d followed to this city,who’d been the conduit toUdayan;Manash,thefirstcompanionofherlife.

Gauri,hesaid.Hisvoicehaddeepened,alsoweakened.Anoldman’svoice.Thickwiththeemotionshealsofelt.

It’sreallyyou?Yes.Whatfinallybringsyouhere?Ineededtoseeitagain.Still he addressed her in the affectionate mode, the diminutive form of

exchange reserved for bonds formed in childhood, never questioned, neversubjecttochange.Itwashowparentsspoketotheirchildren,howUdayanandSubhashhadonce spoken tooneanother. It conveyed the intimacyof siblingsbutnotoflovers.ItwasnothoweitherUdayanorSubhashhadspokentoher.

CometoShillongforafewdays.Ifnot,waitformetocomebacktoKolkata.I’lltry.I’mnotsurehowlongIcanstay.Hetoldhershewastheonlyoneofhissistersstill living.That theirfamily

haddwindledtothetwoofthem.Howismyniece,myBela?WillImeether?WillIknowheroneday?She assured him, knowing it would never happen. She said goodbye. The

driver headed south again. Toward Chowringhee, Esplanade. The MetroCinema,theGrandHotel.

She sat in the car, in snarled traffic, the atmosphere heavywith smog. Shesawaversionofherself,standingononeofthecrowdedbusses,hangingontoa

strap, wearing one of the cotton saris she’d worn to college. Going to meetUdayansomewherehe’dsuggested,sometucked-awayrestaurantwherenoonewouldrecognizethem,wherehewouldbewaitingforher,wheretheycouldsitacrossfromoneanotherforaslongastheyliked.

ShouldItakeyoutoNewMarket?thedriveraskedher.Ortooneofthenewshoppingcenters?

No.WhenthedriverapproachedSouthernAvenueshetoldhimtocontinue.ToKalighat?ToTollygunge.Justafterthetramdepot,nottoofarin.Past the replica of Tipu Sultan’s mosque, past the cemetery. There was a

metrostationnow,opposite thedepot,cutting through thecityunderground. IttraveledallthewaytoDumDum,thedriversaid.Shesawpeoplerushinguptheshallowsteps,peopleoldenoughtowork,youngenoughtohavegrownupwiththemetroalltheirlives.

She saw the high brickwalls on either side of the road, shielding the filmstudios, the Tolly Club. Forty years later the little mosque at the corner stillstood,thered-and-whiteminaretsvisible.

Shetoldthedrivertostop,givinghimmoneyfortea,askinghimtowaitforherthere.Itwouldbeabriefvisit,shesaid.

Peoplewereglancingathernow that shewasoutof thecar.Taking inhersunglasses, herAmerican clothing and shoes.Unaware that once she, too,hadlived here.Cell phones rang, but the rubber horns of the cycle rickshaws stillsquawkedonthemainroads.

Behind the mosque there was a grouping of huts with walls of wovenbamboo,shelteringthosewhostilllivedthere.

She continued down the lane, stepping past the stray dogs. Some of thehousesweretallernow,blockingoutmoreofthesky.Theyhadwindowsmadeofglass,woodentrimspaintedwhite.Rooftopsthickwithantennas.Patioswithterrazzo floors. The older homesweremore derelict, constructed fromnarrowbricks,sectionsoffiligreemissing.

Allofitwascrammedtightlytogether.Notasingleemptyplot,nospaceforchildrentoplaycricketorfootball.Thelaneremainedsonarrowthatacarcouldbarelyfit.

She came to the house in which she was once destined to grow old withUdayan.ThehomeinwhichshehadconceivedBela,inwhichBelamighthavebeenraised.

She’d expected to find it aged but standing, as she was. In fact it lookedyounger, the edges smoother, the facade painted a warm orange shade. Theswingingwoodendoubledoorshadbeen replacedbyacheerfulgreengate, tomatchtheterracegrilles.

The courtyard no longer existed. The proportions of the building hadextended forward, so that the facade nearly abutted the street. That area wasperhapsnowa living room,oradiningroom,shecouldnot tell. Inoneof theroomsa televisionwason.Theopendrainat the threshold, that she’dsteppedovertocomeandgo,hadbeenclosed.

Shewalkedpast thehouse,across the lane,andover toward the twoponds.Shehadforgottennodetail.Thecolorandshapeofthepondsclearinhermind.Butthedetailswerenolongerthere.Bothpondsweregone.Newhomesfilledupanareathathadoncebeenwatery,open.

Walkingabitfarther,shesawthatthelowlandwasalsogone.Thatsparselypopulatedtractwasnowindistinguishablefromtherestoftheneighborhood,andonitmorehomeshadbeenbuilt.Scootersparkedinfrontofdoorways,laundryhungouttodry.

Shewonderedifanyofthepeopleshepassedrememberedthingsasshedid.Shewastemptedtostopamanaboutheragewholookedvaguelyfamiliar,whomight have been one of Udayan’s class friends. He was on his way to themarket,wearinganundershirt,a lungi,carryingashoppingbag.Hepassedby,notrecognizingher.

