The Lowland

our time.
    Gauri was aware of a painful current traveling up and down the backs of her legs.
    Where is he? the officer repeated, pressing the gun against her throat a little harder.
    I don’t know, she managed to say.
    I think you are lying. I think you must know where he is.
    Below the surface, behind the water hyacinth, in the floodwater of the lowland: this was where, if the neighborhood was raided, Udayan had told her he would hide. He told her that there was a section where the growth was particularly dense. He kept a kerosene tin behind the house, to help him over the back wall. Even with an injured hand he could manage it. He’d practiced it, late at night, a few times.
    We think he might be hiding in the water, the soldier continued, not removing his eyes from her.
    No, she said to herself. She heard the word in her head. But then she realized that her mouth was open, like an idiot’s. Had she said something? Whispered it? She could not be sure.
    What did you say?
    I said nothing.
    The tip of the gun was still steady at her throat. But suddenly it was removed, the officer tipping his head toward the lowland, stepping away.
    He’s there, he told the others.
    Again the officer began speaking through a megaphone.
    Udayan Mitra, step forward, surrender yourself, he said, the words at once distorted and piercing, audible throughout the enclave. We are prepared to eliminate the members of your family if you don’t do as we say.
    He paused, then added, One member for each false step.
    At first nothing happened. Only the sound of her own breathing. Some of the soldiers were wading in, aiming rifles. One of them fired a shot. Then, from somewhere in the lowland, she heard the sound of the water’s surface breaking.
    Udayan appeared. Amid the hyacinth, in water up to his waist. Bent over, coughing, gasping for air.
    His right hand was bandaged, concealed by layers of dripping gauze. His hair was sticking to his scalp, the shirt he was wearing was sticking to his skin. His beard and moustache needed trimming. He raised his arms over his head.
    Good. Walk toward us now.
    He stepped through the weeds, out of the water, until he stood only a few feet away. He was shivering, struggling to regulate his breathing. She saw the lips that never fully met, leaving the small diamond-shaped gap at the center. The lips were blue. She saw flecks of algae coating his neck, his forearms. She could not tell if it was water or perspiration dripping down the sides of his face.
    He was told to bend down and touch his parents’ feet. He was told to ask for their forgiveness. He had to do this with his left hand. He stood before his mother and bent down. Forgive me, he said.
    What are we to forgive? her father-in-law asked, his voice cracking, when Udayan bent before him. He appealed to the officers. You are making a mistake.
    Your son has betrayed his country. It is he who has made the mistake.
    The current in Gauri’s legs intensified, radiating all the way to her feet. She felt a tingling sensation spreading from the base of her neck across her scalp. She thought that her legs would buckle, there was no strength in them. Nothing was supporting her. But she continued to stand.
    His hands were bound by a rope. She saw him wince when they did this, the injured hand twitching in pain.
    This way, the officer said, pointing with his gun.
    Udayan paused, and glanced at her. He looked at her face as he always did, absorbing its details as if for the first time.
    They pushed him into the van and slammed the door shut. Gauri and her in-laws were ordered back into the house. One of the soldiers escorted them. She wondered which prison they would take him to. What they would do to him there.
    They heard the van starting. But instead of reversing and heading out of the enclave, toward the main road, it traveled over the damp grass that edged the lowland, the tires leaving thick tracks. Over toward the empty field that was on the other side of it.
    Inside the house they climbed to the third floor, to the terrace. They could make out the van, and Udayan standing next to it. It would have been impossible for anyone else in their neighborhood to witness what was happening. But the top floor of the house, recently completed, afforded them this view.
    They saw one of the soldiers undoing the rope around his wrists. They saw Udayan walking across the field, away from the paramilitary. He was walking toward the lowland, back