“Maybe you’ll meet someone interesting there.”

“Maybe.”

“You still haven’t met Kiran yet. You should go to Yamini’s house after you get back. Maybe I can go with you.”

“Don’t worry about setting me up.”

“I wasn’t. I can’t imagine anyone doing that for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll never go for the traditional arranged marriage route.”

“Why not? If someday I want to get married but haven’t fallen in love, I would want Mummy and Pappa to arrange for me to meet someone.”

“You would?” My voice came out squeaky with surprise. Was she kidding? It didn’t sound like it.

“Nowadays, arranged marriages aren’t like old times, when you would meet just once and then decide. Isn’t it nice to meet someone that your parents already know about? Isn’t it good that they know the family well, too? Look at Nimita and Girishji. Aren’t they happy?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

As I stood in line for the bus, the wind picked up making the dust swirl. It hit my face and stung my eyes. I heard a deep, long, rumble that seemed to come out of the ocean’s belly. Was it an echo of thunder? It couldn’t be. It was still May, the month of dry heat, mango, and brown landscape. By the time the bus came my hair was spilling all over my face.

On the bus I thought about Sarina saying she wouldn’t mind meeting someone her parents suggested. It had surprised me at first, but then I realized that Sarina was as open to an arranged marriage as she was to finding her own partner in life. The raindrops started plopping on the bus windows. I watched the vendors as they hurriedly gathered up their wares: edible gourds and bunches of coriander, palmistry books, brass statues of Lord Ganesh, Shiva, and Krishna.

By the time I got off the bus, it was raining hard. The monsoon was more than three weeks away and not a single person had an umbrella. I was drenched, soaked right to my bones when I got home.

That evening, when I answered the phone, Mohini was on the line. It was not Sunday morning and I was shocked to hear her voice.

“Why are you calling today?” I asked.

“I wanted to talk to you. Can’t I call when I feel like talking?”

“How are you? You seem down.”

“I’m fine,” she said, and cleared her throat. “Just a little cough.”

“Are you sick?”

“No. Maybe homesick.”

“Oh, Mohini! I miss you so much.”

“I miss all of you. I . . . I never realized how hard it is to be away from home.”

“How is Anoop?”

“He’s fine.” Her voice was cold and even, as if Anoop were nothing but an acquaintance.

“Is he there?”