Somewhereclosetowhereshestood,Udayanhadhiddeninthewater.He’dbeentakentoanemptyfield.Somewheretherewasatabletwithhisnameonit,commemoratingthebrieflifehe’dled.Orperhapsthis,too,hadbeenremoved.

Shewasunpreparedforthelandscapetobesoaltered.Fortheretobenotraceofthatevening,fortyautumnsago.

Scarcely two years of her life, begun as awife, concluded as awidow, anexpectantmother.Anaccompliceinacrime.

Ithadseemedreasonable,whatUdayanhadaskedofher.Whathe’dtoldher:thattheywantedapolicemanoutoftheway.Dependingonone’sinterpretation,ithadnotevenbeenalie.

She’dacceptedthebenignversion.Thestrayparticleofdoubt,themutepieceofherthatsuspectedsomethingworse,asshesatbythewindowwiththebrotherandsister,glancingdownatthestreet,she’dsmothered.

Nooneconnectedhertoit.Stillnooneknewwhatshe’ddone.Shewasthesoleaccuser,thesoleguardianofherguilt.ProtectedbyUdayan,

overlookedby the investigator, takenawaybySubhash.Sentenced in thevery

actofbeingforgotten,punishedbymeansofherrelease.Again she remembered what Bela had said to her. That her reappearance

meantnothing.ThatshewasasdeadasUdayan.Standing there, unable to find him, she felt a new solidaritywith him.The

bondofnotexisting.

Thenightbeforetheycameforhimhefellasleep,ashehadbeenunabletodofordays.Butinhissleephebegantocryout,wakingher.

Atfirstshecouldnotrousehim,evenwhensheshookhimbytheshoulders.Then he woke up, startled, shivering. His head burned with fever. Hecomplained of the cold in the room, of a draft, though the airwas humid andstill.Heaskedhertoturnoffthefanandclosetheshutters.

She spread a quilt over him, pulling it out of ametal trunk thatwas undertheirbed.Shetuckeditupbeneathhisshoulders,beneathhischin.

Gobacktosleep,shetoldhim.JustlikeIndependence,hesaid.What?MeandSubhash.Webothhadafever.Myparentstellastory,ofhowboth

our teethwere chattering the nightNehrumade his speech, the night freedomcame.Inevertoldyou?

No.Miserablefoolsinbed,justlikethis.Shepouredhimwaterherefusedtosip,pushingitawaysothatitspilledover

thequilt.Shedampenedahandkerchiefandwipedhisface.Sheworriedthatthefeverwascausedbyaninfection,somethingtodowithhisinjuredhand.Buthedidnotcomplainofanyworsepain,andthenthefeverbegantosubside,fatiguereclaiminghim.

Untilmorninghe slept soundly.She stayed awake, sitting in the swelteringroom,sealedupwithhim.Staringathim, thoughshecouldnotseehimin thedarkness.

Slowlyhisprofilecameintoview.Hisforehead,hisnoseandlips,edgedwithgraylight.Thiswasthefirstlightthatpenetratedtheventsabovethewindows,theplasterthereperforatedinaseriesofwavylines.

Aneglectedbeard coveredhis cheeks, amoustachehiding the detail of hisface—theshadedgrooveabovehismouth—thatshemost loved.The imageofhim so still,with his eyes closed, disconcertedher.Sheput her handover hischest,feelingitsriseandfall.

Heopenedhiseyes,seemingsuddenlylucid,himselfagain.I’vebeenthinking,hesaid.Aboutwhat?Abouthavingchildren.Woulditbeenoughforyou,ifweneverdid?Whyareyouthinkingofthisnow?Ican’tbecomeafather,Gauri.Afteramomentheadded,NotafterwhatI’vedone.Whathaveyoudone?He wouldn’t say. Whatever happened, he told her, he regretted only one

thing:thathehadnotmethersooner,thathehadnotknownhereverydayofhislife.

Heclosedhiseyesagain,reachingforherhand, theirfingers joined.Asthemorningsteadilybrightened,hedidnotletitgo.

Attheguesthouse,inamicrowaveoven,shewarmedupthemealAbhahadleftfor her, eating fish stew and rice at an oval table that sat six. The table wascovered with a flowered tablecloth, a sheet of plastic over that. She watchedsometelevision,thenputtheleftoverfoodaway.

The bedwasmade, the cover smoothly spread, the nylonmosquito nettingbunchedupontohooks.Sheloweredit,tuckinginthesides.Therewasonlyanoverheadlight.Notpossibletoreadinbed.Shelayindarkness.Eventually,forafewhours,sheslept.

Thecrowswokeher.Shegotoutofbedand steppedonto thebalcony thatwasoff thebedroom.Themilkydawnwasopaque, as if shewerehigh in themountainsandnotatthebaseofasprawlingdelta,theworld’slargestdelta,atthelevelofthesea.

Thebalconywassmall, justenough roomforaplastic stool, a small tub inwhichtosoakdirtyclothes.Notaplacetopassthetime.

The road was empty. The shopkeepers had not yet arrived to open theirpadlocksandraisetheirgrates.

Water was being poured from buckets, the pavement swept clean. A fewpeoplewere entering the grounds of the lake for theirmorningwalk, stridingpurposefully alone, or in pairs. She saw a stall across the avenue, sellingnewspapersandfruit,bottledwaterandtea.

