Later, when Elisa thought about it, she supposed it was her fault, having brought this upon them. It was her habit to act in haste. She saved any problem, any serious business (even marriage), from deep thought or planning. All that weighed her down, gave her a headache, made her feel fat even. *But once you're in a financial hole,' she read in The Economist-while waiting in the lobby of Amway where she'd applied for a second job-*you stand to lose perspective.'

Elisa came home from work on the day of her in-laws' arrival to find Bibiji in the kitchen, surrounded by bowls of c.u.min seeds, mango powder, lemon juice, coriander, and karela. But dinner wasn't ready, as it usually was when Ram cooked. Bibiji greeted her: *It is not a man's job to cook for his wife.' Ram interrupted, *I don't mind,' but Bibiji looked at him like he'd broken her heart. Elisa was tempted to yank out Bibiji's plait, which extended like a thin snake till her hips, but she remembered the thirty thousand dollars they hadn't yet received (Western Union too expensive, Bibiji complained). So-under Bibiji's instructions and scrutiny-she went to work in the kitchen for the first time since Ram had lost his job: sc.r.a.ping the karela, slitting it and removing the seeds, coughing as Bibiji added hing to the tadka.

Bibiji realized that Elisa didn't know how to cook, not even dal or roti, so over the next five weeks she a.s.signed her menial duties: feeding Babuji red and white and yellow tablets every two hours, sewing b.u.t.tons on Ram's shirts, boiling hot milk with turmeric for the men, before they went to bed. Get the arthritis medicine from my bathroom, Bibiji demanded. Elisa went to the bathroom and gasped when she saw seven gla.s.s bottles filled with mud-coloured liquid on the windowsill. *Urine, yes,' Bibiji admitted, dabbing some on the white kitchen cloth and tying it around her knees. *This helps the joints.' She began to crawl on the ground on all fours; like a crab, Elisa thought, and knew that she'd never walk barefoot around the house again. *Don't make a face,' Bibiji said. *It's hard to love what isn't yours.'

Yet, no money came. It's on its way by cheque from India, Bibiji said, her voice thin and not used to being questioned. Elisa and Ram opened their mailbox twice, thrice, and even four times a day for a cheque that should've arrived long ago.

Then, on a day like all others, Elisa came home after spending ten hours booking winter vacation packages for demanding housewives, and another two hours coldcalling working mothers for a free sample of Amway's new cuticle lotion. All she wanted to do was sit in front of the TV and watch 30 Rock with a frozen dinner on her lap. But with Bibiji in the house, Elisa had to head straight to the kitchen. While blanching the spinach and cutting the potatoes into exact inch-long slices, she registered only Bibiji's patronizing tone: a husband is not to be called by his first name, and your husband's name is not Ram, but Rameshwaran, Raa-may-shwaa-run. Elisa took a long deep breath; Ram was at his MBA cla.s.s so there was no escaping this. The steam from the potatoes frying in mustard oil p.r.i.c.kled her day's fatigue, her anger, her throbbing feet. When she finally came out of the kitchen, she made up her mind to tell Ram that this was not working, screw the money, they'd move to that studio and never want anything, not even children.

She looked at the kitchen clock, which Ram and she had stolen from a Panda Express as a gag, and the two h.e.l.lo Kitty fingers pointed to a pink nine-thirty. She wondered why Ram was late, but was too tired to give it further thought.

A minute later, when the police came to the front door to inform her that they'd found a drowned brown man's body on Park Beach, this fatigue shielded her from the shock of her life somersaulting. The overriding emotion she felt was of being very drunk, as though she'd fallen into a drum of vodka, for she could talk and move, but the voice and movements weren't hers. She didn't understand why Bibiji fell so swiftly to the ground that her long plait shot up above her head in the shape of a big O. Her hands didn't shake when the police handed her Ram's driving licence. The next day she was even able to read an article in the Star Tribune about the town's twenty-person Indian community insisting that Ram was murdered because he was brown. She found herself agreeing with the reporter that n.o.body cared; people had just voted for a black President-they weren't willing to feel guilty about the fate of an unemployed brown man in an obscure town in Nebraska. It didn't strike her that she was reading about her own husband, her own Ram.

