He rubbed his eyes, weary. Last night he had called Karak’s daughter with the news. In response, she informed him there would be a Catholic wake and funeral and burial, all things that Karak had not wanted but now—being dead—was powerless to stop. She felt she was doing her father a service. He had committed a mortal sin and, as far as she knew, had not repented. It was a short conversation. “A cremation at the gurdwara might be better,” Ram had said, lightly, but he had not argued with the daughter. Why should he? If the situation had been reversed, if it were his body lying in the mortuary, Karak would not have argued for Ram, even if Ram had cared about such a thing. Which he did not.

It was bright outside, high noon in Los Angeles. The Santa Ana winds blew in from the east, late in the season, lifting particles of gritty desert soil and sweeping them to the sea. Ram pulled aside a curtain and stared. In the parking lot, a young couple walked a stroller to the neighboring building. The sun gleamed off the cars, shone stark against whitewashed walls. The woman was pushing, her skirt swept against shapely legs. When the man bent to lift the front wheels to the curb, the baby grabbed his hair. Suddenly, Karak’s apartment was unbearable. Ram reached for the kitchen telephone and called his son to pick him up. He threw the dead man’s papers back into the cardboard box. Karak’s voice was silent. Ram hoisted the container to his waist—it was heavier than he had imagined—and carried it outside to wait.

DAVE CAME FOR HIM in the station wagon with all three grandchildren. On the way home, they stopped at the grocery store. Ram walked behind his son as Dave pushed the cart through the produce section; the boys squabbled in the front while little Anika, Ram’s favorite, tagged along with Ram. Ahead of them, he saw his eldest grandson reaching up to the refrigerated shelves, touching three or four zucchini. He was chewing gum, one hand in his pocket. He tossed a zucchini into the cart, even though his father had wanted a cucumber. The boy, Ram realized, did not know the difference.

Ram grunted. Even at thirteen, it was clear, to Ram at least, the boy would be a failure. A lifetime spent tilling the soil, swaddling cantaloupe, shipping lettuce at just the right time, cajoling three harvests from a field of cotton—only to have his descendant come to this.