The Lowland

gods, seed of all the worlds. A spider reaches the liberty of space by means of its own thread.
    One day, a Thursday, the policeman was not in uniform. Instead of walking from left to right he came from the opposite direction, in civilian clothing. He was accompanying a little boy home from school. It was twenty past the hour. He was walking in a more casual way.
    When she reported this to Udayan, he said, Keep observing him. Next week, when he’s off duty again, tell me which day. Remember to jot down the time.
    Again the following Thursday, at twenty past, she saw the policeman in his alternate guise, holding the hand of the young boy, coming from the opposite direction. It was the boy who would be in uniform those days. White shorts and a shirt, a water canteen over one shoulder, a satchel in his hand. Damp hair neatly combed. She saw the boy skipping, two or three lively paces in contrast to each of his father’s slower strides.
    She heard the boy’s voice, telling his father about what he’d learned in school that day, and heard his father, laughing at the things he said. She saw their joined hands, their arms slightly swinging.
    Four weeks passed. It was always a Thursday, she told Udayan. That was the day he walked his son home from school.
    You are positive, Thursday? Never another day?
    No, never.
    He seemed satisfied. But then he asked, You’re certain it’s his son?
    Yes.
    How old is he?
    I don’t know. Six or seven.
    He turned his face from her. He asked her nothing more.
    The week before going to America to be with Subhash, she went back to Jadavpur, to the neighborhood of the brother and sister she’d tutored. Again she hired a rickshaw. She wore a printed sari now that she was married again, looking as she had when she’d been Udayan’s wife.
    She was five months pregnant, carrying a child who would not know him. She had leather slippers on her feet, bangles on her wrists, a colorful purse in her lap. She wore sunglasses, not wanting to be noticed. Soon the heat would be unbearable, but she would be far away by then.
    She approached the street of the brother and sister, then told the rickshaw to stop. Continuing on foot, she looked at the letter boxes mounted to each home.
    The last one bore the name she’d been looking for. The name the investigator had mentioned the day she and Subhash had been questioned. It was a single-story house, a simple grille enclosing the verandah. The name of a dead man was painted carefully on the wood of the letter box, in white block letters. Nirmal Dey. The policeman they’d needed out of the way.
    The occupants of the house were visible, standing on the verandah, facing the street, staring out though there was nothing to see. It was as if they’d been waiting for her. There was the little boy Gauri used to see skipping down the road while holding his father’s hand. All this time she’d seen the boy only from the back, for he’d always been walking away from her. But she knew, just from looking at his body, that it was him.
    For the first time she saw his face. She saw the loss that would never be replaced, a loss that the child forming inside her shared.
    He was home from school, no longer in his bright white uniform, but in a pair of faded shorts and a shirt instead. He stood still, his fingers hooked over the grille. Briefly he looked at her, then averted his gaze.
    She imagined the afternoon at school he’d waited to be picked up by his father. Being told, finally, by someone, that his father would not be coming for him.
    Next to him was a woman, the boy’s mother. A woman perhaps only a few years older than Gauri. It was the mother who wore white now, as Gauri had worn until a few weeks ago. The colorless fabric was wrapped around the woman’s waist, draped over her shoulder, over the top of her head. Her life turned upside down, her complexion looking like it had been scrubbed clean.
    Seeing Gauri, the mother did not look away. Who are you looking for? she asked.
    Gauri said the only reasonable thing she could think of, the surname of the brother and sister she’d tutored.
    They live back that way, the woman told her, pointing in the opposite direction. You’ve come too far.
    She walked away, aware that the woman and boy had already forgotten her. She was like a moth that had strayed into a room, only to flutter out of it again. Unlike Gauri, they would never think back to this