In this poignant and breathtaking debut, one man searches for meaning in the wake of incomparable tragedy...

Karom Seth should have been in the Twin Towers on the morning of 9/11, and on the Indian shores in 2004, when the tsunami swept his entire family into the ocean. Whether it’s a curse or a blessing, Karom can’t be sure, but his absence from these disasters has left him with crushing guilt—and a belief that fate has singled him out for invincibility.

Karom’s affliction consumes everyone around him, from his best friend, Lloyd, to his girlfriend, Gita, who hopes that a trip to India will help him find peace. It is in Delhi that he meets Gita’s grandmother, Kamini—a quirky but wise woman with secrets of her own. At first Karom dismisses Kamini, but little does he realize that she will ultimately lead him to the clarity he’s been looking for.

Spanning the globe from New York to India, Where Earth Meets Water is a stunning portrait of a quest for human understanding, and a wise exploration of grief, survival and love in all its forms.

Praise for Where Earth Meets Water and

Pia Padukone

“Smart and insightful. A worthy addition to the burgeoning field of new Indian literature.”

—Gary Shteyngart, author of Absurdistan and Little Failure: A Memoir

“Padukone offers a gripping tale of one man’s haunting sorrows, the wounds that bind a people, and the redemptive power of love. An unforgettable debut by a very promising young writer.”

—Patricia Engel, author of It’s Not Love, It’s Just Paris and Vida

“Pia Padukone adeptly captures the aspirations and heartbreak of her engaging characters—how tragedy marks them, love drives them and need makes them ruthless.”

—Manil Suri, author of The City of Devi

Where Earth

Meets Water

Pia Padukone

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For both my grandmothers, who have loved me intensely:

my Anamma, Vrinda Padukone, with her quietly creative inspiration

&

my Ajji, Nalini Nadkarni, whose fierce loyalty

and passion for the written word always fueled me forward.

Contents

Could Have

Karom

Kamini

Lloyd

Mohan and Rana Seth

Gita

Karom

Lloyd

Kamini

Karom

Acknowledgments

Reader’s Guide

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Pia Padukone

COULD HAVE

It could have happened.

It had to happen.

It happened earlier. Later.

Nearer. Farther off.

It happened, but not to you.

You were saved because you were the first.

You were saved because you were the last.

Alone. With others.

On the right. The left.

Because it was raining. Because of the shade.

Because the day was sunny.

You were in luck—there was a forest.

You were in luck—there were no trees.

You were in luck—a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,

A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant…

So you’re here? Still dizzy from

another dodge, close shave, reprieve?

One hole in the net and you slipped through?

I couldn’t be more shocked or

speechless.

Listen,

how your heart pounds inside me.

—Wisława Szymborska

Karom

From the first morning that Karom awakes in Gita’s grandmother’s house, he can tell that their time in Delhi is going to be different from the rest of their trip. They arrive late at night from Agra, and as they drag their suitcases up to the second floor, Gita caresses the nameplate outside Ammama’s apartment lightly, leaving a small wake in the dust with her fingers. “Huh,” she says. “That’s new.” Kamini Pai, it reads. Before Karom has a chance to ask what she means, they are tumbling into the small flat, sandy from road silt and Indian rail travel, blinking under the fat fluorescent tube lights like a pair of bears emerging from a long winter’s hibernation. After formal introductions and sleepy smiles, they fall into bed, Karom in the living room, Gita in her grandmother’s room, surrendering to sleep miles away from any nettlesome insect buzzing or monotonous calls to prayer that echo through the compound. The night passes swiftly, gathering snatches of reality and combining them with fancy, translating and then siphoning them into their ears so that they dream vividly, solidly.

But then, in the early morning, in fact for each of the mornings for the six days they stay with Ammama in her small flat, a gong rings somewhere outside that sounds like a frying pan being hit with a metal spoon. Karom cautiously opens one eye to peer at his vintage Rolex, perched carefully on the chair he is using as a bedside table. Five forty-five. This is when Ammama pads into the sitting room, where Karom sleeps on the hard wooden pallet, his legs tangled in the threadbare sheets, his skin cool and clammy from nightly sweats. She presses a damp cloth on his forehead and he feigns sleep, unsure of how to react, rigidly aware of Gita asleep in the next room. She lowers herself onto the slate floor beside him with a towel under her knees. She swipes a line of vermilion across the hollow in her throat, directly in the center of her clavicle and, depending on how Karom is situated, mirrors the gesture on him. She closes her eyes, reopens them immediately to ensure that Karom is still sleeping, sucks in her breath and lets out a slew of Sanskrit. Karom yearns for the sweet, strong cold coffee that she places inches away from him—he can smell the chicory as the fan gathers the scent into the air—but is afraid that Ammama will see him awake and either make him participate in her ritual or scurry away in embarrassment.

He is touched that she has remembered his love for cold coffee, that it is a sacred thing in India. Back home in New York City, there is only iced coffee: simply ice dumped on top of coffee that becomes immediately diluted and insipid. Cold coffee is creamy, strong and pure. He waits until she finishes mumbling her indecipherable words, heaves herself to her feet and leaves the room. It is only once he hears the crescendo of the bucket being filled for her bath that he dares to reach for the drink, beads of sweat gathered around the base of the brass tumbler.

On their third day in Delhi, he tells Gita as they step out into the street and the blinding light of the premonsoon summer.

“She comes into my room in the mornings,” he says. “With a tray of perfectly ripe bananas, a glass of cold coffee and a cold compress that she puts on my forehead. She kneels down next to my bed and mutters under her voice. It’s hard to tell with the whirring of the fan, but I’m pretty sure she’s praying.”

“Get out,” Gita says, hitting him playfully on the chest, smiling broadly. “What do you do?”

“Nothing,” Karom says, stepping over an open sewage grate. “I pretend to sleep. What else am I supposed to do?”

Gita chuckles.

“It’s not funny,” he says. “She’s so sweet, but the whole thing is incredibly awkward.”

“It’s only for three more days,” Gita says. “Hang in there. She’s a sweet old lady who’s attached to her rituals. I’m sure she’s only doing it out of love.”

The perfectly ripe bananas don’t escape Gita. She won’t eat a banana with even a spot of brown on it, and Ammama presumes this condition extends to Karom. But it irks Gita that each day, the only bananas that remain on the breakfast table are either the ones from the day before, which Ammama will eventually turn into halwa, or those that are still green and will leave a film on Gita’s tongue and a waxy taste in her mouth long after she’s eaten one.

“You’re not going to say anything to her?” Karom asks.

“What could I possibly say to her, Karom?” Gita responds. She is still thinking about the new nameplate outside the door. It’s the first time during all her years of traveling to India that she has seen her grandmother’s name proudly proclaiming her ownership of the apartment; previously it held her grandfather’s name, a grandfather she’s never met.

Karom knows there are some skeletons in Ammama’s dusty closet, unopened for years. Gita has danced around the details of Ammama’s past, but Karom understands that there is more to the old lady than even Gita is aware of. This became apparent when they originally discussed visiting India months before their trip.

“Visiting India,” Gita had said at brunch in New York, “involves seeing my family. There’s no way I could avoid it.”

“And I’m thrilled about it,” Karom had replied. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“It’s not that easy. Visiting together, like this, for the first time...” Gita struggled for words as her eyes flitted over Karom’s plate. “You know how people think over there.”

“Let them think,” Karom said, spearing a large bite of stuffed French toast onto his fork and holding it out to Gita. He knew that she would take it without a fight, that it was a naughty departure from the egg-white omelet that sat in front of her. He knew it would keep her quiet while she chewed, giving him time to take control of the conversation. But it was she who managed to reveal a new side of her family.

Karom cut up another square of his French toast as Gita was chewing, layering it onto his fork into levels until he could no longer see the tines. He held it dangerously close to Gita’s mouth, the cream cheese touching her lip. She looked at him and then the food, back and forth like a cross-eyed little girl.

“You’re such a tease,” she said, before taking the bread in one bite. “Ammama won’t judge us, though. She’s safe.”

“Safe?”

“Life was hard in India over there back then,” Gita proclaimed matter-of-factly, forking the remainder of his French toast onto her own plate, cutting and chewing between sentences.

“How do you mean?”

“Ammama is living proof of a marriage gone wrong. She’s lived alone most of her adult life. She’s what the rest of my family calls ‘a freethinker.’”

* * *

En route to Ammama’s house, they’d stopped at the Taj Mahal. Karom had wanted to spend the whole day at the mausoleum, watching the arc of the sun travel over the domed eggshell marble. He’d read a National Geographic article about how the sun changes the color of the marble depending on its angle throughout the day. The photos displayed the dome over twenty-four hours: pink, prenatal and shy in the dawn hours, citrine-yellow at midmorning, blinding white at high noon. It appeared as a completely different structure each moment, and Karom loved the unpredictability of it. The same ubiquitous structure that the world knew so intimately displayed so many different personalities. Had Shah Jahan meant to capture his beloved wife’s multifaceted character? Her casual morning softness, her dour depression at having lost seven of her children, while constantly displaying the fierce, unfailing love she had for her husband? What made the Taj so emotional, changing over the course of the day depending on its mood? How had this feat been accomplished so many hundreds of years ago, when just the building of an edifice of this size had seemed impossible? Karom couldn’t wait to watch its metamorphosis right before his very eyes.

But the train to Agra hadn’t shown, and the Jaipur station from which they were departing had been overflowing with passengers, occupying all the benches or peering uselessly into the distance over the tracks. Karom watched Gita approach a tour guide who was playing games on his cell phone. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and spoke to him for a few minutes before she returned to Karom and told him about the strike.

“I saw an STD booth over there,” he said. “I’m going to call Lloyd. I’d forgotten that he’s leaving for his bachelor party one of these days. I hope I can catch him.” She watched him lope off toward the dusty shack set back from the railroad platform, where he opened a glass door and slid inside.

* * *

When he returned, the two of them sat on the platform, leaning their backs against one another for support, summoning the strength for the wait that loomed ahead. Karom unhooked his watch and reread the inscription on the underside of the face. It felt like a brand-new gift each time.

Together we learn there’s nothing like time.

The strength he drew from this little mantra had made it possible to get through grueling days of struggling with the right word for a headline at the advertising agency where he worked, made it a little easier to stomach shelling out three figures for underwhelming plays and frustrating tiffs that he and Gita always managed to spark just before bedtime. The words rolled over in his mind and across his tongue when he needed something to concentrate on, while he was training for his first road race, and then a 10K, and then a full marathon. And during those moments, when he had to stop and check his patient pulse, when he could feel it bleating slowly but capably under the thin skin of his under-wrist, he repeated these words to himself.

Karom looked down at the platform beneath him, spackled red with paan spit. He traced one of the spatters with the toe of his sandal. Animals on safari, he thought. There’s the elephant trunk, holding on to a hippo’s tail, an alligator? No, a gecko, one of the household varieties that Gita screamed at until I chased it out of our tent in Jaisalmer.