Thestreetsweepermovedontothenextblock.Therewasnoonetherenow.She heard the sound of traffic, intensifying. Soon it would be constant. Soonnothingelsewouldbeheard.

Shepressedherselfagainsttherailingofthebalcony.Itwashighenough.Shefeltdesperationrisingupinsideher.Alsoaclarity.Anurge.

This was the place. This was the reason she’d come. The purpose of herreturnwastotakeherleave.

Sheimaginedswingingonelegover,thentheother.Thesensationofnothingsupporting her, of no longer resisting. It would take only a few seconds. Hertimewouldend,itwasassimpleasthat.

Forty years ago she hadn’t had the courage. Bela had been inside her. Itwasn’ttheemptiness,thehuskofexistenceshefeltnow.

ShethoughtofKanuSanyal,andofthewomanwho’dfoundhim.AwomanlikeAbhawhosawtohisneeds,whocameandwenteachday.

Who, coming back from a morning’s walk around the lake, feelinginvigorated,mighthappentoseeherfall?Who,realizingitwastoolatetosaveher,wouldshieldhisface,turningaway?

Sheclosedhereyes.Hermindwasblank. Itheldonly thepresentmoment,nothing else. The moment that, until now, she’d never been able to see. Shethoughtitwouldbelikelookingdirectlyatthesun.Butitdidnotdeflecther.

Thenonebyoneshereleasedthethingsthatfetteredher.Lighteningherself,theway she’d removedher bangles afterUdayanwaskilled.What she’d seenfrom the terrace in Tollygunge. What she’d done to Bela. The image of apolicemanpassingbeneathawindow,holdinghissonbythehand.

Afinalimage:UdayanstandingbesideheronthebalconyinNorthCalcutta.Lookingdownatthestreetwithher,gettingtoknowher.Leaningforward,justinchesbetween them, the future spreadbefore them.Themomenther life hadbegunasecondtime.

Sheleanedforward.Shesawthespotwhereshewouldfall.Sherecalledthethrillofmeetinghim,ofbeingadoredbyhim.Themomentoflosinghim.Thefury of learning how he’d implicated her. The ache of bringing Bela into theworld,afterhewasgone.

Sheopenedhereyes.Hewasnotthere.

The morning had begun, another day. Mothers taking uniformed children toschool,menandwomenhurryingtotheirjobs.Thegroupofmenwhowouldsitplayingcardsalldayhadarranged themselvesonacotat thecorner.Themanwhorepairedsarodsspreadabedsheetonthepavement,puttingoutthebrokeninstrumentshewouldrestringandtunethatday.

DirectlybelowGauria littleproducestandhadsetup,selling tomatoesand

eggplantsfromshallowbaskets.Carrotsmorered thanorange, foot-longstringbeans.Theowner sat cross-leggedunder the shadeof a soiled tarp, tending tocustomerswho’dalreadybeguntoapproach.

Heplacedtheweightsonthescale.Theywerestrikingtheplates.Oneofthecustomerssteppedaway.

It wasAbha, coming to cook breakfast, to brew the tea. She looked up atGauri, holding up a bunch of bananas, a small packet of detergent, a loaf ofbread.Inherotherhandwasthenewspaper.

Shecalledup.Whatelsefortoday?That’sall,nothingelse.AttheendoftheweekshewouldleaveKolkataandreturntoherlife.When

Abharangthebell,Gaurileftthebalcony,andletherin.

Severalmonthslater,inCalifornia,asecondletterarrivedfromRhodeIsland.ThistimeitwasinEnglish.Lightblueink,theaddressheedlesslyscrawled—

howhad themailmandeciphered it?No longer theneat penmanshipBelahadlearnedinschool.Buthereitwas,legibleenoughtoreachher,theclosestshe’devercometovisiting.

Gauristudiedtheenvelope,theillustrationofasailboatonthestamp.Shesatatthetableonherpatio,andunfoldedthepage.Therewasasecondsheetfoldedwithin it, a drawingMeghna hadmade and signed: a solid strip of blue sky,anotherstripofgreenground,acolorfulcatfloatinginthewhitespacebetween.

Theletterborenosalutation.

Meghna asks about you. Maybe she senses something, Idon’tknow.It’stoosoontotellherthestorynow.ButonedayI’llexplaintoherwhoyouare,andwhatyoudid.Mydaughter will know the truth about you. Nothing more,nothing less. If, then, she still wants to know you, and tohavearelationshipwithyou,I’mwillingtofacilitatethat.Thisisabouther,notaboutme.You’vealreadytaughtmenot to need you, and I don’t need to know more aboutUdayan.Butmaybe,whenMeghnaisolder,whensheandIarebothready,wecantrytomeetagain.

PartVIII

Chapter1

OnthewesterncoastofIreland,onthepeninsulaofBeara,acouplecomeforaweek’sstay.TheydrivefromCorkthroughthedrowsycountryside,arrivinglatein the afternoon to a terrain that is mountainous, stark. The region’s valleysconceal evidence of prehistoric agriculture. Field patterns, stone-wall systems,buriedunderdepositsofpeat.

