Interpreter of Maladies

Kapasi said. "The setting sun."
    "So in a couple hours the sun will set right here?" she slipped a foot out of one of her square-heeled shoes, rubbed her toes on the back of her other leg. 
    Mr. Kapasi was not certain exactly what the word suggested, but he had a feeling it was a favorable response. He hoped that Mrs. Das had understood Surya's beauty, his power. Perhaps they would discuss it further in their letters. He would explain things to her, things about India, and she would explain things to him about America. In its own way this correspondence would fulfill his dream, of serving as an interpreter between nations. He looked at her straw bag, delighted that his address lay nestled among its contents. When he pictured her so many thousands of miles away he plummeted, so much so that he had an overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around her, to freeze with her, even for an instant, in an embrace witnessed by his favorite Surya. But Mrs. Das had already started walking. 
    "When do you return to America?" he asked, trying to sound placid. 
    "In ten days." 
    He calculated: a week to settle in, a week to develop the pictures, a few days to compose her letter, two weeks to get to India by air. According to his schedule, allowing room for delays, he would hear from Mrs. Das in approximately six weeks' time. 
    The family was silent as Mr. Kapasi drove them back, a little past four-thirty, to Hotel Sandy Villa. The children had bought miniature granite versions of the chariot's wheels at a souvenir stand, and they turned them round in their hands. Mr. Das continued to read his book. Mrs. Das untangled Tina's hair with her brush and divided it into two little ponytails. 
    Mr. Kapasi was beginning to dread the thought of dropping them off. He was not prepared to begin his six week wait to hear from Mrs. Das. As he stole glances at her in the rear-view mirror, wrapping elastic bands around Tina's hair, he wondered how he might make the tour last a little longer. Ordinarily he sped back to Puri using a shortcut, eager to return home, scrub his feet and hands with sandalwood soap, and enjoy the evening newspaper and a cup of tea that his wife would serve him in silence. The thought of that silence, something to which he'd long been resigned, now oppressed him. It was then that he suggested visiting the hills at Udayagiri and Khandagiri, where a number of monastic dwellings were hewn our of the ground, lacing one another across a defile. It was some miles away, but well worth seeing, Mr. Kapasi told them. 
    "Oh yeah, there's something mentioned about it in this book," Mr. Das said. "Built by a Jain king or something."
    "Shall we go then?" Mr. Kapasi asked. He paused at a turn in the road. "It's to the left." 
    Mr. Das turned to look at Mrs. Das. Both of them shrugged. 
    "Left, left," the children chanted. 
    Mr. Kapasi turned the wheel, almost delirious with relief. 
    He did not know what he would do or say to Mrs. Das once they arrived at the hills. Perhaps he would tell her what a pleasing smile she had. Perhaps he would compliment her strawberry shin, which he found irresistibly becoming. Perhaps, when Mr. Das was busy taking a picture, he would take her hand. He did not have to worry. When they got to the hills divided by a steep path thick with trees, Mrs. Das refused to get out of the car. All along the path, dozens of monkeys were seated on stones, as well as on the branches of the trees. Their hind legs were stretched out in front and raised to shoulder level, their arms resting on their knees. 
    "My legs are tired," she said, sinking low in her seat. "I'll stay here."
    "Why did you have to wear those stupid shoes?" Mr. Das said. "You won't be in the pictures."
    "Pretend I'm there."
    "But we could use one of these pictures for our Christmas card this year. We didn't get one of all five of us at the Sun Temple. Mr. Kapasi could take it."
    "I'm not coming. Anyway, those monkeys give me the creeps."
    "But they're harmless." Mr. Das said. He turned to Mr. Kapasi. "Aren't they?"
    "They are more hungry than dangerous," Mr. Kapasi said. "Do not provoke them with food, and they will not bother you." 
    Mr. Das headed up the defile with the children, the boys at his side, the little girl on his shoulders. Mr. Kapasi watched as they crossed paths with a Japanese man and woman, the only other tourists there, who posed for a final photograph, then stepped into a nearby car and drove away. As the car disappeared out of