I wasn’t sure how happy Mohini was. For one thing, she never mentioned meeting new people or any friends of Anoop’s. She’d found a job in a bank, so I knew that throughout the week she was busy, but I wondered what they did on Saturdays and Sundays. Once when I asked her about friends, she said cheerfully, “Oh, we’ve been so busy that we haven’t had any time.” I tried to believe her.

One day after Mohini’s call, Mummy said, “Mohini seems happy in her new surroundings and probably doesn’t miss us as much. I think as soon as she gets used to her new home, she probably won’t call us every week.”

“It’s not like she calls us every day. We need to talk to her once a week,” I said.

“It costs a lot. She can write us letters.”

“If she can’t call, I will. I’ll pay the bill with my money.”

“Listen to the one with a big purse and a big mouth.”

“Why are you two arguing?” Pappa said. “We’ll worry about calling Mohini if and when she stops calling us.”

That afternoon when I was done cooking lunch, the heat made me sick. I had not seen Neel since our evening in the Hanging Gardens. I had talked to Sarina on the phone a few times, but it wasn’t enough. In my frustration, I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and wrote to Chiraj and Vivek:

I will cook only twice a day. For the rest of the day the two of you can cook, beg, or buy your food. You can get it from the cabinet, stores, or restaurants. I don’t have ten hands, so why should I have to do all the work? My ears are filled with the words, “I’m hungry. What can I eat? We had that two days ago. What are our other choices? I want more. I’m still hungry!” This happens every day—actually more than once a day. You know what food we eat and where it is just as well as I do, so why do you ask me? Why do I have to give you all the choices? Make a list of the food you want, and do whatever you have to do to fix it: wash it, peel it, cut it, mix it, cook it. Maybe offer me a bite and . . .

I couldn’t write any more.