Theyhaverentedahouseinoneofthefewtowns.Whitestucco,thedoorandshutters painted blue. The entire town feels hardly larger than the enclave ofhomesinwhich,longago,themanwasraised.

Thestreetisnarrowandsloping,linedwithblossomingfuchsia,parkedcars.Theyaretwodoorsfromapub,anarm’sreachfromayellowchurchthatservestheresidentsof thevillage.Fromthepostoffice,whichisalsoageneralstore,they buy their provisions: milk and eggs, baked beans and sardines, a jar ofblackberryjam.Itispossibletositoutsidethepostoffice,atatablefortwoonthesidewalk,andorderapotoftea,freshcreamandbutter,aplateofscones.

Atnight,afterthelongjourney,apintofbeeratthepub,theman’ssleepisshallow.Hewakes up in the bedwhere he lieswith his newwife. She sleepspeacefullybesidehim,herheadturnedaway,handscrossedbelowherchin.

He goes downstairs and opens the door at the back of the house.He stepsbarefootontothewoodenporchthatoverlooksthegarden,thepasturesbeyond,runningdowntotheKenmareBay.Hishairisthick,snowywhite.Hiswifelikestorunherfingersthroughit.Heseesthewidebeamofthemoon’slightoverthewater, pouring down. He is overwhelmed by the sky’s clarity, the number ofstars.

Astrongwindcoursesovertheland,mimickingthesoundofthewaves.Helooks up, forgetting the names of the constellations he’d once taught hisdaughter.Burninggases,perceivedonearthascoolpointsoflight.

He returns to bed, still looking out thewindow at the sky, the stars.He isstartledanewbythefactthattheirbeauty,evenindaytime,isthere.Heisawashwiththegratitudeofhisadvancingyears,forthetimelesssplendorsoftheearth,fortheopportunitytobeholdthem.

Thefollowingmorningafterbreakfasttheysetoutfortheirfirstday’swalk,on paths that edge the sea. They cross rough pastures where sheep and cows

graze in silence against the horizon, fields of foxglove and ferns. The day isovercast but luminous, the clouds holding. The ocean washes up into stonyinlets,liescalmbeyondsteepcliffs.

The man and woman take in the immensity of their surroundings. Thestillnessoftheplace.Onthisoutcropofland,afterwalkingforhours,climbingupanddownlittleladdersthatseparateonepropertyfromthenext,theyarelessthanhalfwaytowheretheythoughttheymightenduponthemapoftheregiontheypausetostudy.

Thetripisahoneymoon,theman’sfirst,thoughhewasmarriedoncebefore.A few days ago, across the same ocean, in America, the couple stood toexchange theirvowson thegroundsofasmall red-and-whitechurch inRhodeIsland that the man has admired for many years, its spire rising overNarragansettBay.

Thecouple’sunionwaswitnessedbyagroupoffriendsandfamily.Themanhasgainedtwosons,aseconddaughterinadditiontohisown.Therearesevengrandchildren.Flungfarapart,occasionallythrusttogether,theywillknoweachotherinalimitedway.Still,itisapointoforigin,alookingforwardlateinlife.

Theyearsthecouplehavetogetherareasharedconclusiontolivesseparatelybuilt,separatelylived.Thereisnousewonderingwhatmighthavehappenedifthemanhadmetherinhisforties,orinhistwenties.Hewouldnothavemarriedherthen.

Thenextdaywhentheystepoutofthehousetheyencounteragroupbiddingan unknown villager farewell, mourners in dark clothing spreading down theslopingstreet.Foramomentitisasifthey,too,arepartofthefuneral.Thereisnosenseofitsboundaries,whereitbeginsorends,whomitgrieves.Thentheypass,respectfully,outofitsshadow.

If theirgrandchildrenwerealong, theywould take thembycablecar toseethedolphinsandwhales thatswimoffDurseyIsland.Insteadtheydevote theirdaystowalking.Handinhand,wearingbulkysweatersthey’veboughttowardofftheslightautumnchill.

Theystopwhentheytire,toadmiretheviews,tositandeatbiscuits,piecesofcheese.Intidepoolswithrocksthatformchambersandgrottoes,theydiscoverheapsofflatgraypebbles,perforatedshellsthathavewornawaytohardwhiterings.Themangathersahandful,thinkingtheywillmakeanicenecklaceforhisgranddaughter in Rhode Island, strung through a bit of yarn. He imaginesplacingitonherhead,sothatitadornsherlikeacrown.

Theycomeacrosscertainstonesthatareofinterest,thattheyfollowsignstosee.Crudepillarstuckedawayoffminorroads.AnOghamstone,inscribedwith

names, in a farmer’s field. A solitary boulder, said to be the incarnation of awomanwithpowersofenchantment,aslantonabluff.

Lateoneday they trek througha soggy field to reachagroupof stones setintoavalley,appearingrandombutdeliberatelyarrayed,facingoneanotheronwindsweptland.Someareshorterthanthecouple’sheights,otherstaller.Widerat the bottom, appearing whittled at the top. Lacking grace but sacred, wornwhite in spotswith age.One cannot imaginemoving them,but their positionshavebeencarefullyconsidered,eachstone laboriously transported,groupedbyhumanhands.