Back home, in the subways of New York City, Karom liked to peer over the edge of the platform into the depths of the tunnels, waiting diligently for that crescent of light to appear reflected on the sheen of the tracks, holding until the headlights finally appeared and the silver cars careened into the station. At times, when the tunnel was long without any hidden curves, he could see the train’s headlights a full station away. He could watch it amble down the stretch toward him, teasing him with its proximity. But most of the time, the delightful snatch of light wouldn’t give itself away until the last minute, when it came peeking around the bend. Karom loved this dance with the train but simultaneously worried himself over how long it would take to appear. Most nights, when service was delayed or curtailed, he paced back and forth, his ears perking up at the faintest of rumblings, which sent him scurrying to perch his toes over the perimeter of yellow paint that warned passengers not to cross this line.

Once, the transit police who were loitering up and down the platform had approached him as he peered down the tunnel. “Sir,” the officer had said. “I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the platform edge. It’s for your own safety.”

When they’d first taken the subway together years before, Karom’s platform behavior had made Gita nervous.

“You stand so close to the edge,” she’d said, tugging at his hand. “Please come back.”

“It’s just a game,” Karom had said. “I lean over until I have to lean back.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

People lived in those tunnels, in the dank recesses, venturing out only to forage for food. Mole people, as he had heard them referred to, though he thought this term disrespectful and embarrassing. He couldn’t imagine living that far underground, though he’d read that the tunnels spread so far below the surface of pavement that it was possible to venture seven or eight stories deep. He had joked to Gita that one day real estate would be at such a premium that well-appointed condos with marble countertops and bamboo floors would have no choice but to spread to the netherworld that lay beneath them. Doormen would stand at attention at the mouths of stairwells that meandered far below the sidewalk, and the former valuable measurement of natural light would be replaced by mold-repellant abilities.

“Just wait,” Karom had said, “until the most sought-after apartments are those that are farther below the surface. Humans always need one-upmanship.”

After two hours of waiting on the Jaipur station platform, Karom stood up suddenly. Gita turned the page of her guidebook and shifted her position without looking up. Karom walked gingerly over the bodies sprawled across the platform napping, through a group of children playing a hand-clapping game and knelt at the platform edge. He sat down, his legs dangling over. A group of men playing cards and puffing on strong clove-scented cigarettes eyed him from the shadows of a snack cart’s canopy. Dust motes swirled in the early-afternoon sun and the slightest breeze lifted a piece of hair off Karom’s forehead and swung it over his eye.

In an instant he had jumped down to the tracks. He glanced around, the walls of the platform looming up around him like a cave. He couldn’t see the passengers from here, only sky and the great expanse of the tracks in the distance, far away, leading to Agra. Karom stood with both feet on one of the rails, the cool metal cutting through the inadequate rubber of his sandals and massaging the sore arches of his feet. He walked, holding his arms out balancing himself, pretending there was a book upon his head. On the seventeen-hour flight from New York to Bombay, Karom had watched a documentary on Philippe Petit, the daredevil tightrope walker who’d walked between the World Trade Towers and lived to tell the tale. Karom bent his feet to span across the track like Petit, a make-believe balancing pole in his hands as he walked forward.

He’d walked to the outskirts of the train station on the tracks like this when he heard Gita’s scream. Swiveling around, he tipped off the tracks. As he righted his balance, he saw the card-playing men in the distance watching him, squatting at the edge of the platform. He saw the children hovering on the edge, holding hands tightly. And he saw Gita, looking as though she was about to launch herself over the edge but being restrained by three hefty women in Punjabi suits.

“Karom! Get off the tracks! Come back!” she shouted. Karom put his hand up in acknowledgment, but just as he did so, he felt a faint rumbling underneath the balls of his feet. He turned around and began a slow march back toward the station, putting one foot in front of the other on the metal track.

“Come back to the platform. Please!” Gita shouted. He could see her face was stained by tears, her voice strained with panic. His rubber sandals slipped against the shiny metal, and the approaching vibration tickled his feet. He was at the station and had hoisted himself up onto the platform on his own before the Punjabi women released a sobbing Gita into his arms. He held her tightly and buried his nose in her hair.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby. I’m okay. See? It was just a walk. Nothing happened. It was just the game.” He let her cry in his arms until she quieted and spread out across their backpacks to nap.

They didn’t say anything further to one another until they boarded a train two more hours later. As she climbed the stairs into their car, Gita put her hand up and smiled at the tour guide. “This wait is nothing,” he called back. “Very short. Very lucky.”

They reached the Taj just moments before sunset, to the sights and sounds of children screeching, parents strolling across the manicured lawn, tourists adjusting one another’s hands for the perfect pose in front of the reflecting pool, others showing security guards how to operate elaborate cameras. The Taj was a deep aubergine, the setting sun glancing off the Yamuna River at a distance and cloaking the grounds and the shrine in darkness. They took a quick round, wandering through the arched doorways in their bare feet, marveling at the intricate inlaid stonework, tracing their toes over the perfectly symmetrical marble, and stood solemnly before the mausoleum before they realized they’d forgotten to take any pictures. The Taj was dark by then, lit only by eight floodlights where moths savagely attacked the bulbs.

“No pictures,” Gita said sadly. “How will we ever remember that we were here?” They were stationed directly in front of the Taj, in front of the bench that thousands upon thousands of tourists sat on every day, with a perfectly cruel vantage point of the structure in front of them. Karom slipped his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. With his other hand, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He read:

“Should guilty seek asylum here,

Like one pardoned, he becomes free from sin.

Should a sinner make his way to this mansion,

All his past sins are to be washed away.

The sight of this mansion creates sorrowing sighs,

And the sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes.

In this world this edifice has been made,

To display thereby the creator’s glory!”

“It’s what Shah Jahan said about the Taj,” Karom said, folding the paper back into his pocket. Gita closed her eyes and leaned against him. He wanted to comfort her, but he too felt let down. Nothing had happened. There had been no revelations.

Karom had been sure that he would leave the Taj Mahal with a deeper understanding of the world, of colors, of light, of love. He was sure that something magical would transform them, would transform him, the way he saw the world. He had placed too high an expectation on the Taj Mahal. After all, it was just a building. But it was a building that was homage to love, homage to the departed. He’d wondered if he would catch a glimpse of the past here, if he might tap into the spirit of the palace, the serenity of the courtyards. He’d wondered if, like a sinner, he too might be absolved, washed pure and clean, and set into the streets refreshed. He’d wondered if he might put lingering ghosts to bed and feel, for the first time, at ease with himself and finally, finally have the strength to put the game to rest.

Finally, Karom took her hand, pulling her back outside the gates into a world of hawkers offering prayer beads, postcards and miniature hand-carved wooden replicas of the great shrine.

On the rickshaw ride back to the train station, they quietly held one another’s hands. When their eyes met at a traffic light, Gita looked at Karom for a beat too long, causing him to snap, “I’m fine. I told you I’m fine,” and pull his hand away from hers. Gita felt suddenly vulnerable sitting in the rickshaw as it inched along the crowded streets. On either side, beggars and street vendors thrust their hands into the open sides of the vehicle, offering open empty palms or rickety plastic toys for sale. At that moment she couldn’t find solace even in the man who sat next to her; it was how she’d felt the first time she’d experienced one of his close shaves firsthand.

The previous summer, the two had been on a road trip to Maine, where they’d stopped in Portland, lingering over a breakfast of blueberry pancakes and yogurt, crawling through the Marina district in their rented convertible so Gita could hop out and use her Pantone matcher to capture the vibrant colors of the homes along the water. Her travels heavily influenced her work in her interior design studio: swaths of curtains that curled around window edges like the Caribbean Sea and mosaic patios reminiscent of the shelled precipices in Santorini. She’d once re-created a tiled wall in an open-plan bathroom based on the textures and tones of a spice display she’d seen in Essaouira.

Karom sped while Gita sat with her face directly in front of the air-conditioning vent. “I like the smell of it,” she said when he looked at her quizzically. “It’s the smell of cold.”

They were on the way to Archer’s Rock, the famous boulder that jutted out over the sea where families picnicked and sunbathed. “‘This rocky edifice may be the last bastion of the unsullied natural vantage point,’” Gita read from the National Geographic app on her iPhone. “‘Everything else has been filed down, shaved away, taking with it the history and fossilized evolutionary proof of our lives.’ Oh, Kar, we have to go there.”

By the time their car pulled up to visitors’ parking, ambulances and police tape had cordoned off the graveled lot. Scuba tanks were stacked together in a pile near one of the medical vans, and medics scurried about, stricken, possessed, mumbling into walkie-talkies.

“Park’s closed, sir,” a ranger said, directing their car. “Please turn around and go back the way you came.” Karom couldn’t believe that the ranger wore a hat just like on Yogi Bear. He spoke to the absurdly flat brim.

“What happened?”

“Wave.”

Karom hesitantly put his hand up and looked around before he realized that the ranger wasn’t instructing him to gesture to anyone. He put the car in reverse. While Karom fiddled with the AM radio to find a local channel, Gita plugged in the address of their hotel into the GPS that would lead them out of the park and back toward the highway.

“Tragedy struck at Acadia National Park today as a giant wave crashed over Archer’s Rock, claiming the lives of dozens of hikers and picnickers. Body count is still unknown as medics and scuba divers continue to comb the rocky coast to recover up to 50 park visitors who are expected to have been on the rock. Accounts confirm that a rogue wave such as this one hasn’t struck the area in nearly 40 years, the last similar tragedy occurring in 1971.”

The trees rushed by them, faster and faster, a blur of green in ascending brightness past their windows. They flew by the distinct odor of skunk and a tiny manicured graveyard, past which Gita held her breath. The two-way road was narrow and Gita was glad that Karom was driving. She felt nervous driving in situations where the car might graze against the side of another. She panicked easily in tunnels.

Karom pressed the button to clean the windshield, the blades scraping dully against the already clean glass. Gita pressed the window down and a small spray of window cleaner struck her cheekbone. Karom pulled the car to the side of the road, though there was no shoulder there. He leaned down to the steering wheel and rested his forehead in the center of the wheel, little bleeps emitting sporadically from the horn like a suffering goat.

“Karom,” Gita said, rubbing his ear. “It’s not the same thing. Look at me, baby.” He didn’t move.

“Baby, look at me. It’s a completely different situation, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re fine. You’re safe. I’m here.” She grabbed his head, the hair in the back where it had grown long and scraggly, and pushed it into her shoulder. She could feel him slowly disintegrate against her body, his long sobs penetrating through her thin windbreaker, his breath forcing muffled gasps and soggy exhalations. They sat there like that, allowing cars to whiz by their window, first a few at a time and then the ambulance they had seen in the parking lot, an underwater detection van and then another slew of cars. It became dark in the trees before Gita finally tapped his leg and Karom moved away, averting his face in the embarrassing dance of drying his tearstained face.

They traded places; Gita slid into the driver’s seat, put the car into drive and navigated the rest of the way to their budget hotel while Karom leaned back in his seat, one arm swung over his eyes to shield them from the glow of the dashboard.

* * *

In the rickshaw, Gita forced herself to remember that while their trip to Agra had been uneventful, without epiphany or excitement, that was what had made it a success. She forced her hand back into his and snuggled against him, turning her back to the beggars and hawkers in the road.

