We ate till we had that full, contented feeling that only an excess of very good food could bring us at fifteen. And it gave Uncle a great deal of pleasure. We could tell it did. Feeding people, a house full of stuffed, sleepy kids—these were the things that made Uncle happy. He was that kind of man.

‘Well, could you keep it down, please? I still have twenty minutes to sleep before my alarm goes off.’

It was my first taste of the cruelty hidden in the recesses of polite indifference. I had until now been quite unfamiliar with that. There is too little—too little to eat, too little to drink, too little space to think and breathe—for anyone to be indifferent to anything in India. An NRI friend once told me that every time he landed in the country, he felt like he had been packed into a giant sardine tin of people, each person invested in and affected by the next, to an astonishing, unavoidable degree. What had always been refreshing civility in hotels was cruel— quiet and absolute.

There are only a few events in my life that I can transport myself back to with equal clarity, and almost none that I revisit with equal frequency. Sometimes I think tragedy twines itself into our DNA, irrevocably affecting what we become, turning us into who we are.

I count everything in multiples of four. Counting, I know, is the only way to control things. Blink in fours or pairs of fours. Drink sips of four or pairs of four. Aunty Agnes had told me that five is a good number, and so is ten. Never three, and never ever thirteen. Seven has a three but also a four, and eight is two fours or four twos. Twos are half of four—too little. Nine is justifiable, because it breaks into four and five, and four and five are good numbers.

The First Germany

January 2009

Tara: Hey there. Busy?

Jay: Nope, you’ve caught me at the perfect moment. My flight just got delayed ☺

Tara: Where are you?

Jay: Germany

Tara: Where are you headed to?

Jay: NYC

Is there something going on with you, love? It feels like something is wrong.

Tara: Why?

Jay: You’re asking questions to ask them.

Tara: Well, I wanted to talk to you.

A few days ago . . .

Jay: I’m glad.

And sorry I wasn’t there

Tara: Don’t be silly

Jay: Tell me

Tara: It was just

My best friend’s dad shot himself

Jay: Fuck

Tara: Yeah.

Jay: India? Or America?

Tara: Are you asking questions to ask them? ☺

Jay: No, I’m cursing the constraints of geography. Not least because they are currently preventing me from giving you a hug.

Tara: India

Jay: Oh, my poor Tara

Tara: I really hate being so far away from everyone I love.

Jay: I know.

It hurts.