Hiswife explains that they date to theBronzeAge, that their purposewasreligious, perhaps funerary or commemorative. How some of themmay havebeenpositioned in relation to the earth’smotionaround the sun.For centuriespeople have traveled long distances to touch them, to stand before them andreceivetheirblessing.Someleaveatraceofthemselvesbehind.

Heseeshairbands,frailchains,lockets,heapedatthebaseofcertainstones.Twigstiedtogether,bitsofthread.Personalofferings,neglectedtrinketsoffaith.Heknowsnothingofthisancientarcheology,theseenduringbeliefs.Somuchoftheworldheisstillignorantof.

Henoticesclumpsoftallergrowthsproutingthroughoutthegreenfield,likemarshgrassatlowtide.Heseestherockybrownfacesofthesurroundinghills,thebay’scalmsurfacebelow.

Theman thinks of another stone in a distant country clear in his mind. Asimple tablet, like a roadmarker, bearing his brother’s name. Its surroundingsslowly sullied, the watery place where it once stood now indifferent to theseasons, converted tomore practicalmeans. For years hismother had been afaithfulpilgrimtothatshrine,offeringflowerstoherson,untilshewasunabletovisit,untileventhatformoftributewasdenied.

Onancientgroundthatisnewtohim,inasecludedruin’sopenembrace,hisshoesarecakedwithmud.Helooksupandseesthebroodinggrayskystretchingover theearth.Theceaselessmovementof theatmosphere, lowcloudsdriftingformiles.

Amidthegray,anincongruousbandofdaytimeblue.Tothewest,apinksunalreadybeginsitsdescent.Theeffectisofthreeisolatedaspects,distinctphasesoftheday.Allofit,strewnacrossthehorizon,iscontainedinhisvision.

Udayan isbesidehim.Theyarewalking together inTollygunge, across thelowland,overthehyacinthleaves.Theycarryaputtingiron,somegolfballsintheirhands.

In Ireland, too, theground is drenched, uneven.He takes it in a final time,

knowinghewillnevervisitthisplaceagain.Hewalkstowardanotherstoneandstumbles,reachingouttoit,steadyinghimself.Amarker,towardtheendofhisjourney,ofwhatisgiven,whatistakenaway.

Chapter2

He didn’t hear the van entering the enclave. He only saw it approach. Hehappenedtobeontheroof.Thehousewastallenoughnow.Aslongashekepttothebacknooneelsecouldseehim.

It was just as well to stay away from the parapet. Since the explosion theexteriorworldwas no longer stable. The soles of his feet no longer anchoredhim.The ground belownowbeckoned, nowmenaced, if he happened to lookdown.

Hesawthatthereweretoomanyofthem;thattherewerethreeparamilitaryin the courtyard alone.He glanced at the neighboring rooftops. In sections ofNorth Calcutta it might have been possible to leap, to span the gap betweenbuildings.Butthevertigomadeitimpossible;hecouldnolongergaugesimpledistances.Inanycase,inTollygunge,thehomeswerebuilttoofarapart.

Beforehisfatherwenttounlockthegate,toletthemin,heranbackdownthestairwell.Hunchingoverashemadetheturns,carefulnottobespottedthroughtheterracegrille.Throughthenewpartofthehouseandintotheold.TherewasadooratthebackoftheroomheandSubhashhadonceshared,narrowdoubledoorsleadingtothegarden.

Heclimbedovertherearwallofthecourtyardasheusedtowhenhewasachild, toescapethehousewithouthismothernoticing.Unable todoitquicklybecauseofhishand,butmanaging,steppingoverthekerosenetin.Theeveningwaswarm,thesmellofsulfurstrong.

Hemovedquickly,cuttingpasttheponds,overtothelowland.Heenteredthesectionwherethewaterhyacinthwasthickest,takingonestep,thenanother,thewaterreceivinghimuntilhisbodywasconcealed.

He took a deep breath, closed his mouth, and went under. He tried not tomove.With the fingertips of his uninjured hand he was pinching his nostrilsshut.

Afterthefirstfewsecondsthepressuremountedandburnedinhislungs,asifall theweightofhisbodywerecentered there.Thebreathhewasholdingwasturningsolid,crowdinghischest.Thiswasnormal,notfromalackofoxygen,butbecausecarbondioxidewasbuildingupinhisblood.

If one could fight the instinct at that point to take abreath, thebodycould

survive up to six minutes. Blood would begin to ebb from his liver and hisintestines,flowingtohisheartandhisbrain.Thedoctorwho’dtreatedhishand,whomhe’dasked,hadexplainedthistohim.

Hemonitoredhispulse,ministering tohimself. Itwouldhavebeenbetter ifhehadn’tbeenrunning.Ifhispulsehadbeenslowerashe’denteredthewater.Hebegantocount.Hecountedtenseconds.Fightingtheurgetosurface,forcinghimselftobearitafewsecondsmore.

Underwater there was the freedom of not having to struggle to listen toanything.Hewassparedthefrustrationofmisunderstanding,ofaskingpeopletorepeatthings.Thedoctorsaidthehearingmightimprove,thatthedistortionandtheringinginhisearsmightsubsideovertime.Hewouldhavetowaitandsee.