* * *

“Hang on,” Gita says now, as they sidestep two dogs sleeping in the middle of the lane. “When Ammama prays, is it in Hindi? English?”

“Definitely not English,” Karom says. “But she says my name. Repeatedly.”

“May-be,” Gita singsongs, pressing her body against him, “she’s praying for you to propose to me.”

“Ha.” Karom steps slightly away from her as they pass through the gates of Ammama’s compound.

“Oh, get over it,” she exclaims, grabbing his hand.

Karom stiffens. “Not here, Gita.”

“Of course here,” Gita insists. “It’s the birthplace of the Kama Sutra. Romance was practically invented here.”

But there is a sense of decorum in India, regardless of the historical ramifications of one dusty volume of intimate positions that sex shops like to pass off as exotic and sensual. Karom understands that the things that they take for granted back home in New York can never be accepted in this land so easily. The idea of boyfriends and girlfriends and dating, of sleeping in the same bed, even of traveling together, are all acts that had he grown up here, he himself might have frowned upon.

On their first night in Ammama’s flat, Karom had reverently touched her feet as he knew she would appreciate and asked, “Where will I be sleeping?” and then “Where will Gita be sleeping?” before placing their backpacks in the appropriate rooms: Gita sharing her grandmother’s double bed, Karom on the wooden pallet in the sitting room. He wondered if Gita asked her grandmother if she could sleep in the bed away from the door or away from the window, whichever it was that she was most worried about. Most women had a side of the bed, the right or left, but for Gita it was the side that she felt least vulnerable in. If they stayed in a hotel room, it was the side farthest away from the door; if they were on the ground floor in a room with garden access, it was where Gita felt intruders would be least likely to enter.

“It’s because if someone were to break in, I wouldn’t be the first thing they’d see,” she’d explained to Karom.

“But I would,” he’d snorted. “And I’d be the one they mauled or kidnapped or beat up. That’s okay with you?”

“No...you would protect me,” Gita had said. “My big strong man.”

He’d shaken his head. It was a stupid argument, but still he couldn’t help feeling slighted by her selfishness. He wondered if Gita was okay with her grandmother falling victim to hypothetical marauders in her second-floor flat in the suburban residential colony in East Delhi.

* * *

When they return to the flat later, after a long afternoon of shopping, Karom steps hesitantly through the door. But Ammama isn’t focused on him; she tells Gita that she has something to show her. While Gita slips behind the curtain that serves as the door to Ammama’s room, Karom busies himself with taking his purchases out of the bags and laying them out on the sofa: Calvin Klein shirts, a Kenneth Cole suit, all gathered at severely discounted prices. He holds up a shirt and breathes it in. It is so reassuring how much the fabric smells like India, like the mustiness of cardamom and mustard and mothballs all in one. He hears jingles and snaps and coos and sighs before Ammama slides the curtain open and beckons shyly at him. Karom follows her into the bedroom.

The bedroom is dimly lit: Ammama has drawn the curtains against prying eyes and sunlight is poking in at the corners of the windows. Gita is sitting on the bed with what appears to be a heap of gold in front of her. She sorts through it, trying on a large chandelier earring with curlicues and licks of rubies in her right ear while an enormous jade hoop perches perkily in her left nostril.

“Wow,” Karom breathes. “What is all this?”

“My trousseau,” Ammama says, pushing aside some of the tissues that had protectively padded the jewelry. “I want Gita to choose something. Help her decide.”

Karom sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. He picks up a string of pearls and lets them slide through his fingers. Gita is wrapping a thick yellow-gold necklace with braided chains around her neck.

“Close this?” She turns around and Karom snaps the clasp at the nape of her neck. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “It’s all so delicately elaborate.”

“You have first pick and then your sisters can choose when they come next,” Ammama says, taking a step toward the door. “Take your time. I’ll make tea.”

“Her family must have spent years collecting all this. Imagine how long it took to put it together,” Karom whispers.

“Here, I need help with this headpiece.” Gita aligns an emerald stone that glistens like a giant waterdrop in the center of her forehead, glancing in the mirror to make sure that the chain falls neatly into the parting of her hair. “What do you think?”

“It seems so sad to break up the set that symbolizes the start of her new life as a bride. But I guess she’s passing on the legacy.”

“Trust me, she doesn’t want the memories. They’re not happy ones. Besides, I’m here, Karom. She wants me to have something. What do you think of these?” Solid gold bangles cuff her wrists, glinting in the dim light.

“They’re nice. I’m going to...” Karom nods toward the doorway and slides off the bed. In the kitchen, Ammama is pouring tea into the Bodum pot Karom has brought her. Her hand shakes a bit as the last drop fills the strainer. “I hope you like the teapot. Gita told me how much you like your tea. ‘Once in the a.m., once in the p.m. and once before R.E.M.’ Right?” Gita had also told him that Ammama would trot it out while they were there and then rewrap it in its original box and place it in the back of a cupboard until visitors came.

“It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have wasted so much money,” Ammama says. Karom places the pot on a tray along with the small ceramic box of sugar and a matching pitcher of milk. Gita appears at the doorway, wearing a heavy yellow-gold necklace. It droops down nearly to her midriff, rubies and emeralds twinkling brazenly. The inner strands are unpolished grayish oblong seeds rather than the now seemingly artificial perfect globes of pearls Karom has seen the ladies wear with Chanel suits on the Upper East Side. Gita doesn’t look very comfortable, but she sticks her chest out and says, “I want this one.”

“I wore that on my wedding day,” Ammama says, smiling. “Beautiful choice. If you’re sure, I’ll take the rest back to the safe-deposit box at the bank.”

They sit in the living room, the overhead ceiling fan making wide, useless circles as the tea cools. Karom nibbles absently on a stale biscuit.

“You’ve left your visits until the last minute,” Ammama says. Gita looks down shiftily and traces a pattern on the stone floor with her toe. “I only hope it’s convenient for your great-aunts and uncles that you come tonight.”

“You’ll come with us, right, Ammama?” Gita asks shyly. “It’ll be fun.” Gita has obligations, she’s told Karom. To see family members who remember her better than she knows them, but these visits make them so happy and they make Ammama happy, too.

“I’ll make an early dinner and we can call a rick to take us. I missed my nap today,” Ammama says, her eyes twinkling. “I hope I won’t be too cranky.”

* * *

The evening is crisper than the previous days have been. Karom borrows a pale blue sweater from the empty closet that once belonged to Gita’s grandfather. He puts his arms through the sweater sleeves and his nose to the fabric.

“Why do clothes in India always smell like this?” he asks. “It’s so reassuring, such a comforting scent.”

“Probably because all the dhobis use the same detergent,” Gita says sarcastically. “And let the clothing dry in the air to pick up the subtle undertones of coconut trees and cow dung.”

Ammama sits by the door in the sitting room. Karom doesn’t understand the name for this room; no such place exists in Western-style homes. It is a room for receiving, for watching, for preparing, but never simply for sitting. It is the first time he has seen anyone be still in this room since his arrival.

Ammama is wearing a dark maroon sari with a paisley border. The previous summer, she distributed all her bright saris and those with gold or silver thread to the twin neighbor girls upstairs. They are both in their forties, living with their parents. One of them was married, but on her wedding night, her husband raised his hand to her and she retaliated, striking him on the bridge of his nose. Stunned, he told her to pack her things and go, and she responded in kind, returning to the flat upstairs. At least, that’s what Ammama has heard.

Gita told Karom about a ritual she loved as a child, first arriving at Ammama’s flat in the summers, tearing open her wardrobe door, running her hands across the yards and yards of silk, brocade and crepe-de-Chine saris, burying her head into the fabric to breathe in that familiar smell of India and begging Ammama to take out “this one. This one is my favorite.” Gita’s allegiances changed each time she visited, her tastes maturing and then reverting as trends came and went. In her tomboy years, she chose only the blues and reds, and when she finally embraced her girlhood, she lovingly pulled out more pinks and purples. Upon arriving at the flat a few days ago, Gita had flung open the wardrobe door and cried out softly as she sank back onto Ammama’s bed.

“They’re gone,” Gita said. “What happened?”

“I’m too old. I can’t wear those bright-bright things now,” Ammama replied. “And the zari work was too fine—I couldn’t iron them constantly. So I gave the whole lot to the girls upstairs. They needed some color in their lives.” Gita twisted her mouth, saddened by the gaping holes between the lonely, dismal saris that remained. But you need some color in your life, she thought.

Ammama’s apartment building is set back in the compound, and the motorized auto-rickshaws buzz about like flies only in the main road. Karom goes to fetch one while Ammama walks carefully behind, holding her cane in one hand and Gita’s forearm in the other. Gita can see Karom in the distance with his arm up in the road as the little black rickshaws scurry past him.

“I like him, Gita. I really like him.” Gita holds Ammama’s hand as they take dainty steps together. “Do you think you’ll marry?”

“I hope so, Ammama,” Gita says, looking down into Ammama’s eyes. “I really hope he gets things together. I really hope he can move beyond his past. Because I love him, I really do. And I think we could be happy together.”

“Give it time, child,” Ammama says. “Not everything happens overnight.”

“It’s been years, though,” Gita sighs. “And he’s taking such baby steps that I worry he’ll never—” She stops and looks up toward him. He is standing too far into the road, extending his arm out as if he were hailing a cab on Broadway. He is getting impatient, pushing the hair out of his eyes and wiping his brow on his shoulder. He takes one more step into the road as an angry rickshaw driver shouts at him, gesticulating wildly. Panic rises and jets out of Gita’s nostrils.

“Ammama, wait here.” Gita props Ammama against a low-lying parapet. Gita takes off at a gallop. It seems so filmic, her hair bouncing and her shawl flying behind her, as if she is running in slow motion to catch up to the man she loves. But as she approaches him, she catches hold of his wrist and swings him back into the ditch that follows the sidewalk along Ammama’s lane. Angry shouts erupt around them, rickshaws nestling close together like black beetles attacking a crumb to allow them through.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gita asks, panting.

“Getting a rickshaw. What does it look like? Gita, let go. That hurts.”

“You’re standing in the middle of the road and you know it. This isn’t Manhattan, where the cabs will actually stop. This is Delhi, Karom. People die.”

“Stop being so melodramatic, Gita. No one’s filming right now.”

“No, you stop it, Karom.” Tears prick the edges of Gita’s eyes as their voices rise to be heard with the thrumming and honking of the vehicles that speed by. “This is neither the time nor the place. Please don’t do this. Not now.” A honking interrupts them. Ammama pokes her head out of a rickshaw that pulls up alongside them.

“Found one,” Ammama says. “Come on, get in.” Gita climbs up on the other side of her grandmother and Karom piles in the opening closest to him, his long, spidery legs nestling against the back of the driver’s seat. As the rickshaw speeds by on the newly paved highway, though they are landlocked and miles from the ocean, somehow the air fills their nostrils with the tangy, briny scent of the sea.

