“Sometimes I feel we have so much, Ruma,” Mr. Chatterjee sighed. She didn’t know what he meant; she didn’t even know if it was a complaint or an uncharacteristic confession of gratitude. Of course it wasn’t true; that was obvious—they didn’t have children. Towards the beginning, they’d tried various kinds of treatment; and then they’d given up trying without entirely giving up hope. Now, as you slowly cease to miss a person who’s no longer present, they no longer missed the child they didn’t have. They gave themselves to their lives together.

“We should go to the party by nine at least,” he said. In spite of the tone of alacrity he used with his wife, the idea of having to go to the party exhausted him tonight. To change the subject, and also to allow the communion they’d had with evening to survive a little, he asked:

“What did he teach you today? A new bhajan?” Today was Thursday, the day the “he” in the enquiry came to the house. She thought briefly, half her mind already busying itself for the social activity ahead, for the new sari to be worn, and said:

“No, the one he gave me last week. It still needs polishing. The one about the Rana—‘My Ranaji, I will sing the praises of Govind.’ It’s a beautiful tune.”

“Well, you must sing it for me,” he said, sighing as he got up from the sofa, resigned to the evening ahead. She looked at his back with a sort of indulgence.

*   *   *

THE SONG, which she’d once sung to a different tune, and which she’d been practising assiduously for the last ten days or so, was about how Meera had given herself from childhood to her one lord, the Lord Krishna, and couldn’t bring herself to live with her husband, the Rana, the king. The Rana, said the song, sent her a cup of poison that became nectar when she touched it to her lips; if the Rana was angry, she sang, she could flee his province, but where would she go if her Lord turned against her? Mrs. Chatterjee rather liked the song; in her mind, of course, there was no confusion about who was her Rana and who her Lord. Krishna’s flute was second fiddle for her, although it, too, had its allure. But its place in her life was secondary, though constant.

*   *   *