Ram's death, like Ram, tried to ease into her life politely, but people wouldn't let it. They kept calling and dropping in. Her family came, and when she told them to go away-for their presence reminded her of Ram's absence-they just looked at her sadly, hugged her and cried for her. Her boss Martha insisted she take time off for mourning, and Elisa told her she didn't need any of that; she needed Ram. It was only after the cremation, when Bibiji didn't ask her to get Babuji's medicine or nag her about being childless at thirty, that Elisa realized Ram had left her forever.

So Elisa lay down on her bed and didn't get up. She felt her mother's long caress. She opened her eyes and saw her father's blue eyes looking at her. During the afternoon, there were squeals from children, her nephews and nieces, erupting loudly and then smouldering when an adult told them to shut up. Aunt Elisa was not well. She saw peonies on her bedside, her mother's favourites. At some point she heard loud voices, her Mother's and Bibiji's, as if they were in a shouting compet.i.tion. Then, mother was gone. She knew this not because her mother said goodbye, but, just like with Ram, her loving hand ceased to stroke her at night.

She knew she slept, dreamed horrible dreams. Sometimes, she sat up sweating-remembering Ram, his body blue and swollen like when she'd seen it-and a hand patted her head awkwardly and tucked her under the blanket. She didn't remember eating but there was curry on her bedside whenever she woke up and she remembered being full. Then, she remembered taking a blade to her wrist, there was blood, and she was in the middle of it, flailing her red arm up and down, till a pair of rough, strong hands-which could only belong to Bibiji-reached over and stopped her.

One day she saw her bedridden father-in-law standing at the foot of her bed. The room she was in was clean with white sheets and white walls and white tiles. I knew we'd meet in heaven, she said to him. There was a laugh and he said, *This is a hospital.' Then he was gone.

She woke up with the realization that life had finally caught up with her. She'd reached its ultimate destination and there were no trains to take her to another point of departure. She tried to shake off the feeling but it didn't go away. Ram too receded into a sentimental recollection of events and habits, no longer a loss but a memory. She took out his clothes, his belts, his wallets, his shoes, his airplane models with the chipped red paint, and she heaped them into a pile in her backyard. She set them on fire. She felt hysterical; she felt a release. Then she was laughing; for wasn't it ironic that she was burning his things the way his body had been burned after his death. Fire to fire, dust to dust, or something like that, she sang. She saw Bibiji standing on the porch, holding the ledge as if steadying herself against the shock of what she was seeing. Elisa stared at her and laughed more, and more.

She went back to work the next day, clean, sober, sane. She asked Martha cheerfully, *Am I fired?' Martha smiled, in the same fearful way that she did at her autistic son, and told Elisa she'd been gone only three weeks and her mother-in-law had kept Martha updated on her progress. *Welcome back!' Martha added. Elisa laughed, knowing she'd never believe anyone again, for Bibiji couldn't have done that and she hadn't been away for just three weeks, she'd been gone six months. It was the eighth of November, and Ram died on ... it had been at least six months.

She went to her landlord, have I lost my house? *No, a lady with hair at least a foot long paid your rent in cash.' When she called the bank's hotline, an automated voice said, *Your credit card dues have been cleared.' Bibiji had kept her promise.

Life is good when you aren't looking into its cold reflection, Elisa thought. Tonight I'll treat myself. She went to a bar that evening and picked up Peter Shaw Smith, her ex-boyfriend from high school. They headed home, giggling and stumbling, and she woke up the next morning to see him smoking in her backyard. Peter Shaw Smith said, *I didn't know you had beetles around,' and she followed his gaze to Bibiji. When Ram was around, Elisa would have flared at such racist remarks; for she was different from these small-town people. But she saw that what Peter Shaw Smith said was true. Wearing a brown bubble winter coat, Bibiji had pulled a long face. Her cheeks were drawn out, a cloud of black hair on her head. Her eyes were severe; so unlike Ram's, but otherwise the exact shade of black, though Ram always said that there weren't different shades of black. And she had a new set of under-eye bags, which looked like the congealed grease on the food she liked to cook.

