The Lowland

horses’ hooves on the broad red-dirt paths. He heard the taps of a woodpecker. The faint strikes of a sickle, as a section of grass elsewhere in the club was trimmed by hand.
    Groups of jackals sat erect in packs, their tawny hides mottled with gray. As the light dwindled a few began to search for food, their lean forms trotting in straight lines. Their distraught howling, echoing within the club, signaled that it was late, time for the brothers to go home.
    They left the two kerosene tins, one on either side of the wall, to mark the place. They made sure to hide the one inside the club behind some shrubbery.
    On subsequent visits Subhash collected feathers and wild almonds. He saw vultures bathing in puddles, spreading their wings to dry.
    Once he found an egg that had dropped, intact, from a warbler’s nest. Carefully he carried it home with him, placing it in a terra-cotta container from a sweet shop, covering it with twigs. Digging a hole for it in the garden behind their house, at the base of the mango tree, when the egg did not hatch.
    Then one evening, throwing over the putting iron from inside the club, climbing back over the wall, they noticed that the kerosene tin on the other side was missing.
    Someone took it, Udayan said. He started to search. The light was scant.
    Is this what you boys are looking for?
    It was a policeman, appearing from nowhere, patrolling the area around the club.
    They could distinguish his height, his uniform. He was holding the tin.
    He took a few steps toward them. Spotting the putting iron on the ground, he picked it up, inspecting it. He set down the tin and switched on a flashlight, focusing its beam on each of their faces, then down the length of their bodies.
    Brothers?
    Subhash nodded.
    What’s in your pockets?
    They removed the golf balls and surrendered them. They watched the policeman put them in his own pockets. He kept one out, tossing it into the air and catching it in his hand.
    How did you come to acquire these?
    They were silent.
    Someone invited you today, to play golf at the club?
    They shook their heads.
    You don’t need me to tell you that these grounds are restricted, the policeman said. He rested the shaft of the putting iron lightly against Subhash’s arm.
    Was today your first visit?
    No.
    Was this your idea? Aren’t you old enough to know better?
    It was my idea, Udayan said.
    You have a loyal brother, the policeman said to Subhash. Wanting to protect you. Willing to take the blame.
    I’ll do you a favor this time, he continued. I won’t mention it to the Club. As long as you don’t intend to try it again.
    We won’t return, Subhash said.
    Very well. Shall I escort you home to your parents, or should we conclude our conversation here?
    Here.
    Turn around, then. Only you.
    Subhash faced the wall.
    Take another step.
    He felt the steel shaft striking his haunches, then the backs of his legs. The force of the second blow, only an instant of contact, brought him to his hands and knees. It would take some days for the welts to go down.
    His parents had never beaten them. He felt nothing at first, only numbness. Then a sensation that was like boiling water tossed from a pan against his skin.
    Stop it, Udayan shouted to the policeman. He crouched next to Subhash, throwing an arm across his shoulders, attempting to shield him.
    Together, pressed against one another, they braced themselves. Their heads were lowered, their eyes closed, Subhash still reeling from pain. But nothing more happened. They heard the sound of the putting iron being flung over the wall, landing a final time inside the club. Then the policeman, who wanted nothing more to do with them, retreating.
    3.
    Since childhood Subhash had been cautious. His mother never had to run after him. He kept her company, watching as she cooked at the coal stove, or embroidered saris and blouse pieces commissioned by a ladies’ tailor in the neighborhood. He helped his father plant the dahlias that he grew in pots in the courtyard. The blooming orbs, violet and orange and pink, were sometimes tipped with white. Their vibrancy was shocking against the drab courtyard walls.
    He waited for chaotic games to end, for shouts to subside. His favorite moments were when he was alone, or felt alone. Lying in bed in the morning, watching sunlight flickering like a restless bird on the wall.
    He put insects under a domed screen to observe them. At the edges of the ponds in the