* * *

In December 2004 his family had gathered on Poompuhar Beach: a reunion. Karom had final exams in Boston and his parents were adamant that he see the semester through. His friends had all finished their finals and started packing up for Christmas break, but Karom was enrolled in a few master’s classes that ended later than the undergraduate program.

“I can take makeup exams,” he’d complained. “Besides, I’m graduating next semester. All the important stuff is over. This is the first time I am going to see all my cousins together. And Naani and Nana and Ajja and Ajji will be so upset I can’t come.”

“They’ll be upset that you are shirking your studies,” his father had said. “You can join us after the exams are over.”

There were games, snacks, many opportunities to get to know one another over the course of two days. Some members of the family were traveling thousands of miles to meet one another, some for the first time, some after a long time. Karom imagined them as he sat with his head against the frozen window, snow melting softly in the courtyard of the library. Now they were probably having strong hot South Indian coffee. Now they were probably telling stories of his parents as youngsters, of their sweet but short courtship when he had wooed and won her. Now they were probably singing folk songs that would only—could only—be passed down by his generation, and if he wasn’t there to learn them, who would bring them to America? Now they were probably sitting on the beach, under colorful tents they’d have rented to stave off the relentless sun. Karom followed them in his mind, fabricating their activities, picturing their smiles. When he packed up his laptop case and closed the door to his dorm room, ready to jump into the cab that would take him to Logan Airport, he thought his heart might burst.

Unlike most of his friends, who would joke about the tribulations of forced holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, Karom enjoyed spending time with his family. This included his wise father, who had been the director on a television commercial starring his ageless, timeless, classically beautiful mother. And of course his mother, who doled out advice the way other mothers pass out homemade cookies. His cousins, whom he’d met piecemeal over the years, and their parents—his aunts and uncles whose stories his own parents had regaled him with for years and years and whose reputations spread far and wide from silly to sober—equally amused him. Both sets of grandparents, whom he saw dutifully every two years, servants his parents had grown up with, vendors who knew more about him than he would ever know about them. All of these people made up a life that was separate from the snowy, blanketed college he was leaving now, forlorn and empty, devoid of true familial love even when the campus was full.

The cabdriver was talkative, which surprised Karom. He thought he’d have to combat surliness and tip heavily for a fare on Christmas Day.

“Where you headed? Your family doesn’t mind you’re missing Christmas?”

“India. We’re not Christian,” Karom said, hugging his backpack to his chest.

“India? Is that safe? You hear about that storm?”

“You must mean the monsoons. They happen in the summer all the time. They’re used to them over there.”

“No, not a storm,” the cabdriver said, shaking his head. He leaned over and turned on the radio. “It’s this freak wave. It’s biblical.”

During the ride to Logan, the cab was filled with snatches of dialogue, screaming, shouting, sobbing, as various news reports filled in the current events of a rogue wave that had been triggered by underwater earthquakes, badly affecting parts of Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Thailand and India.

“That’s enough,” Karom said at the sight of the exit ramp to the airport. “Please turn it off.” He paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk as trolleys and rolling suitcases maneuvered around him, punching buttons on his cell phone and hearing the Tamil operator prattle back hopelessly to him. There was nothing to do but stick to the plan to fly to Kanyakumari, where he would meet his parents and grandparents to witness one of the most breathtaking sunrises in the world at the very tip of the country, where the Indian Ocean met the Gulf of Mannar and the Arabian Sea. Except that all flights to India were stalled without further information of conditions there. The coastal states were in emergency: no one was going in and it was unclear who was still alive. Karom spent Christmas Day shuttling from the internet café in the airport to the gummy carpeted floor of Gate 17, where he sat slumped, tapping away at his cell phone.

Hours later he peeled himself up and took a bus and then the T and then walked the seven long blocks back to his dorm. The brittle leaves that still hung on the trees chattered together in a ghostly whisper as the wind swept through them. There was something beautiful about the snow that had settled there in his absence. It glistened cleanly, the crystals twinkling in the crisp morning. Karom felt bad making a path to his doorway, where he let himself into his room and opened the blinds where the sun glanced off the snow mounds, blinding him momentarily. His dorm-room phone blinked red with anticipation and he dropped his bundles, even his precious laptop, in a heap on the floor and jabbed the button. A muffled, weary voice filled the room.

“Karom, I’ve been trying your mobile, but it doesn’t seem to be connecting. This is Kishan Ramchand, your naana and naani’s neighbor in Cubbon Park. We live upstairs? I think you were meant to land just now, but I’m hoping to catch you. Karom, there was this huge wave yesterday that pretty much obliterated most of the southern and western coasts of India, particularly Tamil Nadu. Obviously, you know that’s where the festivities were being held, and nobody’s been able to get ahold of anyone from the party. We’re trying desperately, but as you can imagine, a lot of phone lines are down and it’s been impossible to connect with the hotel or anyone’s mobiles. Auntie and I are praying really hard here at home, but we’re not sure what’s happening. If by some miracle, you haven’t left already, please stay put. It’s a rather dangerous situation right now. Take my number and call.”

His entire family. All together. On one beach.

Karom listened to the message once again before he wrote the number down shakily. Then he opened the covers on his tightly made bed and got in. It was three days before he got out again. On the third day, he reached for his cell phone and dialed Kishan’s number.

“Uncle? It’s Karom.”

“Thank God, child. You’re okay. Where have you been?”

“College. My flight was canceled. Any news?”

“It’s not looking good. They’re reporting that phone and power lines have been restored at this point, as well as cell networks. If we—if we haven’t heard from them by now...”

“Look, you never know. What can I do? Should I come?”

“There’s nothing anyone can do at this point.” Karom heard Kishan slowly breaking down. A tear traveled down the bridge of Karom’s nose and plopped onto the worn wooden floorboard. The room was freezing—the heat had been turned off for the break, though Karom didn’t notice it at all. “And your parents were there,” Kishan wailed.

“They are there,” Karom said, wiping his face on the back of his hand. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Call me if you hear anything. On my cell. My mobile.”

Karom sat up in bed, staring at the wall as if in a trance. Suddenly, he broke off and opened his roommate’s closet. In here Lloyd kept a small pantry alongside his perfectly pressed cardigans and corduroy jackets. Karom wasn’t sure why Lloyd hid the snacks, as Karom had never deigned to take anything of Lloyd’s without asking—until now. There were saltines, granola bars, a large package of chocolate-covered mints and a fresh jar of peanut butter. Karom twisted the top off the peanut butter and pulled a gob of it onto his finger. He closed his lips over it, the sweetness making his mouth water and jerking tears to his eyes. He blinked the tears back and stuck his finger in again and again. His mouth was sticky and he ran his tongue over his teeth. What was that word? The word that when he heard it pulled gently on his stomach, in his throat, at the tips of his fingernails, making him think that it would never be him. It couldn’t be him.

It would be six hours before Karom logged on to his computer, searching for answers, looking up death tolls on the Indian Red Cross website, manning live streams for four different news sites at once, cross-referencing emails and then seeing his parents’ names in ghostly letters upon a list of those found fatally wounded or dead. And then his grandparents. All four of them. And then a whole column, a page of his surname over and over:

Rana Seth.

Mohan Seth.

Akansha Seth.

Preeti Seth.

Madhu Seth.

Shankar Seth.

Seth.

Seth.

Seth.

Seth.

It was another two hours before he remembered the word: orphan. Thereafter, until Lloyd and the other students returned to campus, everything was broken up into increments of time: sixteen hours before Kishan called to confirm that everyone at the reunion was reported officially missing. Dead. Twenty-two hours before Karom dry-heaved repeatedly from hunger. Thirty-six hours before his contact lenses automatically peeled themselves away from his pupils—raw from the dry, airless room—and curled up on the desk where he sat staring at his laptop, his only beacon and companion, which rang in the New Year in front of him. Ninety-six hours before he methodically and carefully deleted all the emails from friends inquiring if his family was okay and saying that they were praying for them and was there anything anyone could do and please don’t hesitate to ask. Three months before a courier rapped on his door with a delivery from Kishan wrapped in brown paper and padded with cotton wads.

A gold Rolex with a black alligator band sat nestled within the padding. The face was weathered and scratched just to the right of the crown and there were a few bits of sand wedged between the glass face and the golden hinges. A small note accompanied it.

Karom—

This was among the belongings in the safe in Naana and Naani’s room. There wasn’t much else—their passports and some bundles of rupees. Your parents’ room held their passports and some money, as well. The passports and money are being held for administrative and tracking purposes. I’ll make sure to have them sent to you as soon as possible. I wanted you to have something of meaning, and as you know, this was the watch that your naani gave your naana on their wedding night. I hope it serves as something—a memory, a wish, a light.

All my best,

Kishan Uncle

Together we learn there’s nothing like time. Karom was sure that it was the first of Naani’s many gestures to her new husband that everything would be okay, that even if nothing made sense in their early days as strangers to one another, the years would prove themselves stronger than unfamiliarity, that they would take this journey together, learning about one another and stumbling and catching one another and learning every step of the way. Naani was always the reassuring one; her husband would flurry about worrying if the plane would lose their luggage, or whether they would run out of vegetarian meals, or if they hadn’t packed enough warm clothing for the beach.

Karom had put the watch on immediately, and unless he was bathing or sleeping or going through the security line at the airport, he never took it off. He would wear it as a constant reminder of all that he had lost, his whole family all at once, wham bam, in an instant, like the second hand that ticked on his wrist.

* * *

On the morning of their departure from Delhi, Ammama tiptoes into the sitting room, where Karom is holding his watch between his fingers, studying its slightly scarred face. Ammama stops and smiles shyly, looking down at the tray as if to show Karom what she has brought him. He motions to her to sit down next to him.

“Come,” he whispers. She sits awkwardly on the bed next to him, pulling her tiny feet underneath her and adjusting her sari. The tray of bananas and cold coffee sits between them, but on this morning, there is also a thick book. Karom peels a banana and hands it to her. She shakes her head shyly. Karom urges, “Please.” She nibbles at the tiny fruit and Karom peels another for himself. So much sweeter than the huge bland ones we get back home, Karom thinks.

“What do you say to me?” he asks. “Are you praying?” Ammama colors and looks down at the floor.

“I thought you were asleep,” she says.

“I’m an early riser,” Karom says. “Please tell me.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just an old lady’s superstitions.”

“Please.” He takes her banana peel and places it with his alongside the book on the tray. He turns to face her. Ammama looks at him and purses her mouth.

“You mustn’t be cross with Gita for telling me. She tells me that you like to tempt fate. That you call it your game. Is that right?” Karom looks down, embarrassed. “Fate isn’t an easy thing to play with. Once it decides to shift in one direction, the gusts keep on blowing, and it’s out of your hands. You have to take care of one another, don’t you?” He nods. “But I know there is something over you. An omen.”

“An omen?”

Ammama nods solemnly.

“What kind of omen? Because I’ve been pretty lucky.” He tells her about Acadia and the tidal wave that he and Gita narrowly missed. He tells her about 9/11, how he’d feigned illness on the morning that his class was to visit a news studio in Tower 1 because he hadn’t finished a paper on Howards End, how instead he’d stayed home watching the news, stricken, while the first tower came crumbling down like a stale cracker.

