The Lowland

tailoring shop. He didn’t need new shirts and trousers, and yet he felt obligated, not wanting the material to go to waste. The news that there was nowhere to have clothes tailored in Rhode Island, that American clothing was all ready-made, had come to his parents as a surprise. It was the first detail of his life there they’d openly reacted to.
    He took the tram to Ballygunge, walking past the hawkers who called out to him. He found the small shop owned by distant relatives, where he and Udayan always went together, once a year, to be measured. A long counter, a fitting room in the corner, a rod where the finished clothing was hung. He placed his order, watching the tailor sketch the designs quickly in a notebook, clipping a triangle of the material and stapling it to the corner of each receipt.
    There was nothing else he needed, nothing from the city he wanted. After hearing what Gauri had told him, after picturing it, he could focus on little else.
    He got on a bus, riding with no destination in mind, getting out close to Esplanade. He saw foreigners on the streets, Europeans wearing kurtas, beads. Exploring Calcutta, passing through. Though he looked like any other Bengali he felt an allegiance with the foreigners now. He shared with them a knowledge of elsewhere. Another life to go back to. The ability to leave.
    There were hotels he might have entered in this part of the city, to have a whiskey or a beer, to fall into a conversation with strangers. To forget the way his parents behaved, to forget the things Gauri had said.
    He stopped to light a cigarette, Wills, the brand Udayan smoked. Feeling tired, he stood in front of a small store that sold embroidered shawls.
    What would you like to see? the owner asked. He was from Kashmir, his face pale, his eyes light, a cotton cap on his head.
    Nothing.
    Come have a look. Have a cup of tea.
    He had forgotten about such gestures of hospitality from shopkeepers. He entered and sat on a stool, watching as the woolen shawls were spread out one by one on a large white cushion on the floor. The generosity of the effort, the faith implicit in it, touched him. He decided to buy one for his mother, realizing only now that he’d brought her nothing from America.
    I’ll take this, he said, fingering a navy-blue shawl, thinking she would appreciate the softness of the wool, the intricacy of the stitch.
    What else?
    That’s all, he said. But then he pictured Gauri. He recalled her profile as she’d told him about Udayan. The way she’d looked straight ahead, staring at nothing, as she’d described it. Telling him what he’d wanted to know.
    It was thanks to Gauri that he knew what had happened: that she and his parents had watched Udayan die. He knew now that his parents had been shamed before their neighbors. Unable to help Udayan, unable in the end to protect him. Losing him in an unthinkable way.
    He sifted through the choices at his feet. Ivory, gray, a brown that was lighter than the tea he’d been given to drink. These were considered appropriate for her now. But a vivid turquoise one with a border of minutel embroidery caught his eye.
    He imagined it wrapped around her shoulders, trailing over one side. Brightening her face.
    Also this one, he said.
    His parents were on their terrace, waiting. They asked what had taken him so long. They said it still wasn’t safe, to wander so late on the streets.
    Though their concern was reasonable it annoyed him. I’m not Udayan, he was tempted to say. I would never have put you through that.
    He gave his mother the shawl he’d bought for her. Then he showed her the one for Gauri.
    I’d like to give her this.
    You should know better, she said. Stop trying to befriend her.
    He was silent.
    Why were you talking to her yesterday?
    I’m not supposed to talk to her?
    What did she tell you?
    He didn’t say. Instead he asked, Why don’t you ever talk to her?
    Now it was his mother who was silent.
    You’ve taken away her colored clothes, the fish and meat from her plate.
    They are signs of respect, his mother said.
    It’s demeaning. Udayan would never have wanted her to live this way.
    He was not used to quarreling with his mother. But a new energy flowed through him, he could not restrain himself.
    Does it mean nothing, that she’s going to give you a grandchild?
    It means everything. It’s the only thing he’s left us, his mother said.
    And what about