The Lowland

Presidency, then in Rhode Island, even early on in California. Writing down call numbers with short pencils, searching up and down aisles that would turn dark when the timers on the lights expired. She recalls, visually, certain passages in the books she’d read. Which side of the book, where on the page. She remembers the strap of the tote bag, digging into her shoulder as she walked home.
    She cannot avoid it; she is a member of the virtual world, an aspect of her dwelling on the new sea that has come to dominate the earth’s surface. There is a profile of her on the college website, a relatively recent photograph. A list of the courses she teaches, a trail marking her accomplishments. Degrees, publications, conferences, fellowships. Her e-mail, and her mailing address at the department, should anyone want to send her something or get in touch.
    A little more digging would yield footage with a small group of other academics, historians and sociologists, participating in a recent panel discussion at Berkeley. There she is walking into the room, taking her place at the table, behind a placard bearing her name. Patiently listening, reviewing her index cards, as each member of the panel clears his throat, leans forward, and slowly comes to his point.
    Too much information, and yet, in her case, not enough. In a world of diminishing mystery, the unknown persists.
    She’s found Subhash, still working at the same lab in Rhode Island. She discovers PDF files of articles he coauthors, his name mentioned in connection to an oceanography symposium he attends.
    Only once, unable to help herself, she’d searched for Udayan. But as she might have predicted, in spite of all the information and opinion, there was no trace of his participation, no mention of the things he’d done. There had been hundreds like him in Calcutta at that time, foot soldiers who’d been anonymously dedicated, anonymously executed. His contribution had not been noted, his punishment was standard for the time.
    Like Udayan, Bela is nowhere. Her name in the search engine leads to nothing. No university, no company, no social media site yields any information. Gauri finds no image, no trace of her.
    It doesn’t mean anything, necessarily. Only that Bela doesn’t exist in the dimension where Gauri might learn something about her. Only that she refuses Gauri that access. Gauri wonders if the refusal is intentional. If it is a conscious choice on Bela’s part, to ensure that no glimpse is given, no contact is made.
    Only her brother, Manash, has sought her out, reconnecting to her via e-mail. Asking after her, asking if she would ever return to Calcutta to visit him. She’s told him she’s separated from Subhash. But she’s invented a vague and predictable destiny for Bela, saying she’d grown up, that she’d gotten married.
    Every so often Gauri continues to search for her, continues to fail. She knows that it’s up to her; that Bela won’t come to her otherwise. And she doesn’t dare ask Subhash. The effort flops like a just-caught fish inside her. A brief burst of possibility as the name is typed onto the screen, as she clicks to activate the search. Hope thrashing in the process of turning cold.
    Dipankar Biswas was a name new to her in-box, but kept in memory. A Bengali student of hers from many years ago. He was born the same year as Bela, raised in a suburb of Houston. She’d felt generous toward him. They’d exchanged a few sentences in Bengali. She’d regarded him, for the years he was her student, as a gauge for how Bela might be.
    He’d spent summers in Calcutta, staying at his grandparents’ house on Jamir Lane. She thought he’d gone off to law school, but no, he’d changed his mind, explaining in his e-mail that he was a visiting professor of political science at one of the other colleges in the consortium, specializing in South Asia. Telling her she’d been an influence.
    He was writing to say hello, to say he was nearby. He was coming to her college the following week, to attend a panel. He asked Gauri if he could take her to lunch. He was putting together a book, hoping she might contribute to it. Would she be open to discussing the possibility?
    She considered saying no. Instead, curious to see him again, she suggested a quiet restaurant she knew well, where she came from time to time on her own.
    Dipankar was already at the table. No longer in