What would you like to see? the owner asked. He was from Kashmir, his face pale, his eyes light, a cotton cap on his head.
Nothing.
Come have a look. Have a cup of tea.
He had forgotten about such gestures of hospitality from shopkeepers. He entered and sat on a stool, watching as the woolen shawls were spread out one by one on a large white cushion on the floor. The generosity of the effort, the faith implicit in it, touched him. He decided to buy one for his mother, realizing only now that he’d brought her nothing from America.
I’ll take this, he said, fingering a navy-blue shawl, thinking she would appreciate the softness of the wool, the intricacy of the stitch.
What else?
That’s all, he said. But then he pictured Gauri. He recalled her profile as she’d told him about Udayan. The way she’d stared straight ahead at nothing, telling him what he’d wanted to know.
It was thanks to Gauri that he knew what had happened: that she and his parents had watched Udayan die. He knew now that his parents had been shamed before their neighbors. Unable to help Udayan, unable in the end to protect him. Losing him in an unthinkable way.
He sifted through the choices at his feet. Ivory, gray, a brown that was lighter than the tea he’d been given to drink. These were considered appropriate for her now. But a vivid turquoise one with a border of minute embroidery caught his eye.
He imagined it wrapped around her shoulders, trailing over one side. Brightening her face.
Also this one, he said.
His parents were on their terrace, waiting. They asked what had taken him so long. They said it still wasn’t safe, to wander so late on the streets.
Though their concern was reasonable it annoyed him. I’m not Udayan, he was tempted to say. I would never have put you through that.
He gave his mother the shawl he’d bought for her. Then he showed her the one for Gauri.
I’d like to give her this.
You should know better, she said. Stop trying to befriend her.
He was silent.
I heard the two of you talking yesterday.
I’m not supposed to talk to her?
What did she tell you?
He didn’t say. Instead he asked, Why don’t you ever talk to her?
Now it was his mother who was silent.
You’ve taken away her colored clothes, the fish and meat from her plate.
These are our customs, his mother said.
It’s demeaning. Udayan would never have wanted her to live this way.
He was not used to quarreling with his mother. But a new energy flowed through him and he could not restrain himself.
Does it mean nothing, that she’s going to give you a grandchild?
It means everything. It’s the only thing he’s left us, his mother said.
And what about Gauri?
She has a place here if she chooses.
What do you mean, if she chooses?
She could go somewhere to continue her studies. She might prefer it.
What makes you think that?
She’s too withdrawn, too aloof to be a mother.
His temples were throbbing. Have you discussed any of this with her?
There’s no point in worrying her about it now.
He saw that already, coldly, sitting on the terrace, his mother had plotted it out. But he was just as appalled at his father, for saying nothing, for going along with it.
You can’t separate them. For Udayan’s sake, accept her.
His mother lost her patience. She was angry with him, too. Shut your mouth, she said, her tone insulting. Don’t tell me how to honor my own son.
That night, under the mosquito netting, Subhash was unable to sleep.
Perhaps he would never fully know what Udayan had done. Gauri had conveyed her version to him, and his parents refused to discuss it.
He supposed they’d been lenient regarding Udayan, as they’d always been. Intuiting that he was in over his head, but never confronting him.
Udayan had given his life to a movement that had been misguided, that had caused only damage, that had already been dismantled. The only thing he’d altered was what their family had been.
He had kept Subhash, and probably to a great degree also his parents, deliberately in the dark. The more his involvement had deepened, the more evasive he’d turned. Writing letters as if the movement no longer mattered to him. Hoping to throw Subhash off the trail as he’d put together bombs, as he’d sketched maps of the Tolly Club. As he’d blown the fingers off his hand.
Gauri was the one he’d trusted. He’d inserted her into their lives, only to strand her there.
Like the solution to an equation emerging bit by bit, Subhash began to perceive a turn things might take. He was already eager to leave Calcutta. There was nothing he could do for his parents. He was unable to console them. Though he’d returned to stand before them, in the end it had not mattered that he had come.
But Gauri was different. Around her, he felt a shared awareness of the person they’d both loved.
He thought of her remaining with his parents, living by their rules. His mother’s coldness toward Gauri was insulting, but his father’s passivity was just as cruel.
And it wasn’t simply cruelty. Their treatment of Gauri was deliberate, intended to drive her out. He thought of her becoming a mother, only to lose control of the child. He thought of the child being raised in a joyless house.
The only way to prevent it was to take Gauri away. It was all he could do to help her, the only alternative he could provide. And the only way to take her away was to marry her. To take his brother’s place, to raise his child, to come to love Gauri as Udayan had. To follow him in a way that felt perverse, that felt ordained. That felt both right and wrong.
The date of his departure was approaching; soon enough he would be on the plane again. There was no one there for him in Rhode Island. He was tired of being alone.
