The Lowland

read it already, her face settling into a placid expression of concentration, forgetting that he was there.
    Standing at her doorway, he felt that he was trespassing. He turned to leave.
    You are kind to bring it, she said.
    It was no trouble.
    He wanted to talk to her. But there was nowhere in the house where they might have a conversation alone.
    Shall we go for a walk?
    Not now.
    She stepped to one side and pointed to a chair in the room.
    He hesitated, then entered. It was dim, until Gauri pushed open the shutters of the two windows, admitting a stark white glow. A square of sunlight fell onto the bed, a calm bright patch containing the darker vertical shadows of the window bars.
    The bed was low to the ground, with slender posts. There was also a short armoire, and a small dressing table with a bench. Instead of powders and combs there were notebooks, fountain pens, bottles of ink. The room smelled sharply of teak, emanating from the furniture. He could smell the fragrance of her freshly washed hair.
    The light is nice, he said.
    Only now. In a few minutes the sun will be too high and the angle will be lost.
    He glanced at a set of shelves built into one wall, where she stored her books. Wedged among them was the shortwave radio. He pulled it out, not bothering to turn it on, but fiddling instinctively with one of the dials.
    We put this together.
    He told me.
    Do you listen to it?
    He was the only one who could get it to work. Would you like it back?
    He shook his head, and replaced it on the shelf.
    She perched on the edge of the bed. He saw other books spread open, facedown, covered in smooth brown paper. She had written the titles at the center, in her own hand. He watched as she retrieved an old section of newspaper and began to wrap the cover of the book he’d given her. He and Udayan used to do this together, after buying their new schoolbooks for the year.
    No one does that over there.
    Why not?
    I don’t know. Maybe the covers are more durable. Or maybe they don’t mind them looking old.
    Was it hard to find?
    No.
    Where did you get it?
    In the campus bookstore.
    Is it far from where you live?
    Just around the corner.
    You can walk there?
    Yes.
    The paper feels different. Smooth.
    He nodded.
    Do you stay at a hostel?
    I have a room in a house.
    Is there a mess hall?
    No.
    Who cooks for you, then?
    I do.
    Do you like living on your own?
    Unexpectedly he thought of Holly, and the dinners at her kitchen table. That brief turbulence in his life felt trivial now. Like stones he would stop to gather in Rhode Island, that he would briefly clasp and then toss back into the sea when he walked along the beach, he’d let her go.
    Still, he wondered now what she would have made of this sad and empty house, this swampy enclave south of Calcutta where he’d been raised. He wondered what she would have made of Gauri.
    He asked Gauri about her studies, and she told him she’d completed her bachelor’s in philosophy earlier in the year. It had taken longer than it should have. It had been difficult, because of the unrest. She said that she’d been considering a master’s program, before Udayan was killed. Before she learned she was pregnant.
    Did Udayan know he was going to be a father?
    No.
    Her waist was still narrow. But Udayan’s ghost was palpable within her, preserved in this room where she spent all her time. When she spoke of him it was an evocation of him. She had not shut down as his parents had.
    When will the baby be born?
    In summer.
    How is it for you here in the house? With my parents?
    She said nothing. He waited, then realized he was staring at her, distracted by a small dark mole at the side of her neck. He looked away.
    I can take you somewhere else, he suggested. Would you like to visit your family for a while? Your aunts and uncles?
    She shook her head.
    Why not?
    For the first time a smile nearly came to her face, the uneven smile he remembered from the photograph, slightly favoring one side of her mouth. Because I ran off and married your brother, she said.
    Even now they don’t want to see you?
    She shrugged. They’re nervous. I don’t blame them. I might compromise their safety, even your parents’ safety, who knows?
    But surely there’s someone?
    My brother came to see me after it happened. He came to the funeral. He and Udayan were friends. But it’s not up to him.
    Can you tell me something else?
    What do you want to know?
    I