The Lowland

want to know what happened to my brother, he said.
    2.
    It was the week before Durga Pujo. The month of Ashvin, the first phase of the waxing moon.
    At the tram depot, Gauri and her mother-in-law hired a cycle rickshaw to take them home. They settled themselves on the bench of the rickshaw, packets and bags on their laps and heaped at their feet. They were returning from a day of shopping, a little later than they’d intended.
    The packets contained gifts for extended family, also for themselves. New saris for Gauri and her mother-in-law, Punjabis and pajamas for her father-in-law, shirt and trouser material to clothe Udayan the following year. New sheets to sleep on, new slippers. Towels to dry their bodies, combs to untangle their hair.
    As they approached the mosque at the corner her mother-in-law told the driver to slow down and turn left. But the driver stopped pedaling, telling them that he was unwilling to travel off the main road.
    Pointing to all the bags and packets, her mother-in-law offered to pay more. But still the driver refused. He shook his head, waiting for them to disembark. So they finished the journey on foot, carrying the things they’d bought.
    The lane hooked to the right, past the pandal in their enclave, the deities adorned but unattended. No families were walking about. Soon the two ponds across from their house came into view.
    On the banks of the first pond Gauri saw a van belonging to the Central Reserve Police. They stood here and there, in their khaki uniforms and helmets. Not many, but enough of them to form a loose constellation wherever she looked.
    No one stopped them from walking through the swinging wooden doors into the courtyard. They saw that the iron gate, located at the side of the house, was open. The key was dangling in the padlock, opened in haste.
    They removed their street slippers and set down their bags. They began to climb the first set of steps. Halfway up, Gauri saw her father-in-law descending, his hands raised over his head. He hesitated before lowering each foot, as if afraid of losing his balance. As if he’d never walked down a set of steps before.
    An officer followed him. He was pointing a rifle at his back. Gauri and her mother-in-law were instructed to turn around, to walk back downstairs. So there was no opportunity to go further into the house, to see the rooms that had been overturned. Clothes knocked off the lines strung along the terrace where they had been hung to dry that morning, wardrobe doors flung open. Pillows and quilts pulled off the beds, coals dumped from the coal basket, lentils and grains tossed out of Glaxo tins in the kitchen. As if they were looking for a scrap of paper and not a man.
    The three of them—her father-in-law, her mother-in-law and Gauri—were ordered to exit the house, through the courtyard, to step over the stone slab and back onto the street. They were told to walk in single file, past the two ponds, over toward the lowland. The rains had been heavy, and it had flooded again. Water hyacinth shrouded the surface like a moth-eaten cloak.
    Gauri felt people in the surrounding homes taking in what was happening. Watching through chinks in their shutters, standing still in darkened rooms.
    They were arranged in a row. They stood close together, their shoulders touching. The gun was still trained on her father-in-law.
    She heard a conch shell blowing, the ringing of a bell. The sounds were carried in from another neighborhood. Somewhere, in some house or temple, someone was praying, giving offerings at the end of another day.
    We are under orders to locate and arrest Udayan Mitra, said the soldier who seemed to be commanding the others. He announced this through a megaphone. If anyone in this locality knows where he is hiding, if anyone is harboring him, you are required to step forward.
    No one said anything.
    My son is in America, her mother-in-law said quietly. A lie that was also the truth.
    The officer ignored her. He stepped over to Gauri. His eyes were a lighter brown than his skin. He studied her, pointing his gun at her, moving it closer until she was no longer able to see it. She felt the tip, a cold pendant at the base of her throat.
    You are the wife of this family? The wife of Udayan Mitra?
    Yes.
    Where is your husband?
    She had no voice. She was unable to speak.
    We know he is here. We have had him followed. We have searched the house, we have blocked off the means of egress. He is wasting