The Lowland

still enough water to form puddles here and there.
    He noticed a small stone marker that had not been there before. He walked toward it. On it was Udayan’s name. Beneath that, the years of his birth and death: 1945–1971.
    It was a memorial tablet, erected for political martyrs. Here, where the water came and went, where it collected and vanished, was where his party comrades had chosen to put it.
    Subhash remembered an afternoon playing football with Udayan and a few of the other neighborhood boys, in the field on the other side of the lowland. He’d twisted his ankle in the middle of the game. He’d told Udayan to keep playing, that he’d manage on his own, but Udayan had insisted on accompanying him.
    He remembered draping an arm over Udayan’s shoulder, leaning on him as he limped back, the swollen ankle turning heavy with pain. He remembered Udayan teasing him even then for the clumsy move that had led to the injury, saying their side had been winning until then. And at the same time supporting him, guiding him home.
    He returned to the house, intending to rest briefly, but fell into deep sleep. When he woke up it was late, past the hour his parents normally ate dinner. He’d slept through the meal. The fan wasn’t moving; the current had gone. He found a flashlight under the mattress, switched it on, and went upstairs.
    The door to his parents’ bedroom was closed. Going to the kitchen to see if there was anything left to eat, he found Gauri sitting on the floor, with a candle lit beside her.
    He recognized her at once in its glow, from the snapshot Udayan had sent. But she was no longer the relaxed college girl who had smiled for his brother. That picture of her had been in black and white, but now the absence of color, even in the warm light of the candle, was more profound.
    Her long hair was pulled back above her neck. She sat with her head down, her wrists bare, dressed in a sari of crisp white. She was thin, without a trace of the life she was carrying. She wore glasses, a detail withheld from the photograph. When she looked up at him, he saw in spite of the glasses another thing the photo had not fully conveyed. The frank beauty of her eyes.
    He took her in but did not speak to her, watching her eat some dal and rice. She could have been anyone, a stranger. And yet she was now a part of his family, the mother of Udayan’s child. She was dragging a few grains of salt with her index finger from the little pile at the edge of her plate and mixing it into her food. He saw that the fish he had been served at lunch had not been given to her.
    I am Subhash, he said.
    I know.
    I don’t mean to disturb you.
    They tried to wake you for dinner.
    I’m wide awake now.
    She started to get up. Let me fix a plate for you.
    Finish your meal. I can get it myself.
    He felt her eyes on him as he scanned the shelves with his flashlight, retrieved a dish, uncovered the pots and pans that had been left for him.
    You sound just like him, she said.
    He sat down beside her, the candle between them, facing her. He saw her hand resting over her plate, the tips of her fingers coated with food.
    Is it because of my parents that you’re not eating fish?
    She ignored his question. You have the same voice, she said.
    Quickly he turned passive, waking up in his box of white mosquito netting. Waiting for his tea to be handed to him in the morning, waiting for his discarded clothes to be washed and folded, for his meals to be served. He never rinsed a plate or cup, knowing the houseboy would come to take them away. Coarse crystals of sugar studded his breakfast toast, which he washed down with hot too-sweet tea, tiny ants arriving to haul away the crumbs.
    The layout of the house was disorienting. The whitewash was so fresh that it rubbed off on his hand when he touched the walls. In spite of the new construction, the house felt unwelcoming. There was more space to withdraw to, to sleep in, to be alone in. But no place had been designated to gather together, no furniture to accommodate guests.
    The terrace on the top floor was where his parents preferred to sit, the only part of the house they seemed fully to possess. It was here that, after his father returned from work, they took their evening tea, on a pair of simple wooden chairs. At that height the mosquitoes were fewer, and when the current failed there was still some breeze. His father didn’t bother to unfold the newspaper.