The silence underwaterwas not absolute.Rather, a toneless exhalation thatpenetrated his skull. It was different from the partial deafness he’d beenexperiencingsincetheexplosion.Water,abetterconductorofsoundthanair.

Hewondered if thisdeafnesswaswhat itwas like tovisit a countrywhereonedidnot understand the language.To absorbnothingofwhatwas said.Hehad never been to another country. Never been to China or to Cuba. Herememberedsomethinghe’dreadrecently,thefinalwordsChehadwrittentohischildren:Rememberthattherevolutionistheimportantthingandthateachoneofusaloneisworthnothing.

Butinthiscaseithadfixednothing,helpednoone.Inthiscasetherewastobenorevolution.Heknewthisnow.

Ifhewasworthnothing,thenwhywashesodesperatetosavehimself?Why,intheend,didthebodynotobeythebrain?

All at once his body overcame him and he surfaced, his head and chestexposed,hisnostrilsburning,hislungsgaspingforair.

Two paramilitary stood facing him, their guns raised. One of them wasshouting into amegaphone, so that Udayan had no trouble hearingwhat wassaid.

They’d surrounded the lowland. He saw that a soldier stood at a distancebehind him, twomore to either side.They’d captured his family.Theywouldstartshootingthemifhedidnotsurrender, thevoiceannounced.Athreat loudenoughnotonlyforhisownbenefitbutfortheentireneighborhoodtohear.

Carefullyhe stoodup in thickweedywater that came tohiswaist.Hewasspittingupwhathe’d swallowed, coughing soviolently thathisorgans seized.Theyweretellinghimtowalkforward,toraisehishandsabovehishead.

Again theunsteadiness, thedizziness.The surfaceof thewater at anangle,theskylowerthanitshouldbe,thehorizonunfixed.Hewantedashawlforhis

shoulders. The soft maroon one Gauri always kept hanging on a rod in theirroom, that enveloped him in her smell some mornings when he wrapped itaroundhimselftosmokehisfirstcigaretteontheroof.

Hehadhopedthatsheandhismotherwerestilloutshopping.Butwhenheemergedfromthewater,hesawthattheyhadreturnedintimeforthis.

Ithadbegunincollege,inGauri’sneighborhood,onthecampusjustdownthestreet fromthe flatwhereshe lived.Therewasalways talkduring labs,duringmeals at the canteen, about the country and all that was wrong with it. Thestagnanteconomy,thedeteriorationoflivingstandards.Thelatestriceshortage,pushing tens of thousands to the verge of starvation. The travesty ofIndependence, half of India still in chains. Only it was Indians chainingthemselvesnow.

HegottoknowsomemembersoftheMarxiststudentwing.They’dtalkedofthe example of Vietnam. He started cutting classes, wandering with themthroughCalcutta.Visitingfactories,visitingslums.

In1966they’dorganizedastrikeatPresidency,overthemaladministrationofhostels. They’d demanded that the superintendent resign. They’d riskedexpulsion.They’dshutdownallofCalcuttaUniversity,forsixty-ninedays.

He’d gone to the countryside to further indoctrinate himself. He’d beeninstructed tomove fromplace to place, towalk fifteenmiles each day beforesundown.Hemet tenant farmers living indesperation.Peoplewho resorted toeatingwhattheyfedtheiranimals.Childrenwhoateonemealaday.

Thosewith less sometimes killed their families, hewas told, before endingtheirownlives.

Their subsistence was contingent on arrangements with landowners,moneylenders.Onpeoplewhotookadvantageofthem.Onforcesbeyondtheircontrol.Hesawhowthesystemcoercedthem,howithumiliatedthem.Howithadstrippedtheirdignityaway.

Heatewhathewasgiven.Coarsegrainsof rice, thinned lentils.Water thatneverquenchedhisthirst.Insomevillagestherewasnotea.Heseldombathed,he’dhadtodefecateinfields.Noplacetosufferwithprivacytheviolentcrampsthatrippedthroughhisbowels,throughthestingingapertureofhisskin.Forhimitwasatemporarydeprivation.Buttoomanyknewnothingelse.

Atnightheandhiscompanionswerehiddenonbedsof string,onsacksofgrain.Theywere tormentedbymosquitoes,slow-movingswarmsthatbit themto the bone. Some of the boys came from wealthy families. One or two leftwithinamatterofdays.Atnight, in thatcollectivesilence,upsetbythethings

he’dseenandheard,Udayanallowedhimselftothinkofasinglecomfort.Gauri.Heimaginedseeingheragain,talkingtoher.Hewonderedifshe’dbewillingtobehiswife.

Oneday,visitingaclinic,heconfrontedthecorpseofayoungwoman.Shewas around Gauri’s age, already the mother of numerous children. It wasunclear, from her appearance,why she’d died.No one in the group answeredcorrectlywhenthedoctoraskedthemtoguess.Tryingtoobtaincheapriceforher family, they were told, she had been trampled in a stampede. Her lungscrushed.

Ironically, her facewas full, her belly slack.He imagined the other peoplepushing behind her, determined enough to knock her down. People shemighthaveknownfromhervillage,mighthavecalledneighborsandfriends.Herewasmoreproofthatthesystemwasfailing,thatsuchpovertywasacrime.