*Yeah,' Elisa said. *They come unwanted, seeking love, but it's hard to love what isn't yours.' She gave Peter Shaw Smith a long hard kiss, and felt the acrid taste of stale beer and dry cigarettes in his mouth.

When she looked back at the porch, Bibiji was gone.

SHOULDER BLADES.

Hemant spotted the carton of milk in aisle six and picked it up.

*Do you think that white people's tears turn to milk?' his first love Tanuja had said to him thirty-six years ago, when she'd seen a white person for the first time. He had laughed then, but every time he bought milk he remembered this remark and smiled.

He turned his attention to the more serious task of buying Tanuja roses. He'd never bought flowers for a woman, and no woman who knew him expected him to. But today was a special day; he was going to tell Tanuja his real feelings for her. He looked around the flower aisle at the yellow, red, pink and white roses, wondering what colour would be appropriate. But flowers would wither away in a day or two and this would not be lost on Tanuja. Better to buy something more enduring. He saw a cacti plant with little yellow flowers. Longevity and flowers. Problem solved.

Hemant stepped out of Nature's Basket in Juhu.

The monsoon had left Mumbai's sh.o.r.es two weeks ago and the humidity made the sherwani he was wearing stick to his body, chafing his skin like sandpaper. He loosened a b.u.t.ton on it. As his driver Ali brought his Honda Civic to the curb, Hemant thought gratefully that Ali never made him wait or walk more than a few steps. He hobbled on his walking stick towards his car.

*Sahib, you looking good today,' Ali said when Hemant slipped into the back seat.

*I haven't worn this sherwani in seven years. Do you think it's too tight?'

*Where tight?' Ali replied. *You look nice for Helen madam?'

*No, I'm not meeting Helen today,' Hemant said. *Take me to Napean Sea Road.'

Ali shifted his weight onto the cushion in the driver's seat and smiled sadly in the side mirror as he said, *You are going to meet Tanuja madam?'

*Yes,' Hemant confirmed.

They drove past Juhu beach, with Ali honking his way out of the traffic at Linking Road and Mahim junction, and hurtling through the phosph.o.r.escent Sea Link. At Worli Seaface, Hemant looked out at the street vendors, the bhutta-wallah fanning his coal stove, the nariyal-wallah hacking the white kernels of coconut, and the chana-wallah with his tokri of different nuts. The smell of dried fish was strong even at midday and Hemant placed his scented handkerchief against his nostrils till they crossed the bustling Haji Ali junction and reached the narrow streets of Kemps Corner. Ali stopped five minutes later at the Jaldarshan building opposite Priyadarshini Park.

*See, sahib, I make you reach fast again. Less than one hour.'

*You did, Ali. Don't ever drive that fast again. I'll be back in an hour or two,' Hemant said, slowly getting out of the car.

He walked past the mirrored lobby of the building and took the elevator to the fifth floor. It was on reaching the front door of Tanuja's house that dread sucked him into a vacuum. He never understood why this happened only at this particular spot, as he stood staring at the *Mohit & Tanuja Rao' sign nailed to the door.

He rang the doorbell and shifted the white-green plastic bag from his right hand to his left. Priya, Tanuja's daughter, opened the door. He entered quickly, b.u.mping into her.

Priya said sarcastically, *Why are you dressed like a groom, Hemant Uncle? There's no wedding here.'

He stopped. Didn't it matter to Priya that he had held her as a baby? No, wait, that wasn't her. He'd only seen her like this: antsy, bossy, the terribly unhappy mother of two. Looking at her made him glad that Tanuja and he had never had a child.

*Is your husband travelling on work again?' he asked teasingly. *I can see why.' He never gave Priya a straight answer, a habit that had irked her mother as it irked her.