“Do you think so? Then what is this game nonsense?”

It’s Karom’s turn to color. “It’s just my way of feeling alive. I can’t— I don’t have an explanation. It’s how I’ve conditioned myself, I suppose. To understand why I’m still...why I don’t...why I can’t...what’s keeping me from...” He trails off and looks down at his hands sitting uselessly in his lap. “But what do you see? How can you tell?”

“I suppose the same way, I can’t explain the feeling I had about you from the moment you walked through the door. But I knew it was there the moment I heard you whimpering and tossing about at night.”

“I’m still doing that, huh?” Karom bites his lip. “Is this something that will hurt me? Omens don’t have to be bad, you know. Are you praying to get rid of the omen?”

“I suppose I am. I am praying for you to win the game. I want you to win. Just like Gita, I want the game to end.”

Karom looks down sheepishly.

She reaches for the tray and picks up the book, weighing it carefully between her two hands.

“This is mine. I want you to have it.” Karom looks at the cover, his eyes wide with surprise.

“You—you wrote this?”

“It’s being released this Friday. Read it, and let me know what you think. I suppose it’s my form of sealing fate away in a place it can’t hurt me.”

Karom’s eyebrows knit together.

Ammama smiles. “You’ll see. I have only two copies, and I will give the other one to Gita before you leave.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I didn’t even know you were a writer. Gita didn’t mention...” He looks at the book again before slipping it into his backpack. “I’m honored.”

Gita appears now around the corner of the living room, wearing rumpled boxer shorts and a tank top. Even in the cloistered morning air, her nipples stand at attention and Karom looks down, embarrassed. She is wearing the neckpiece Ammama has given her and she pulls her hair out from where it is tucked under her camisole strap and braids it to the side.

“What are you guys doing?” She yawns, leaning against the doorway.

“You didn’t sleep with that on, did you?” Karom asks.

“Of course not. I just felt like wearing it now,” Gita says, twirling one of the fat golden ropes around her finger.

“It’s rather special to be wearing around the house,” Karom says. “Put it away. It’s delicate.”

“I’ll get breakfast started. You’ll have to leave for the airport shortly after your baths,” Ammama says, getting up.

“How much do you think this is worth?” Gita asks when Karom is alone with her in the living room.

“I have no idea. But aside from the price of the stones and the gold itself, I’m sure the antique design and the craftsmanship are worth a lot.”

“I was thinking about selling it,” Gita whispers, her eyes shining in the morning light. “It’s gotta be worth hundreds, maybe even a thousand. And then we can go to Argentina over Christmas.”

“Are you insane?” Karom nearly shouts. His anger seems to reflect off the walls of the small apartment. He feels his temple pulsing, though in the rest of his body, it feels as if his blood has actually run cold and stopped midcourse in his veins. “Gita, that’s your grandmother’s wedding necklace. She would never have gifted it to you if she knew you were going to sell it. It has to remain in the family.”

“Well, too bad you’re not in mine. ’Cause then you could save it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” Gita sticks her chin out in a manner that would normally have made Karom tackle her onto the bed and initiate hours of intimacy, had they been in his bedroom back in New York, but now it just provokes him. “Besides, Karom, we can’t all hold on to the past like a narcotic. There are things that link us to our dark memories and don’t let us move on. This necklace is a prime example. It’s tainted.”

“Tainted,” Karom repeats.

Gita grits her teeth as she leans in, whispering toward him. “Yes, tainted. It’s my grandmother’s wedding jewelry. The groom fled this ship thirty years ago and treated her like dirt while he was here. Yes, let’s hold on to this blissful symbol of their awful marriage forever.”

Ammama sticks her head in the doorway. “Would you like Indian breakfast today or something light, like toast? Either is perfectly convenient.”

“Toast,” Karom says, just as Gita says, “Dosas.”

“One of each,” Ammama says, turning back toward the kitchen.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Gita says. “I have to finish packing.” She takes the necklace off and returns to the room she has been sharing with her grandmother. Karom has already finished packing. He is a meticulous planner and has learned to pack from a flight-attendant friend who showed him how to roll T-shirts and tuck underwear into his shoes. His toiletries are stowed in the plastic compartment at the top of his bag, the tube of toothpaste curled up evenly like a scorpion’s tail, ensuring that every inch of space is being utilized. His socks are balled into spheres, and his belts snaked around the perimeter, encasing all his clothes in a tight bundle. The hard shell of his maroon suitcase is streaked with dust, the way it always happens only in India. Dust gets in everywhere, no matter that Karom unzips his bag for only a few hurried minutes each day: in the morning before his bath and in the evening before bed. Dust is caked between the grooved wheels, and he wipes the plastic with a wet towel, where it spreads and nestles into the suitcase’s zippered teeth. He can hear Gita’s version of packing in the next room: unfolded clothes tossed into her gaping Tumi—unwashed ones stuffed into a plastic Fabindia bag—and her huffs and squats as she clambers on top to zip it. Karom sits down on what has been his bed for the past four nights. He turns his wrist upside down and examines the fine hairs that grow where the white of the underside of his arm meets the tan line that has grown deeper during their vacation. His watch ticks reassuringly away. If they leave within the hour, they will make their flight with no problems.

Karom takes the watch off now, weighing it in the center of his palm. The skin underneath his watch is white and moist and gives off a peppery odor. The spicy scents of coconut and lentils waft down the corridor. He can hear Gita as she pads into the kitchen and muffled conversation as she sets the table. The watchstrap is fraying, but in a charming antique way. He rotates the dial, watching the hands spin freely. He picks up the flat pillow and the three sheets that are folded on his pallet bed, and for an instant, he considers leaving the watch on top of the pile. Instead he slaps it back onto his wrist and pulls it tight through the loopholes before pulling his sleeve to cover the face. Karom fluffs the pillow and places it on top of the pile before picking up his suitcase and rolling it into the hallway.

Kamini

Kamini has never considered herself religious. Her nieces and lady cousins all behave as though their community spiritual leader were a cult master and they follow him about the country glassy-eyed and full of praise. She has to give the man credit, though; he is learned not only in the heavenly scriptures but is well-read, inhaling everything from Popular Mechanics to New York Times bestsellers. He recently led a lecture on “How the Ethics of The Da Vinci Code Apply to Our Everyday Lives as Hindus.” It also doesn’t hurt that he is ruggedly handsome, with his scruffy beard and soft eyes. But Kamini has never bought it.

It’s not that Kamini is an atheist or even agnostic. She accepts and she believes. Just not the way the rest of the community might prefer. When those buildings were struck at the very point of New York City where the two rivers come together, she lit candles and prayed. When the terrorists attacked all the fancy Bombay hotels where the tourists, the business elite and their mistresses stayed, she did the same. With the tsunami, with her daughter’s first pregnancy—and then her second and then third, all bearing the nascent fruit of long, lean girls with thick glossy black hair. When Sachin Tendulkar played the test match in South Africa. And she prayed the night before the United States announced that they had voted in that president they called “Dub-ya” for the second time.

It isn’t religion. It is ritual. Just as writing has become her religion now in addition to her ritual. Her whole life, she’s always felt as though she is on the brink of something. Nothing has felt settled or fulfilled. There has always been a longing, a waiting, desiring. Nothing has felt as though she were fully in the moment, because she has learned that there is nothing she can get comfortable with. Nothing, that is, until she began to write.

Somehow, amid all distractions of raising her daughter in a single-parent household, she’d managed to discover a talent. One that would establish some sort of living for herself and her daughter once it was clear that it would be the two of them from here on out. From the time her daughter, Savita, was born, Kamini had a full stock of stories. She’d heard hundreds over the years, from her aunts and uncles, cousins and family friends. She unearthed the round-robin story hours from her year with her cousins in the small house, where they’d lain in circles passing morsels and beginnings of a story from person to person until a fable was born. She used the foundations of these tales as the source of new ones and changed details so they were unrecognizable from those tales she told with her cousins. The stories served as a source of quiet time for herself and Savita before the door barged open invariably at some witching hour of the morning and Kamini’s husband reentered their lives.

At some point, she began writing them down—those she’d created in her youth and those she spun at Savita’s bedside behests, and at some point, she sent one harmlessly to a children’s magazine. And they sent her back a check. So she sent another. And then suddenly, out of the woodwork, there it was: a living. It wasn’t enough to keep herself and Savita in riches but it afforded their basics and allowed them a meal or two out each month.

It was a strange living, one that she couldn’t admit to her family or friends, because during this time in their lives, in India it was considered uncouth for a woman—an abandoned woman especially—to go out and look for work. Never mind the strange dichotomy in this; if she didn’t earn a living, she and her daughter would starve because no one was offering handouts. Somehow she was just expected to go on with their lives as if her husband, Dev, was still there, bringing in his handsome salary as head of a security unit in Breach Candy. So she wrote. She devised stories of all shapes and forms, testing them out on Savita before she dared to seal the envelope and send them in to the editor. Savita would—true to character—challenge her on several endings.

“Mama, why would the troll so easily give up his control of the land? What does he have to gain from it?”

“Mama, sometimes you write these girls as if they are so stupid. No one would make such empty-headed decisions. Why would Princess Ajanta choose a man with brute strength over a man who can outwit anyone in the kingdom? It just doesn’t make sense.” At this one, Kamini had bristled. When had she ever made a decision in her life? she’d argued. Everything had been decided for her. From the clothes she wore to the schools she attended to the home she lived in to the man she married.

“Maybe I am stupid,” Kamini had spat back for the first time, “so you’ll have to help me guide these girls.”

Together they submitted hundreds of stories to children’s magazines and housewives’ digests, until eventually a magazine editor decided to publish an anthology of her short stories.

Kamini had been jolted into a harsh reality. “You can’t print my name on the cover,” she’d begged over the phone. “It has to be an alias.”

The editor had sighed heavily. “These are your stories, are they not? Come, now, aren’t you proud of your work? You’ve put years into this collection. Stand behind it. You never know what doors it will open for you.”

“As long as I am getting a paycheck, that’s all that matters to me. Please understand, Mr. Devindra.”

And so her collection had been published, with a pale blue hard cover with gold lettering: Tales of Girls and Animals by Shanta Nayak. It was most difficult for Kamini, publishing a book on her own and—save Savita—not being able to tell anyone about it. The book became her friends’ and family’s go-to bedtime bible and she would watch as some of her younger nieces and nephews would tote it about, dog-eared and stained, everywhere they went, hugging it to their chests as they sat meekly on sofas during family visits.

“This Shanta Nayak has really done a number on us all. Now on those long train rides to see my in-laws, the kids just sit and read quietly without chewing my tongue and driving me to pieces. God bless her, truly,” Kamini’s second cousin said.

“She must be from our community itself,” her sister responded. “Nayak is a Konkani name.”