Theywere told that there was an alternative. Still, in the beginning it hadmainlybeenamatterofopinion.Ofattendingmeetingsandrallies,ofcontinuingto educate himself. Putting up posters, painting slogans in the middle of thenight.ReadingtheleafletsofCharuMajumdar,trustingKanuSanyal.Believingasolutionwasathand.

InCalcutta,justafterthepartywasformed,Subhashleft,goingtoAmerica.He was critical of the party’s objectives, disapproving, in fact. His brother’sdisapproval had angered Udayan, but their parting had filled him withforeboding,thoughhetriedtoshakeitoff,thattheywouldneverseeoneanotheragain.AfewmonthslaterhemarriedGauri.

With Subhash gone Udayan’s only friends were his comrades. Slowly themissions turnedmorepurposeful.Gasolinepoured in the registrar’sofficeofagovernmentcollege.Bomb-makinginstructionsstudied,ingredientsstolenfromlabs.Amongthesquadmembersoftheneighborhood,adiscussionofpotentialtargets.TheTollyClub,forwhatitrepresented.Apoliceman,fortheauthorityheembodied,andforhisgun.

After the party was declared he began living two lives. Occupying twodimensions, obeying two sets of laws. In oneworld hewasmarried toGauri,livingwithhisparents,comingandgoingsoasnottoarousesuspicion,teachinghis students, guiding them through simple experiments at the school.Writingcheerful letters to Subhash in America, pretending themovement was behindhim,pretendinghiscommitmenthadcooled.Lyingtohisbrother,hopingthatitwould bring them closer again. Lying to his parents, not wanting to concernthem.

Butintheworldofthepartyithadalsobeenexpectedforhimtohelpkilla

policeman.Theyweresymbolsofbrutality,trainedbyforeigners.TheyarenotIndians, they do not belong to India,CharuMajumdar said.Each annihilationwouldspreadtherevolution.Eachwouldbeaforwardstep.

He’dshownupattheappointedtime,guardingthealleywheretheactionwasto take place.The attack occurred in the early afternoon,when the policemanwasonhiswaytopickuphissonfromschool.Adayhewasoffduty.Aday,thankstoGauri,theyknewhewouldnotbearmed.

In meetings Udayan and his squad members had studied where in theabdomen the dagger should be directed, at what point below the ribs. TheyrememberedwhatSinhahadtoldthembeforehewasarrested:thatrevolutionaryviolenceopposedoppression.Thatitwasaforceofliberation,humane.

In the alley he’d felt calm and purposeful. He’d watched the constable’sclothingdarken,thelookofastonishment,thebulgeoftheeyes,thegrimaceofpain that seizedhis face.And then the enemywasno longer apoliceman.Nolonger a husband, or a father. No longer a version of someone who’d oncestrickenSubhashwithabrokenputteroutsidetheTollyClub.Nolongeralive.

Asimpledaggerwasenoughtokillhim.Atoolintendedtocutupfruit.NottheloadedgunbeingaimednowbehindUdayan’shead.

Hehadnotbeentheonetowieldthedagger,onlytostandwatch.Buthispartinithadbeencrucial.Hehadgoneascloseashecould,hehaddippedhishandin the freshbloodof thatenemy,writing theparty’s initialson thewallas thebloodleakeddownhiswrists,intothecrookofhisarm,beforeheranfromthescene.

Nowhestoodattheedgeofalowland,intheenclavewherehe’dlivedallhislife. It was an October evening, Tollygunge at dusk, the week before DurgaPujo.

Hisparentswerepleadingwith thepolice, insistinghewas innocent.But itwastheywhowereinnocentofthethingshe’ddone.

Hishandswereboundbehindhim,theropechafinghisskin.Thisdiscomfortpreoccupiedhim.Hewastoldtoturnaround.

It was too late to run or to fight. So he stood and waited, his back to hisfamily,picturingbutnotseeingthem.

The last he’d seenof his parentswas the ground at their feet, as he’d bentdown to ask for their pardon. The softened rubber slippers his father worearound the house. The dark brown border of his mother’s sari, the end of itdrapedoverher faceandwrappedaroundhershoulders,heldbyher fingersatherthroat.

ItwasonlyGaurihe’dmanagedtolookintheface,atthemomenthishandswerebeingrestrained.Hecouldnothaveturnedawayfromherwithouthavingdonethat.

Heknewthathewasnoherotoher.Hehadliedtoherandusedher.Andyethe had loved her. A bookish girl heedless of her beauty, unconscious of hereffect. She’d been prepared to live her life alone, but from the moment he’dknownherhe’dneededher.Andnowhewasabouttoabandonher.

Orwasitsheabandoninghim?Forshelookedathimasshe’dneverlookedbefore.Itwasalookofdisillusion.Arevisionofeverythingthey’donceshared.

Theypushedhimintothebackofthevanandstartedtheengine.Hefeltthevibrationofthedoorslammingshut.Theywouldtakehimsomewhere,outsidethe city, to questionhim, then finishhimoff.Either that or toprison.But no,they’d already cut the engine, the van had stopped.The door opened.Hewaspulledoutagain.

