The Lowland

His mother had no sewing in her lap. Until it grew dark, through the pattern of the trefoil grille, they looked out at the neighborhood; this seemed to be their only pastime.
    If the houseboy was out on an errand, it was Gauri who served tea. But she never joined them. After helping his mother with the morning chores she kept to her own room, on the second floor of the house. He noticed that his parents did not talk to her; that they scarcely acknowledged her presence when she came into view.
    Belatedly he was presented with his gifts for Durga Pujo. There was gray material for trousers, striped material for shirts. Two sets of each, for he was also given Udayan’s share. More than once, offering him a biscuit, asking if he needed more tea, his mother called him Udayan instead of Subhash. And more than once he answered, not correcting her.
    He struggled to interact with them. When he asked his father how his days were at the office, his father replied that they were as they’d always been. When he asked his mother if there had been many orders that year, to embroider saris for the tailor shop, she said her eyes could no longer take the strain.
    His parents asked no questions about America. Inches away, they avoided looking Subhash in the eye. He wondered whether his parents would ask him to remain in Calcutta, to abandon his life in Rhode Island. But there was no mention of this.
    Nor was there mention of the possibility of their arranging a marriage for him. They were in no position to plan a wedding, to think about his future. An hour often passed without their speaking. The shared quiet fell over them, binding them more tightly than any conversation could.
    Again it was assumed that he would ask little of them, that somehow he would see to his own needs.
    In the early evening, always at the same time, his mother gathered a few flowers from the pots in the courtyard and left the house. From the terrace he saw her, walking past the ponds.
    She stopped at the marker by the edge of the lowland, rinsing the stone clean with water she drew from a small brass urn, the one she had used to bathe him and Udayan when they were small, and then she placed the flowers on top. Without asking, he knew that this was the hour; that this had been the time of day.
    On the family radio they listened to the news of East Pakistan turning into Bangladesh after twelve days of war. For Muslim Bengalis it meant liberation, but for Calcutta the conflict meant another surge of refugees from across the border. Charu Majumdar was still in hiding. He was India’s most wanted man, a bounty of ten thousand rupees on his head.
    Silently they listened to the reports, but his father hardly seemed to pay attention. Though the combing raids had ended, his father still kept the key to the house under his pillow when he slept. Sometimes, at random, sitting at the top of the padlocked house, he shone a flashlight through the grille, to see if someone was there.
    They did not talk of Udayan. For days his name did not escape their lips.
    Then one evening Subhash asked, How did it happen?
    His father’s face was impassive, it was as if he hadn’t heard.
    I thought he’d quit the party, Subhash pressed. That he’d drifted away from it. Had he?
    I was at home, his father said, not acknowledging the question.
    When were you home?
    That day. I opened the gate for them. I let them in.
    Who?
    The police.
    Finally he was getting somewhere. Some explanation, some acknowledgment. At the same time he felt worse, now that his suspicion had been confirmed.
    Why didn’t you tell me he was in danger?
    It would not have made a difference.
    Well, tell me now. Why did they kill him?
    His mother reacted then, glaring at Subhash. She had a small face, with just enough space for what it contained. Still youthful, her dark hair still decorated with its bright column of vermillion, to signify that she had a husband.
    He was your brother, she said. How can you ask such a thing?
    The next morning, he sought Gauri out, knocking on the door of her room. Her hair had just been washed. She was wearing it loose to let it dry.
    In his hand was a paperback book he’d bought for her at Udayan’s request. One-Dimensional Man, by Herbert Marcuse. He gave it to her.
    This is for you. From Udayan. He’d asked me.
    She looked down at the cover, and then at the back. She opened it and turned to the beginning. For a moment it seemed she’d begun to