“I hadn’t even thought of it,” the first second cousin said. “She should do a story hour with all the children. They’d love it.” For a moment Kamini’s blood ran cold. She’d be found out. Luckily, the editor wrote back to her cousins that Shanta Nayak was too busy for public appearances, that she was already hard at work on the sequel. And that was how Kamini was coerced into writing a second book. This time with new stories from the crevices of her mind and without the support of Savita, who was enrolled in college in America and had little time to help her mother concoct fairytales. These stories, however, were a little more biting. They were closer to home. Kamini wrote of a man who drank too much potion and tottered around in the background of the heroine’s house uselessly until the girl had to save him from the forest fire that would have otherwise consumed them all. Instead of an evil witch, there was a slave-driving auntie who would whip her young girl workers if they didn’t produce enough golden flax from the magic wheat that grew in their mystical fields.

“What are these, Kaminiji?” Pinki Devindra had demanded. “These are too bitter for children. I can’t print these.”

“They’re a bit more...realistic. We can’t have our children growing up without realizing the harsh truths of life.” The editor had harrumphed on the other end of the line but eventually printed them as they were, and Shanta Nayak’s True Stories of Make Believe landed on shelves the following month. At first, mothers were shocked at their brusqueness. They didn’t buy the books for their children, but True Stories of Make Believe became somewhat of a cult classic when children discovered it on their own, smuggling copies into their homes as though it were a trashy magazine with naked pictures of women. They read it under their covers and traded the same raggedy book among their friends. Soon parents had to admit that the stories were honest, though brutal, and began purchasing the book themselves.

Now—Kamini can hardly believe it—she has been living off her profits for the past thirty years. The books are still in high demand, and though she is still in her cramped East Delhi apartment, her books feed, clothe and keep her warm at night. She feeds Mr. Devindra—now Pinki to her—a short story from time to time, whenever she can no longer keep his ceaseless nagging for new work at bay. Savita married a man she met in college. They live in a state called Ohio—a place that Kamini thinks sounds constantly surprised to hear its own name. And though she misses her daughter, Kamini finally lives alone: with her routine, with her stories, with her ritual.

Which is why she is annoyed by Pinki’s phone call this morning. He has been hounding her for a few reasons: to purchase a computer, to learn how to use it and to write a third book. He is in his early seventies now but with skin stretched as tight as a young man’s and dark gray eyes that sparkle when he coaxes Kamini to write. He visits her from time to time, sometimes to drop off a packet of fan letters, other times a children’s magazine he thinks she will enjoy. But today he is calling to alert her that a package is on its way to her house by special courier.

“I’m sending you a laptop computer, Kaminiji. It’s one of the ones that folds, so it won’t take up any more room than is necessary in your flat. I’m also sending a boy to teach you to use it. It’s been fifteen years since True Stories of Make Believe. Leave a legacy, Kaminiji. Two books are insufficient. A trilogy is a legacy.” Kamini sighs and shifts her weight as she stands hunched over the phone in the kitchen. She is roasting chilies and the smell is starting to suffocate her. She turns toward the stove, pulling the phone cord with her, and applies a few more drops of oil to the pan, where they sizzle, thin wisps of gray smoke rising from the shiny red shards. She will dry these chilies out to make a pickle, allowing them to marinate properly for six months before her granddaughter Gita visits with her boyfriend in May. Boyfriend, Kamini muses. What an insipid word. It is so wishy-washy, so noncommittal. She has spoken to Gita about her relationship, and while Kamini agrees that there is no need to rush into anything, the word boyfriend makes her grimace.

She steps back and wipes her forehead with the tail of her sari.

“Pinki, my daughter has been out of the house for thirty years, and her children only visit occasionally. I haven’t been around children for such a long time. I don’t know how they act, interact. I don’t know their interests anymore. I’ve nothing to give.”

“Nonsense,” Pinki says, puffing on his pipe, a habit he hasn’t weaned himself off of even with the recent ever-insistent warnings of cancer. “Okay, you’ve been languishing. Maybe you’re a bit rusty. But practice on the laptop—get your fingers and your mind oiled and the words will pour out of you faster than you know it. This way you can send me stories and I can edit them as they come through. We can have a running dialogue. If you’re stuck, we can chat through the computer. It’ll be much better this way.”

Before she knows it, the doorbell is ringing and her chilies are scalding.

“Arey, you sent it now? As we were speaking?” Kamini asks, wiping her hands on a dishrag.

“The boy only left an hour ago. He made good timing. Good luck with it. I’m sure you’ll be a natural. I’ll call you later with details about deadlines, content, etc.”

Kamini hangs up the phone and answers the door. A young man stands behind it, clutching a rectangular satchel.

“Hi, auntie,” he says. “Parcel from Mr. P. L. Devindra.”

“Yes, come in,” she says, glancing at the floor.

He removes his shoes dutifully.

“Where would you like it?”

“What about there?” She points to the small round dining table, vacant unless she has company. The boy kneels down and unzips the bag.

“Please sit, auntie,” he says. “I’m Raj. I’m to teach you to use this.”

“Just a moment.” She scurries into the kitchen and puts the chilies onto a flat plate, flicking them with a few drops of vinegar. When she comes back outside, Raj is opening up the laptop like a clamshell, the black keys glittering like glass.

“Wait,” she says. “You’ll have to go very slowly with me. Step-by-step. How did you do that?”

Raj smiles. “There’s a little catch here in the front. You push, slide, and the computer is open. Next, plug it in, like this. And finally, the most important thing—the power button.” Raj pushes it, and sound reverberates throughout the sitting room. Kamini jumps back while Raj chuckles. “You’ll get used to it. I’m assuming your neighbors have wireless connection, so until we hook yours up, we’ll borrow theirs.”

“I should take notes.”

“There’s really no need. It will all come to you. Just watch me and then you do it. I’m to stay here until you get the hang of things.”

“I’ll put on some tea,” Kamini says, and sweeps into the kitchen. “Don’t do anything until I return.”

* * *

It quickly becomes an urban legend: Kamini Auntie, Kamini Amma, Kamini Dadima, has email. She has a Facebook page. She knows how to instant message. Everyone wants to email her and they do; she can barely keep up with her correspondence. Her nieces and nephews, scattered about the country, learn about her latest venture and write to her. Gita and her sisters, Ranja and Maila, email furiously when they learn their grandmother has learned to type and send emails, but the messages peter off when other things arise or when Kamini sends them only three-sentence responses to their three-paragraph notes. She just doesn’t have time to respond and she doesn’t want to leave anyone out. Savita prefers calling, as she has every Sunday morning since she moved to America, but wants to encourage her mother, so she sends a few lines off every now and then. Kamini is exploring a whole new world, one at the very reaches of her fingertips. Her typing is getting faster, and she is getting increasingly curious, though Raj has warned her of the dangers of chat rooms.

Even her morning routine has been completely altered. She still awakes, does her ritual and has her tea. But while the bucket is trickling to the top, she turns on the laptop and checks her email. Raj has taught her to read the newspaper online, check cricket scores, read book reviews, even find comments and fan websites about her own book. There is no end to what one can learn. Her bucket usually spills over while she is engrossed with family letters—she will never learn to call them emails—and when her bath is over and her hair braided and pinned back atop her head, she settles back to the round table and taps away.

On her second week, Pinki rings. “Well, Kaminiji, settling in? Raj told me you were a natural.”

“It’s a lot to take in, but it’s very exciting. I’ve learned a lot already.”

“That’s wonderful. But my question is—what have you written other than emails? Any seeds of inspiration? Pearls of wisdom? Iotas of thought? See, this is why I’m an editor and not a writer.”

Kamini chuckles. “I honestly haven’t given much thought to the stories. I’ve been rather distracted.”

“Well, I don’t expect them to come overnight. Take some time and think them through. Spend time with your family, around young ones. See what sorts of things they are dealing with these days. What if I gave you six months to come up with a new collection? Nine months? One year is the latest I can go, I’m afraid.”

“Within the year, Pinki. I promise. I’ll come see you in three months with notes and an outline. Okay?”

So Kamini works furiously. She offers to babysit for her frenzied grandnieces and grandnephews, telling her family to drop the children off at her place if they have errands to run or friends to see. She watches them interact with one another and notes how they play with her. She gently pries handheld video games out of their hands and teaches them to play cat’s cradle with a piece of string, shows them the simplicity of jacks using backyard stones, introduces them to chess and checkers. She chats with them about what they fear at school or under the bed, what they want more than anything in the world, other than the next electronic game for their handheld console. She reads them stories from her past two volumes and inquires about their favorites. It is the first time she’s spent time with small children since Gita, Maila and Ranja grew up, and it is difficult at first to remind herself of how to associate with these smaller creatures, but she falls into it like a rhythm.

After three months she compiles her notes and scratches of observations from her family and types them up. Then she sits at her table, ignoring the siren call of email, and writes two solid stories in preparation for the meeting with Pinki. She takes a taxi to his office in Friends Colony and sits with him at his desk as he pores over them. At the end of the hour, he sits back, twirling his mustache and gripping his pipe between his teeth.

“I don’t know, Kamini. They don’t have the same fire, that grit that was so beautifully manifested in your first two. Your connection to these children seems superficial. Perhaps you can look at it from another angle. You need to keep working at it. Get some rest, and start fresh in the morning.”

Despondent, she takes the notes from him and climbs back into another taxi. How will she change things? She has access to only her family’s children, and if they proved uninspiring, well, then she will have to truly dig into the alcoves of her mind to find a nugget of a story. What is the matter with her? The other two books flowed like rivers, gushing out of her fingertips as her pen scratched across pages and pages. It was only after the collections had been written that she had revisited the words with Savita to make edits.

She steps back into her flat, releases the packet of notes next to her laptop and presses the power button, springing the machine to life. She puts a kettle of tea on and settles down to check her email. One from Gita, more details about her pending visit with Karom, some useless sirdar jokes from her nephew and one from an unknown email address. Her hand hovers over the mouse. Raj has also warned her about opening “spam” messages that can send a disease into her computer and erase everything on it, infecting all her hard work. But this email address has her own last name, Pai, so she inhales shortly and clicks on it.

Dear Kamini,

I heard that you learned how to use a computer, that you have one at home. That is a great feat, especially at your age. Myself, I am dictating this letter to a young boy at the internet café for the cost of a beer. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to you. My first notion was that any letter to you should be filled with apologies. A complete page of apologies. But pages don’t quite exist in email, so I am trying another route.

Forty-six years ago, I walked out our door. I don’t know whether you keep track of this, but I do with each passing day. I am not proud of having left you, but it’s also something I had to do at the time. I can get into why I did it but I want some sign from you that this is okay: Is it all right to contact you now or would you rather I stayed away? I know that you have done well for yourself; I find out bits and pieces from the guards at the gate. As you know, they work through Securicom, just as I did. We don’t email, however. I call them every few months. But you are legendary with your computer skills. Your email address was easy to obtain; everyone has been talking about you. I’m very impressed with you, Kamini. I’ve always been impressed with you. It’s partly why I left. But I refuse to depose the blame onto you, nor do I want to venture into those arenas just yet. It’s been forty-six years and I am an old man, as I can imagine you are an old woman, as well.