He had tried to deny the attraction he felt for Gauri. But it was like the light of the fireflies that swam up to the house at night, random points that surrounded him, that glowed and then receded without a trail.
He mentioned nothing to his parents, knowing that they would only try to dissuade him. He knew the solution he’d arrived at would appall them. He went to her directly. He’d been afraid of how his family might react to Holly. But he was no longer afraid.
This is for you, he said, standing in her doorway, giving her the shawl.
She lifted the cover of the box and looked at it.
I’d like for you to wear it, he said.
He watched her step into the room and open her wardrobe. She placed the shawl, still folded in the box, inside.
When she turned to face him again, he observed that a mosquito had landed at the very edge of her forehead, close to the hairline. He wanted to reach over and brush it away, but she stood, unbothered, perhaps unaware.
I hate how my parents treat you, he said.
She was silent. She sat down at her desk, in front of the book and the notebook spread there. She was waiting for him to go.
He lost his nerve. The idea was ridiculous. She would not wear the turquoise shawl, she would never agree to marry him and go to Rhode Island. She was mourning for Udayan, carrying his child. Subhash knew he was nothing to her.
The following afternoon, at a time no one was expected, the buzzer rang. Subhash was sitting on the terrace, reading the papers. His father was at work, his mother had gone out on an errand. Gauri was in her room.
He went down the staircase to see who it was. He found three men standing on the other side of the gate. Two policemen carrying guns, and an investigator from the Intelligence Bureau. The investigator introduced himself. He wanted to speak to Gauri.
She’s sleeping.
Go wake her.
He unlocked the gate and took them to the second floor. He asked them to wait on the landing. Then he walked down the corridor to Gauri’s room.
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When she opened the door, she was not wearing her glasses. Her eyes looked tired. Her hair was disheveled, the material of her sari wrinkled. The bed was unmade.
He told her who had come. I’ll stay with you, he said.
She tied back her hair and put on her glasses. She remade the bed and told him she was ready. She was composed, betraying none of the nervousness he felt.
The investigator stepped into the room first. The policemen followed, standing in the doorway. They were smoking cigarettes, allowing the ashes to fall onto the floor. One of them had a lazy eye, so that he seemed to be looking at both Gauri and Subhash at the same time.
The investigator was observing the walls, the ceiling, taking in certain details. He picked up one of the books on Gauri’s table, thumbing through a few pages. He took a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket. He made some notes. The tips of some of his fingers had lost their pigment, as if spotted with bleach.
You’re the brother? he asked, not bothering to look up at Subhash.
Yes.
The one in America?
He nodded, but the investigator was already focused on Gauri.
You met your husband in what year?
Nineteen sixty-eight.
While you were a student at Presidency?
Yes.
You were sympathetic to his beliefs?
In the beginning.
Are you currently a member of any political organization?
No.
I’d like to go over some photographs. They’re of some people your husband knew.
All right.
He took an envelope out of his pocket. He began handing her pictures. Small snapshots Subhash was unable to see.
Do you recognize any of these people?
No.
You’ve never met them? Your husband never introduced you to them?
No.
Look carefully, please.
I have.
The investigator put the snapshots back into the envelope, mindful not to smudge them.
Did he ever mention someone named Nirmal Dey?
No.
You are certain?
Yes.
Gopal Sinha?
Subhash swallowed, and glanced at her. She was lying. Even he remembered Sinha, the medical student, from the meeting he’d attended. Surely Udayan had mentioned him to Gauri.
Or had he? Perhaps, for the sake of protecting her, he’d been dishonest with her, too. Subhash had no way of knowing. As vivid as her account of Udayan’s final days and moments had been, certain details remained vague.
The investigator took a few more notes, then wiped his face with a handkerchief. May I trouble you for some water?
Subhash poured it for him, from the urn in the corner of the room, handing him the stainless-steel cup that was kept, overturned, beside it. He watched the investigator drain the cup, then set it down on Gauri’s desk.
We’ll return if we have further questions, the investigator said.
The policemen stepped on their cigarettes to put them out, and then the group turned back toward the staircase. Subhash followed, seeing them out of the house, locking the gate behind them.
When do you return to America? the investigator asked.
In a few weeks.
What is your subject?
Chemical oceanography.
You’re nothing like your brother, he remarked, then turned to go.
• • •
She was waiting for him on the terrace, sitting on one of the folding chairs.
You’re all right? he asked.
Yes.
How long before they come back?
They won’t come again.
How can you be sure?
She raised her head, then her eyes. Because I have nothing else to tell them, she said.
You’re certain?
She continued to look at him, her expression neutral, composed. He wanted to believe her. But even if there was anything else she had to tell, he understood that there was nothing else she was willing to say.
You’re not safe here, he said. Even if the police leave you alone, my parents won’t.