He crossed the kitchen where water was boiling on the stove, and poked his head inside the open door to Tanuja's room.

*Look what I have,' he said, jiggling the plastic bag as if it held a treasure of gold coins.

Tanuja's eyes became round globules from behind the tubes.

Her voice soft and strained was excited as she said, *You remembered! Thank you.'

Tanuja's husband Mohit's voice interrupted them, *I hope that you've brought soy milk for Tanuja and not the regular one, Hemant.'

Mohit's eyes looked sharp enough to cut something, hard lines beside his tight jaw, cheekbones protruding like knuckles under his skin, and a sinewy neck.

*Aye, sir,' Hemant said lightly, for truth was not fundamental to their relationship.

*And the next time don't forget to knock before entering,' Mohit continued.

Hemant felt like a foal finding its legs.

*You're all dressed up today. Finally marrying sweet Helen?' Tanuja asked, as her husband helped her sit up in the bed.

*No, I wore it since you like me in a sherwani,' Hemant said. Then he remembered that Mohit was still in the room and shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, quickly added, *It's an old thing I pulled out.'

*Nothing old fits me any more,' Tanuja said ruefully. She ran her thin index finger between her shoulders. *But do you know what's amazing? My shoulder blades have started showing. Look. They're getting more exquisite by the moment.'

Mohit jumped up. *Darling, you promised not to do this.'

Tanuja's exhilarated expression changed to that of a hapless schoolgirl. *Sorry Mo. I forgot.'

Mohit gave a self-satisfied grin and said, *I'll finish making that thick chicken potato soup and add lots of b.u.t.ter to it so these shoulder blades vanish.'

When Mohit was out of the door Tanuja rolled her eyes, like one who'd discovered that love was exasperating.

She said, *In all our married years he didn't even let me eat b.u.t.ter and now he makes more b.u.t.ter and less soup.' She turned to Hemant, *Did you get it?'

He held up a carton of chocolate milk. She clapped, creating only a small sad sound.

*Pour me some, will you?' she said.

Though Tanuja wasn't supposed to have chocolate, Hemant poured chocolate milk for her into a paper cup. He glanced towards the door in case Mohit was lurking in the shadows, waiting to catch him. He poured soy milk into another paper cup just in case.

Tanuja took a long sip of the chocolate milk and said, *I can die for this.'

*You are, aren't you?' Hemant said.

Tanuja's eyes widened in surprise, like when Hemant and she had first made love.

Then she laughed, a dry sound paling in memory of her juicy ripples of laughter; a laugh he ran to when searching for solitude in the noise of his life. The paper cup slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. A thick brown liquid began to spread.

*I can't control what my hands do any more,' she said, banging her hand weakly against the bedpost. *I hate this illness. It's so unsightly, undignified.' Hemant saw her expression change to one of annoyance. *Not you too, Hem. I got out of that d.a.m.n hospital so I could get away from-' she started, as if he pitied her. Maybe he did.

He interrupted her: *I guess a brown man is crying over spilt milk, uh?'

*What?'

*If white people's tears turn to milk, then, by the same logic, wouldn't chocolate milk be the tears of brown people?'

She smiled, giving it all of herself. *I love that you can joke about this. You are the only person who's accepted my illness with childlike compliance, as if it's nothing more than a cold.' He made a face. *No, don't get me wrong. I thank G.o.d for this. I'm not enjoying this cancer business. Everyone is treating me with such deference, not because of me but because of my situation. And if I make the mistake of telling Mo to tend to his office work or tell Priya to pay attention to her marriage, they think I'm being unappreciative, or worse, brave, when all I am right now is fed up.'

*I would be fed up too if I had Priya as a daughter.'

Tanuja lifted her hand weakly and said, *Don't be mean, Hem. Imagine her life with the husband gone all week, two kids to raise alone, a full-time job, a dying mother. And she thinks that all she can do for me now is to be a little possessive, especially since she believes that you're a bad influence on me.'

*Mother's love talking.'

*Well, you've never been one for children.'