I have trouble picturing you as an old woman. It’s not easy for me to fast-forward the image of you I have in my mind and lighten your raven hair or sag your skin with wrinkles. I am sure you have all your teeth, as you were fastidious about brushing each and every morning and night. I imagine you have a silver sheath of hair that you continue to braid and pin atop your head after your bath. I feel these are things that I know inherently, but the things that I don’t know have been aching me. One thing I want you to know from the start: I am not dying. I haven’t written this to you in an attempt to guilt you into responding to me. I am as healthy as I will ever be without disease in my body. So you can decide to respond to me of your own accord. But the curiosity is killing me.

I wonder if we have grandchildren, and where our daughter is. I wonder if you have traveled outside the perimeter of our country. Have you ever been on a plane? I wonder if you have entertained the thought of remarriage, though the guards tell me that you still live alone. And at the same time, I realize that I don’t have the rights to wonder these things, because I chose to abandon them so long ago. I don’t wish to reenter your life again, because I am positive that you have made a new start, and a great one, at that. I am sure that you have provided for Savita and made a home for yourself. This doesn’t pardon what I did, and please try to believe me, I have spent many years trying to correct it in my head. But I can’t correct it in life, nor can I erase it from memory. It happened and I have spent a great many years hoping that I can one day make it up to you. The fact remains that we don’t have many days left. I’m not writing to be morbid or, again, to guilt you into responding to me. God knows that you are your own person, a strong-willed person who has made her own life. No one is going to tell you what to do now, and certainly not me, your heel of a husband who comes slinking back with his tail between his legs decades later, wanting to know what became of the life he left behind.

Here are some things about me since I left.

1 I went to college, so we are intellectual equals now. Unless, of course, you have taken another degree.

2 I live in Bangalore, where you would think I would have learned computers ages ago, but as you know, I was always a bit of a dullard.

3 I live alone and have never remarried and had no other children.

4 I’ve given up drinking. I’ve been sober for thirty-seven years.

5 I’ve given up women. I am not an ascetic and don’t isolate myself from society, but I don’t see women anymore. I don’t run about with different girls and make a spectacle of myself.

6 The impetus behind numbers four and five was your story “The Invisible Husband.”

I know that you are Shanta Nayak. I knew it the moment I read the first few chapters and stories in True Stories of Make Believe. I kept seeing people engrossed in the book on the bus and clutching it as they walked down the street. The cover looked like a children’s book, but adults were devouring it. So I went to a bookshop, sank down in a corner and read it from cover to cover. I knew it was you. The characters and style were unmistakable. It was me, and you, and Savita and my family and your family. The stories were so honest. The book was a mirror with my face reflecting back. The shopkeepers had long before given up on shooing me out, but the moment I finished the book, I went back to the small room I was renting at the time and looked at myself in the glass. I was despicable. I couldn’t stand myself. And it only took some serious anger issues, an alcohol problem, womanizing, an abandoned marriage leaving behind a wife and a daughter, and a book of fairytales that illustrated our lives to show me that. But I made a change.

I want you to know that I am not telling you this because I want a piece of your success. You have worked for it and earned it. I want no part in it.

You know, for some time, I holidayed each summer, alternating between Goa and Kovalam with the same pack of useless friends who I’d see once a year when they would leave their wives for some fun. I didn’t enjoy their company as much after I read your books. I didn’t even enjoy my own company, for that matter.

But, for what it’s worth at this point in our lives, I do want to say this: I am sorry. I feel those are futile words, but I need to say them. I am sorry. And if you’ll let me hear all that I have missed over the years, I will say them again and again, each time we correspond. I will wait as long as I have to, or as long as I physically can, for your response and your blessing to learn all that has passed me by over the years.

If you have reached this stage of the letter, thank you. Thank you for listening to me. You don’t owe me anything. But thank you for hearing me out and considering my plea.

Yours,

Dev

Kamini sits back and breathes for what feels like the first time since she began scrolling through the letter. She thinks about herself—getting old, as he said in his letter. She isn’t sure it has happened. That is the thing about growing old with someone; they remain as a mirror for your own eyes. You can watch as their hair grows curly and wispy with loss of strength, then slowly metamorphoses to paper-thin and charcoal, stark white, sometimes even a dull, tepid brown not unlike leaves in Northeast America, from where Savita sent her pictures from the family trip driving up the coast in the autumn. This phenomenon doesn’t happen in India; the changing of the guard from lush to stark, from green to brown, from leaves to mulch. You can watch the slight smile wrinkles when they curve and peek out in the corners of eyes; at the time they are considered charming because you are considered young then. But you can watch as they pave the way for deeper grooves, etched into the face you know so well. You can watch as those grooves eventually take over to redefine the person you’ve known for so long without them.

You can feel the coconut-soft of someone else’s skin, measure it against your own and realize that there is a richness, a fattiness within the epidermis that continuously churns out that buttery-leather feeling, unlike when you age, and the same finger that you use to check yourself is already leathery without the butter, so you can’t quite differentiate what has changed and when. You can watch in that mirror as someone goes from tall, proud, confident, upright, the angles somehow shifting, like the plates beneath the earth during a quake, ever so subtly forward to humbled, tired, shoulders sagging and stooped. You can watch the bright white squares of teeth in a mouth that smile, bite, laugh, brush, before they yellow, shrink and become brittle like the former husks of themselves. And there is never a question if or when or how these things happen to you, because you see them happening right there across from you at the dining table, lying parallel to you in bed, brushing their teeth with the same movements as yours, mimicking your every move. If they are happening in that body across the way, they are happening within you. But a looking glass doesn’t act as quite the same mirror; she hasn’t watched these changes gradually, over time, so has she aged? She can’t tell.

Twice. He has used the word sorry twice. This is a foreign word to Kamini, just like please and thank you. In Konkani, her familial language, these words don’t exist. Gita had brought this up to Kamini when Kamini had pressed her and her sisters to try to speak it more often, lest it die out with Savita. As it is, Savita has only taught them nominal Konkani, the kind that young children want to hear in order to gossip about others in front of their faces or insult Americans without their knowledge.

“Why don’t we have words for please, thank you, for sorry?” Gita had asked. “Is Konkani so impolite that we can’t offer these soft words of solace?”

Kamini had clucked at her. “On the contrary, Konkani is so polite and spoken so sweetly that you never have need for these words. These are English ideals—harsh, unbecoming. So what? You insult someone with rotten words and with the same breath tell them that you are sorry? No. You ask for something nicely, so it doesn’t necessitate having to use please. You take it from them the same way, with a smile, gently, so thank you becomes obsolete, too. And you don’t hurt someone intentionally or insult someone intentionally or cross someone intentionally, so that your American idea becomes in our language ‘my mistake’—never something we have done that we regret.”

So where has Dev picked up this foreign idea of sorry? Has he watched American television shows where husbands and wives defy one another to do things they shouldn’t and then with three minutes remaining to the episode murmur an unfeeling sorry, hug one another and then roll the credits? These sorrys; whether his boy has typed out one, two or forty, they will never penetrate into Kamini’s conscience.

And the defiance of him—telling her who she was. He has no right. He has no idea who she is. He has never known who she is, and besides, if he’d had an inkling, he’d lost that privilege the moment he’d stepped out the door for the last time. Her stomach churns with these things—aging, sorry, his arrogant outing of her through a long-overdue email.

Suddenly, she starts as though she hears his boots in the hallway once again. She flinches as though he has raised his hand to upset the lamps and deities for her morning ritual. She can hear his rustling in the bathroom as he prepares himself for his bath, the gentle scuffing of the shaving-cream brush against his stubble, the dull scraping of the razor against his skin. She can hear the wardrobe door slamming open as he sorts through his clothes and selects a fresh shirt to wear with his uniform.

The kettle has been screaming on the stove for the past ten minutes, but she hasn’t heard it. Dev’s words wash over her again and again. Steam puffs out of the spout of the kettle in the kitchen, scalding water spilling over onto the stove, but Kamini doesn’t shut it off. She stands up, slams the laptop shut, hurries into the bathroom and retches into the toilet.

* * *

Three days later she still doesn’t feel back to normal. She has eaten toast and drunk countless cups of sugary tea, but she hasn’t reopened her laptop or thought through the stories she owes Pinki. She watches mindless serials on the television, the dramatic music soaring around her, capturing her in melodrama. She focuses on fake problems, other people’s lives, only changing the channel when a story line threatens to mimic her own. The writers of these serials are either the stupidest people on earth or the smartest, because they create such insipid, flimsy plots that leave you with a cliff-hanger that any intelligent person can decode before the next day’s episode, but somehow you turn the television on anyway just to ensure that your hunch is right. And these actresses! They must hire only those women with the largest eyes for full dramatic effect whenever they are shocked or shamed or cuckolded. Kamini imagines the auditions, where they measure the circumference of pupils rather than dramatic talent.

She has abandoned her notes and the thoughts from the meeting with Pinki, wanting to approach the assignment with a fresh mind and new approach. It is unlike her not to respond to an email, as she has done for years to letters on ancient blue aerogram paper, so thin her pen would pierce it numerous times during her vigorous scratching to her granddaughters or a cousin abroad. Even if she is busy, she will at least begin her response within a few days. Raj has explained a little about email etiquette to her. He has told her about junk email and spam; he has shown her how to block someone’s email address if they become a nuisance and he has shown her how to report someone sending impertinent messages. She isn’t sure what she is going to do, considers whether her silence is a message enough, but on the fourth day, she opens her clamshell and types: ...

The response is almost immediate. She should have held out.

Dear Kamini,

Thank you, thank you thank you thank you. This was a great sign from you, though any response would have been welcomed. Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure what it means. If you have found it in your heart not to reject me completely—even if that’s the extent of it—I am grateful. The same boy is typing my note to you, free of charge. He says that this is a great exchange, a great love story, and he wants to see how it will turn out. I told him not to hold his breath, but as you know, at our age, every rupee counts, so I haven’t turned him down.

I can tell you more about myself, as that’s how I interpret your ellipsis. It’s absolutely fair that I show my hand before you consider telling me anything. I will go back nearly half a century to when we were still technically living under the same roof, though I was rarely home and would sleep most of the time that I was there. You prepared meals lovingly, and though we were never friends, we threaded together some loose seams of courtesy and acceptance within one another. You realized that my job kept me out all night, caring for office buildings that I could never work in, and you raised our daughter, silently and without fuss. I realize what a step down for you our marriage was. You were college educated. You could have had your choice of men, of paths, of professions. You could have been a self-made woman. My father told me your scores from university were flawless. I was impressed but also extremely humbled and scared.

My parents, my mother especially, had always impressed the importance of studies on me. It’s not a revelation; I think you must have received the same from your aunts and uncles. One could never achieve their passion in life without the grades necessary to prove oneself. Praying, in my household, was part and parcel of receiving these good grades. Saraswati would smile down on me if I beseeched her before a final exam. I should bow my head in quiet contemplation before I sat down to my books. But what I failed to mention was that I was useless. I could study my whole life and it just wouldn’t stick. I had tutorials, extra classes. I wasn’t built to excel on these exams. So I would invest all my attentions into prayer and of course that would never work because I hadn’t put in the work required to help me learn in the first place. Nothing would come of it. Prayer became useless to me because I would pray nonstop and receive nothing in the end as benefit. So I turned my loathing from studies to prayer because it was an easier thing to hate; it was a less caustic and obvious thing to hate. You couldn’t hate studies; if you hated studies and learning, it meant that you were an imbecile. If you hated prayer, you were simply a nonbeliever.