What do you mean?
He paused, then told her what he knew.
They want you out of this house, Gauri. They don’t want to take care of you. They want their grandchild to themselves.
After she had absorbed this, he said the only things he could think of, the most obvious of facts: that in America no one knew about the movement, no one would bother her. She could go on with her studies. It would be an opportunity to begin again.
Because she said nothing to interrupt him, he went on, explaining that the child needed a father. In America it could be raised without the burden of what had happened.
He told her he knew she still loved Udayan. He told her not to think about what people might say, how his parents would react. If she went with him to America, he promised her, it would all cease to matter.
She’d recognized most of the people in the photographs. They were all Udayan’s comrades, party members from the neighborhood. She remembered some of them from a meeting she’d gone to once, before it got too dangerous. She’d recognized Chandra, a woman who worked at the tailor shop, and also the man from the stationer’s. She’d pretended not to.
Among the names the investigator had gone over, there was only one that Udayan had never mentioned. Only one, truthfully, she did not know. Nirmal Dey. And yet something told her she was not in ignorance of this man.
You don’t have to do this, she said to Subhash the following morning.
It’s not only for you.
He wouldn’t have wanted this.
I understand.
I’m not talking about our getting married.
What, then?
In the end he didn’t want a family. He told me the day before he died. And yet—
She stopped herself.
What?
He once told me, because he got married before you, that he wanted you to be the first to have a child.
Part IV
Chapter 1
He was there, standing behind a rope at the airport, waiting for her. Her brother-in-law, her husband. The second man she had married in two years.
The same height, a similar build. Counterparts, companions, though she’d never seen them together. Subhash was a milder version. Compared to Udayan’s, his face was like the slightly flawed impression the man at Immigration had just stamped into her passport, indicating her arrival, stamped over a second time for emphasis.
He was wearing corduroy pants, a checkered shirt, a zippered jacket, athletic shoes. The eyes that greeted her were kind but weak; the weakness, she suspected, that had led him to marry her, and to do her the favor he’d done.
Here he was, to receive her, to accompany her from now on. Nothing about him had changed; at the end of her voyage, there was nothing to greet her but the reality of the decision she’d made.
But she saw him registering the obvious change in her. Five months pregnant now, her face and hips fuller, her waist thick, the child’s presence obvious beneath the turquoise shawl he’d given her, draped around her for warmth.
She entered his car and sat beside him, to his right, her two suitcases stacked in their canvas slipcovers on the backseat. She waited while he started the engine and let it run for a bit. He unpeeled a banana and poured himself some tea from a flask. She put her lips to the other side of the cap when he offered, swallowing a hot tasteless liquid, like wet wood.
How do you feel?
Tired.
Again the voice, also Udayan’s. Almost the exact pitch and manner of speaking. This was the deepest and most startling proof of their fraternity. For a moment she allowed this isolated aspect of Udayan, preserved and replicated in Subhash’s throat, to travel back to her.
How are my parents?
The same.
The heat’s arrived in Calcutta?
More or less.
And the situation generally?
Some would say better. Others worse.
This was Boston, he told her. Rhode Island was south of here. They emerged from a tunnel that went below a river, passing by a harbor, and then the city fell away. He drove more quickly than she was used to, more consistently than cars could travel on Calcutta streets. The continuous movement sickened her. She had preferred being on the plane, detached from the earth, the illusion of sitting still.
Along the side of the road were gray- and white-skinned trees that looked incapable of ever producing leaf or fruit. Their branches were copious but thin, dense networks she could see through. On some trees, a few leaves still clung. She wondered why they had not fallen like the others.
Among the trees, here and there, were patches of snow. She would remember the smooth pitch of the roads, the flat, squared-off shapes of the cars. And all the space between and around things—the cars traveling in two directions, the infrequent buildings. The barren but densely growing trees.
He glanced at her. Is it what you expected?
I didn’t know what to expect.
Again the child was stirring and shifting. It was unaware of its new surroundings, and of the astonishing distance it had traveled. Gauri’s body remained its world. She wondered if the new environment would affect it in any way. If it could sense the cold.
She felt as if she contained a ghost, as Udayan was. The child was a version of him, in that it was both present and absent. Both within her and remote. She regarded it with a sort of disbelief, just as she still did not really believe that Udayan was gone, missing now not only from Calcutta but from every other part of the earth she’d just flown across.
As the plane was landing in Boston, she’d momentarily feared that their child would dissolve and abandon her. She’d feared that it would perceive, somehow, that the wrong father was waiting to receive them. That it would protest and stop forming.
After entering Rhode Island she expected to see the ocean, but the highway merely continued. They approached a small city called Providence. She saw hilly streets, buildings close together, peaked rooftops, an ornate white dome. She knew that the word providence meant foresight, the future beheld before it was experienced.