Flashpoints of pain arose in Hemant's stomach, his heart, his mind.

*Maybe I should clean this mess,' he said quickly, throwing some paper tissues onto the spill.

*Hem, I didn't mean it like that. I wasn't talking about our ... us,' Tanuja said. Then she must be referring to his childless marriage. *Now stop or you'll make more of a mess.'

Stretching his lips across the expanse of his face, he made his comic expression, which she never failed to find funny. It worked this time too for she tilted her head back and opened her mouth wide, her subst.i.tute for a full-throttled laugh.

*That's why I love having you around. Mo was none too pleased, you know, with the ex-boyfriend strutting in and out of our place. But my special broker-Mr Illness-fixed my request, and Mo said it was "all good". All good-' she opened her mouth wide again *-he's never used that phrase before.'

*That's what I came to tell you. I ... want to ... for very long have wanted to-'

She put her hand on his and said, *Is that a blush? You've never hesitated with me before. This must be very important. Tell me in Punk.' She looked at him with the hopeful surrendering expression he imagined she must maintain in front of her doctor.

Punk was a secret story Hemant had made up when Tanuja and he were together, a story that stood for their love. Every time he wanted to say something important to her, he added a line to the Punk story for her to interpret. But this time he looked away. He had come prepared and rehea.r.s.ed to speak of his love, making sure his tone and face belied no aggression, no hope, nothing except genuineness and good intentions. But in front of her his focus dissolved into disarray.

*This is not something to put in Punk. I-' he started.

*I love, love Punk. Don't take that away from me. Not today. Tell me slowly, softly.'

He moved to her bed and put his hand on her head. She shut her eyes, surrendering. He cleared his throat and heard himself speak: I was sleeping one night when the demons came to seize me. I tried to fight them but my arms were weak against their strength. I tried to outrun them but my legs were not fast enough. I dropped to my knees ready to die when a light shone through the darkness. It was you. You kept your warm hands on my forehead, your kisses kept me from floating away, and I drifted into the love of your embrace. When I opened my eyes it was morning and there you were-my angel-with the glow of the sun falling on your face, lighting up your smile and your untameable hair. I wanted to lie there forever. I looked at you and said, *I love you'. And I still do.

*The last two lines are what you added,' Tanuja said, opening her eyes.

He looked at how her face had fallen into itself, compressing her features together, her sunken cheeks, her eyebrows-which she plucked with so much care-creased together, her long eyelashes startlingly big in her tiny frame. Even her lips-that used to be pink and ever smiling, the thing he loved most about her-were now dry and faded to a desert-sand brown.

*Yes, I still love you,' he said haltingly, as if he was learning the nouns and adjectives of the English language for the first time. *I want you to come and live with me, so I can take care of you.'

*Hemant?'

He stood up. *I know its thirty years too late and I don't expect anything in return. I just want you to know how I feel.'

*Oh, Hemant. Never looking inside. Never understanding yourself,' Tanuja said, as sadly for him as for herself. He waited for her response. She took his hand in hers. *You don't love me.'

He had expected rejection, and hoped for consent, anything but this. He pulled his hand away. *I do love you. Of course I do. How else do you explain all this?' He lifted the potted cacti from the bag. *I got flowers. Flowers!'

Tanuja's eyes lingered on the tiny thorns of the cacti. Thankfully, she didn't laugh. Instead she looked from them to him, *You are just learning to say goodbye.'

*What?'

*This is your way of saying goodbye. What you couldn't tell your wife Farah, you're telling me.'

He clasped her hand tightly. *This is not goodbye. Stop saying that. The doctors have said there's an alternative medicine that can reverse the tumour's growth.'

She gave a dry laugh. *There's only one way to escape these things, right?'

He moved his hand away with a jerk, displacing the drip inserted in her hand. A few drops of blood spilled out.

*I am ... I am so sorry. I am such a klutz,' Hemant said, losing all sense of where his hands were moving.

*Hem, relax. It's not a big deal. Just put the needle back in.'