At first, I thought marrying an intelligent woman would somehow bring me up in status, but among my other doltish friends, it just lowered me in their eyes. I was the pea-brain, the brute, the workhorse. You were the quietly strong woman who had been through it all—a multitude of homes, ever-changing fathers and mothers—and now you had a degree and a know-how that I would never obtain. Not to mention that you appeared street-smart on top of your scripted education. That’s not why I drank. Or why I chased women—at the time believing that you were none the wiser. How could I have imagined that you wouldn’t know, when my uniform would come home stinking of perfume and you were the one who did the washing, scrubbing away the evidence of lipstick and whiskey stains as though it had never occurred?

No, I take full responsibility for my actions, and my actions were wrong. I shouldn’t have done that to you, Kamini, or rather, I shouldn’t have married you when I knew what a wrong union it would be. I knew how desperate you were to make your own home and to start a new life away from the constantly rotating merry-go-round of your youth, tripping from one threshold to another just as one family tired of you. I knew you didn’t want to become someone’s charity case, so perhaps that’s why you cooked and cleaned and played dumb as you did for the ten years we were married. However, having just dictated that, I don’t know. Are we still married? I never put in for a divorce and my guards at the gate don’t know the particulars of your life now.

Kamini stops reading. She closes the window that looks into her past with Dev and sits back in her chair. She hits the power button and the computer hums to sleep. She reaches for the notebook where she has carefully taken Pinki’s notes and begins to scribble.

* * *

The first story trickles out of her at first, the words edging their way hesitantly, but gradually, they gather speed, and before she knows it, she has sheets and sheets in front of her in her tiny curly handwriting. She can never type as fast as the words appear from her brain, and the insistence with which the story tumbles forward seems no match for her computer skills. She laughs at times at her foolishness and then pities herself for her oversight. Eventually, though, once the whole thing is down on paper, she is angry.

Kamini doesn’t get angry. Her family has always teased her for being levelheaded and neutral, for taking everything in stride, for accepting the world and its people as they are. But the fact is that growing up, Kamini couldn’t afford to be angry. She couldn’t risk a temper or a tantrum when something didn’t go her way, because she was on someone else’s turf, and the moment she irked them or reminded them that she really didn’t have to be there, she’d be packing her few possessions and on her way to the next aunt’s, uncle’s or family friend’s home. So even when her cousin trampled across her only school uniform with his baby feet, leaving a trail of soggy, muddy footprints across the collar, she swallowed her fury and washed it quietly in the courtyard. When her uncle jolted home thunderously drunk on the eve of her university admittance exams, she lay still and allowed him to sing loudly in the living room where she slept—even clapped for an encore when he indignantly demanded one. She didn’t speak up—though her temper was flaring—to accuse him of sabotaging her chances at stepping off the roulette wheel that had become her life. In their youth, cousins and nieces and nephews had taken advantage of her, taking the ice cream bestowed to her because they knew she wouldn’t yowl, leaving her with the ratty ribbon for her hair, running ahead to the school gate so she would have to dodge traffic on her own. Kamini’s temper was like an eclipse: rare and always obscured by her fear of dismissal.

But she is furious now. She sets her pen down, her hands shaking at the thought. How can she still be married? Just as there are common-law marriages, aren’t there common-law separations when a spouse has been absent for 75 percent of the union? She will have to look it up on Google. She wants to call someone, a cousin, a friend, to have someone reassure her and tell her that it will all be okay. But she feels shaken, unnerved. What rights does Dev still have over her? Is he justified in returning to the house—his house, really—and resuming his life from where he’d left it? Is he entitled to her royalties? To the profits from the new book that is taking shape? Is he to be granted access to her daughter and her children? Can he just pick up the relationships she has maintained with her family, with his family, even? She can feel her heart flexing rapidly against the thin skin of her chest.

All the plates are stacked on the shelf above the sink, the cups and glasses in their place. She opens the cabinet and holds a plate under her chin.

“I’m throwing a tantrum,” she announces, and dashes the plate against the stone floor. It splinters into bits and she jumps at the noise. She looks down at the wreckage below her feet and picks up another plate. She shuts her eyes before she drops this one and it too crunches to the ground, a few pieces of porcelain bouncing about the room from the force. She throws five plates altogether before she stalks into her bedroom and swings open the wardrobe doors adjacent to hers. The dust cloud that springs out of the closet like a dormant genie makes her cough, but she lets it settle and grabs at the playing cards, the sweaters, the Pathani suits, the undershirts, the trousers. She stuffs them into plastic bags and knots them at the top. Each piece of clothing, each shot glass, reminds her of an outing or a wedding or a memory of Dev, and she continues packing it all away until there is nothing left but the one pale blue sweater he’d been wearing when he had first gifted her with her very own copy of Great Expectations. This one she shoves to a back shelf and closes the doors to the closet once again. All the bags, bursting with her husband’s dregs, are placed outside her door, where the rag picker will collect them the following day. She summons the broom from the corner of the kitchen and sweeps the dish shards into a pile. Then she wipes her hands on a dishcloth, swipes the hair away from her face and settles down at the table to write.

* * *

Dev’s reintroduction into her life turns out to be the antidote to her writer’s block. Whether it is from anger or passion that she begins her third collection of stories, neither Pinki nor she can say. But the emotion, the rawness, the grit that had been lacking previously are all very present in the next draft that she presents to her editor three months later. Pinki sits back in his seat, puffing away at his pipe as the Delhi traffic swirls beneath them. The tea his secretary has brought Kamini is cold, and she perches at the edge of her seat, watching the changing nerves of his face as they tense and smile, relax and release.

Her new collection is just over three hundred pages, and they are filled with a new spirit: anger. These characters seek redemption and revenge; they are spiteful and boastful and cranky, but just enough so that readers won’t be exasperated. She has a winning piece. This is what he tells her before he stands up from his chair, comes around his desk and shakes her hand with both of his.

“These are different, Kaminiji,” he says. “They’re unlike the stories in the first two books. They’re for a more mature audience, I think. But I like them very much. I think we’ll market this one to the scores of children that grew up with Shanta Nayak who may now have children of their own. This one will be the nostalgia edition. I’ll get this into editing as soon as possible. I want to fast-track this one.”

“You’d better do that, Pinki. I’m eighty-two, after all.”

* * *

At home Kamini is greeted with an email from Gita.

Ammama, I am so excited! We leave tonight. Karom is over the moon, but he’s nervous about returning to India after such a long time. Please don’t mention any of what I’ve told you to him. You have always been such a good listener and I want you to understand him. I think you’ll both really get along. So we depart first for Bombay and then on to Rajasthan before we come to you in Delhi. It’s going to be so romantic. Send me a message ASAP if you want anything else from here. Hugs and kisses, Gita.

Kamini writes Gita back hurriedly to have a safe trip, that she doesn’t want anything other than the few novels she has requested and that she is looking forward to meeting Karom. Then she opens a new email from Dev.

Kamini,

The boy has finished his business in Bangalore, so I am typing this myself very slowly. I haven’t heard any news from your end, but I continue to write. I’m not sure what else to tell you. But I don’t want to sit here and stew in my past and feel sorry for myself. I’ve done enough of that, as I’m sure you have. We’ve both moved forward and I just want a few nuggets from the life I left behind in order to continue. I could never take it upon myself to write you a letter, but email is a whole other thing. When I send this, I’m not sure where it goes, in the millions of pieces over my head across state lines to you. It’s intangible to me, so it’s as if I haven’t written it. Your few responses in the form of punctuation have coaxed me to continue writing. But I’m not sure if I’m wasting my time and yours. I’m not sure what feathers I’ve ruffled over there. I won’t continue until you tell me to, in so many words. As it is, this is taking me so long to write. Please give me some insight, something, anything to hold on to.

Yours,

Dev

That morning, she had rushed through her ritual, omitting lighting the tiny lamps that accompany her shrine. Her shrine has grown, evolved, since Dev’s departure. When Gita had finished college, she and her two sisters had all backpacked through South India together, stopping in temples to collect tiny idols of Ganesh, Shiva and Lakshmi sculpted from stone, wood, shell and glass. Gita had brought them all back to Kamini, wrapped lovingly in T-shirts and tissues that she’d collected from restaurants and bathrooms. Kamini had given each one a home on her multitiered shrine. The shrine had new meaning now that her granddaughter had blessed it, fresh with new hope.

Now she shuffles into her bedroom and settles onto the low stool that has replaced her having to sink to the ground amid screaming joints. She strikes two matches before the third one allows her to light all seven of the lamps. The dais glitters with light and catches the shine of five small Ganesh figurines she has been given over the years, all from the local temple. She catches sight of herself in one of the glass frames. A shallow image of her spectacles peers back at her. Her jaw is set and she pushes a lock of hair away from her face.

He wants something to hold on to. She will act.

Back at her computer, she writes.

Dev—

Savita lives in Ohio with her husband, Haakon, who is a very good man. He is Norwegian. He has pale skin and pale hair and very light eyes. They met in college in America. Savita is beautiful. She has your build.

She and Haakon have three daughers: Gita, Ranja and Maila. They live in New York, Chicago and Ohio.

Savita is the head of a publishing company in Columbus.

Her husband is a patent lawyer.

Gita is twenty-eight. She has her own interior design company.

Ranja is twenty-six. She works in politics.

Maila is twenty-four, still in university. She is studying to be a veterinarian.

-I have lived here since you left. I am single. I never remarried. I have no callers or admirers. I live alone.

-I have written two books. I am Shanta Nayak. I don’t know what you wish to do with this information, but I can assure you that nothing you do to me now can hurt me. I’ve hidden behind that name for years now, seeking solace in a pseudonym that couldn’t hurt me and my daughter, gaining income from words that no one else knew I had written. The dichotomy that I wasn’t supposed to go off and be a self-made woman, yet I was still supposed to provide for the two of us—it angers me. It angers me that I have hidden behind it for all these years. When your letters came, they startled me; they forced me to question a number of things in myself that I hadn’t ever questioned before. Your correspondence has done nothing but create an empty haunting in my life that with the close of this mail to you I hope to banish forever. I’m in a safe place now. I have been for years.

-You were right about one thing in your correspondence: I always felt beholden to someone—my aunts and uncles, family friends, your father for seeking me out, you for taking me in. But I’m free of this now. I don’t owe anyone anything, and it’s now for the first time in my life that I feel right saying this.

-I owe you nothing. I’ve already given you something, but I will give you nothing more. I forgave you a long, long time ago.

-Having said that, to some extent, I appreciate the gesture, of knowing that you are still alive and out there. I can’t commit to more than this at this point in my life, but I know it couldn’t have been easy to reach out, to write, to say sorry. I accept it. That’s all I wish to say.

-I hope I have answered all of your questions. Take care of yourself and stay in good health. Please don’t write to me again.

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