RAM WOKE IN THE EARLY MORNING OF THE THIRD DAY. IN THE GRAY LIGHT before dawn, he could almost see everything: he was sitting on a cot placed in a small room with a table, a few wooden chairs, lamps, and a cabinet. A phonograph stood in the corner. A curtain hung at the threshold to another room, where, he assumed, Jivan and Kishen and Leela slept. He stood up and stepped through another doorway to a large porch surrounded by a screen. Beyond the mesh, he saw something slither through the sand. Jivan’s house was small, only two rooms and the porch. Already he wished he were outside.

Past the sand and the slithering creature, a brittle field lay fallow and waiting. He could see another structure on the far side, a larger home than Jivan’s, a string of small trees along a roadway. He was glad to find his boots near the cot and he slipped them on.

In the dimness, he checked for his things. His blanket had been laid on top of the cot. His bag was tucked away near the phonograph. He looked inside. He found the photo of Padma, the amulet his grandmother had given him, his billfold with $5.50. He dug further. The packet of letters was there too. He had memorized almost everything that Padma had written to him; but still, if he had lost the letters themselves, he would have mourned. Her skin had touched each one. Her own fingers had held the pen. Only a week after he left, she had written with her own hand, My esteemed husband—my world, today I realized the good news that you will be a father. Now you must hurry home before your son is named on his first birthday. No one else can be allowed to whisper his name in his ear. He had received that letter, and its news, two long months after she wrote it.