Theywereinthefieldwherehe’dcomesomanytimeswithSubhash.Theyaskedhimnothing.Theyuntiedhishands,thenpointed,indicatingthat

hewastowalkinacertaindirectionnow,againwithhishandsraisedoverhishead.

Slowly,heheardthemsay.Makesuretopauseaftereverystep.Hedidashewastold.Stepbystephewalkedawayfromthem.Gobackto

yourfamily,theysaid.Butheknewthattheywereonlywaitingforhimtofallintotheidealrange.

Onestep,thenanother.Hestartedcounting.Howmanymore?He’dknownfromthebeginningtheriskofwhathewasdoing.Butonlythe

policeman’sbloodhadpreparedhim.Thatbloodhadnotbelongedonly to thepoliceofficer,ithadbecomeapartofUdayanalso.Sothathe’dfelthisownlifebegin to ebb, irrevocably, as the policeman lay dying in the alley. Since thenhe’dwaitedforhisownbloodtospill.

Forafractionofasecondheheardtheexplosiontearingthroughhislungs.Asoundlikegushingwateroratorrentofwind.Asoundthatbelongedtothefixedforcesof theworld, that then tookhimoutof theworld.Thesilencewaspurenow.Nothinginterfered.

Hewasnotalone.Gauristoodinfrontofhimwearingapeach-coloredsari.Shewasalittleoutofbreath,sweatpoolinginthematerialofherblouse,fromher armpits. It was the bright afternoon outside the cinema hall, during theinterval.They’dmissedthefirstpartofthefilm.

She’darrived tomeethimin themiddleof theday,stillmorestranger thanwife,abouttositwithhiminthedark.

Herhair shimmered.Hewanted to lift it offherneck, to feel itsunfetteredweightagainsthisfingers.Thelightwasbouncingoffit,makingamirrorofit,castingaspectrumthatwasfaintbutcomplete.

He strained to hearwhat shewas saying.He took another step toward her,droppingthecigarettefromhisfingers.

He adjusted his body in relation to hers. His head angled down, his handformingacanopybetweenthemtoshieldherfacefromthesun.Itwasauselessgesture.Onlysilence.Thesunlightonherhair.

Acknowledgments

Iwish to thank the Frederick LewisAllenMemorial Room at theNewYorkPublicLibrary,theFineArtsWorkCenterinProvincetown,Massachusetts,andtheAmericanAcademyinRomefortheirgeneroussupport.

The following sources were essential to my understanding of the Naxalitemovement: India’s Simmering Revolution: The Naxalite Uprising by SumantaBanerjee, The Naxalite Movement by Biplab Dasgupta, “India’s ThirdCommunistParty” (inAsianSurvey, vol.9,no.11)byMarcusF.Franda,TheCrimsonAgenda:MaoistProtest andTerror byRanjitGupta,Maoist“SpringThunder”: The Naxalite Movement (1967–1972) by Arun Prosad Mukherjee,The Naxalites Through the Eyes of the Police edited by Ashoke KumarMukhopadhyay, The Naxalites and Their Ideology by Rabindra Ray, TheNaxaliteMovementinIndiabyPrakashSingh,andthewebsitesanhati.com.

I am also grateful to the following individuals: Gautam Bhadra, MihirChakraborty, Robin Desser, Amitava Ganguli, Avijit Gangopadhyay, DanKaufman,AniruddhaLahiri,CressidaLeyshon,SubrataMozumder,RudrangshuMukherjee,EricSimonoff,ArunavaSinha,andCharlesWilson.

ANoteAbouttheAuthor

Jhumpa Lahiri is the author of three previousworks of fiction: Interpreter ofMaladies,TheNamesakeand,most recently,UnaccustomedEarth.Arecipientof the Pulitzer Prize, a PEN/Hemingway Award, the Frank O’ConnorInternational Short Story Award and a Guggenheim Fellowship, she wasinductedintotheAmericanAcademyofArtsandLettersin2012.

AlsobyJhumpaLahiri

UnaccustomedEarth

TheNamesake

InterpreterofMaladies

WINNEROFTHEFRANKO’CONNORINTERNATIONALSHORTSTORYAWARD

BeginninginAmerica,andspillingbackovermemoriesandgenerationstoIndia,UnaccustomedEarthexplorestheheartoffamilylifeandtheimmigrantexperience.Eightluminousstories–longerandricherthananyJhumpaLahirihasyetwritten–takeusfromAmericatoEurope,IndiaandThailandasthey

follownewlivesforgedinthewakeofloss.

‘Lahiri’senormousgiftsasastorytellerareonfulldisplayinthiscollection’KhaledHosseini

‘Ifyouhaveneverreadherbefore,youareinforatreat.Sheisagiftedstoryteller,andonceyouhaveimmersedyourselfinherproseitisdifficultto

breakfreefromherspell’Tatler

‘It’sdifficulttothinkofacontemporarywriterwhogiveshercharacterssomuchdignity…Fictionofmatchlessrestraint,yetalsoofrich,complexlives

andcrediblecharacters’TheTimes

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FirstpublishedinGreatBritain2013

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