Every Sunday morning Pappa would go walking in the Hanging Gardens. Most of the time he would go alone, but sometimes if I was awake early enough, I would ask to go with him. On Sunday mornings the whole city had the feel of a majestic, undulating elephant. Most of the people were still at home, so I didn’t have to stick out my elbows to get on and off the bus. The horns were silent and traffic moved smoothly, like a comb passing though untangled hair.

More than anything else, I loved being alone with Pappa—he and I, strolling in the beautiful Hanging Gardens.

That Saturday evening, after our missed date with Nimita, I wanted to talk to Pappa. It didn’t happen. On Sunday morning I asked Pappa if I could go with him. He hesitated but then said yes. The red double-decker bus was almost empty, and we climbed up the winding stairs and sat in the front. From there I could watch the whole city as if I were watching a movie.

The conductor approached us with his leather pouch. I paid him, took two tickets, and rolled them up. They reminded me of the cigarettes Pappa used to smoke. I unraveled them, smoothed them, and slid them into my skirt pocket.

We passed the Opera House Theater, then Chowpatty Beach, and finally began climbing Malabar Hill on Ridge Road. The Hanging Gardens was the last stop on Ridge Road, and the bus turned around to go back.

The steps leading to the terraced garden were freshly washed. Chu-chee, chu-chee. My sandals rubbed against the wet steps. The sun was still down, and the air was either too heavy or too tired to move. In Mumbai that was how summer heat always was: lazy, lazy, lazy. Only in the evening did the breeze come and nudge the heat away.

I’d been thinking about all that had happened yesterday. “Pappa,” I said softly as we walked on the garden path, “is Nimita happy?”

“I think so. Yes,” he said. His square jaw tensed up. It always did when he concentrated.

Pappa seem to have taken a long dip in his thoughts. I waited for him to surface.

As we walked quietly around the bend, I brushed my hand against the hedges. “Ooi ma.” They were as prickly as a bed of nails. Sometimes in the newspaper or magazines there were articles about a yogi or a holy man who walked on burning coals or slept on a bed of nails without being hurt. I was definitely not a yogi.

Even though the gardeners had been watering the area, the lawn and the shrubs wore brown patches in several places. We sat on a bench under a dusty hedge of oleander across from a giant cannonball tree. When the monsoon rain came, the cannonball trunk would be covered with pink-orange blossoms, perfuming the air.

“Has Nimita said anything to you?” Pappa asked.

“No.”