FILTERS 20

SONAL & THE SUNDARBANS

Little glow-in-the-dark stickers cover Emilia's childhood ceiling. Andrew is lost in them, looking for recognizable shapes, constellations like his father once pointed out to him and his brother at their uncle's Ozarks manor, but there's nothing familiar. Emilia placed them by her own hand, an Orion of her and her mother and her father. His phone is on his chest, warm from mundane use, he considers texting his father to ask. . . is he too old to ask about the stars? He sees Emilia as a girl, moving into this house after years in Mexico, held up by one of her parents or standing on a chair or her bed to place wan green dots and stars and the way all would have twinkled when the door was shut and the lights went off and her room came alive.

He thinks about the conversation with her parents and the box stowed in his backpack. He thinks about Emilia, through the wall behind his head, asleep beside her sister. He thinks about her holding a little her up to a ceiling, placing stars of their own. His sight wanders until he smells coffee and hears the faint movements of Maite, up at dawn to cook. He's ambivalent about running, but he packed thinking he might, so he does. Closing the door and walking softly down wooden stairs that don't creak.

Maite greets him warmly if brusquely from the kitchen table. "Good morning, Andrew. How did you sleep?"

He stifles a response in Spanish, still feeling his place as a stranger. "'Morning, Emilia's old bed was very comfortable, thank you. I thought I'd go on a run before she's up."

"Of course, enjoy."

"And, ah, I'm happy to help with any of the preparations today."

"You can help by staying out of the kitchen," she says with what he hopes is kindness, "but there will be things for you later. Go on, enjoy your run. Don't get lost, I won't come to save you."

Lost, referential to this maze of suburbia, "aesthetically" winding roads that often split and end in cul-de-sac courts. He walks to start, replying to a non-cosmic text from his father, then a slow jog, then a run. No worry for route when his map is the territory, the neighborhoods brightening. He nods to another man out running, the man gives him a thumbs-up. He passes three women jogging who greet him with "Happy Thanksgiving!" He runs down a narrow street, the back door of a house opens and a smallish dog runs out and dashes to a short white picket fence, following him up the street. He stops and walks to the fence and looks to the bathrobed man standing at the door, who waves. The dog jumps up on the fence, a little brown Collie mix or Blue Heeler. The man calls out in a deep drawl "You can go on and pet her," so he does, then waves to the man and resumes. Out of the neighborhood and onto a long parkway with a single car headed in either direction, one that turns into parking for a golf course, a humble little country club, if country clubs can ever be humble, tennis courts and pool hidden behind tall hedges and trees. A few cars are in the lot, Thanksgiving tee-times at daybreak. A good warmup for the day, Andrew thinks, better than running. He wonders who works behind the walled garden, who woke up earlier than Maite to mow down fairways and roll greens for the insistent holiday golfer.

He thinks about the little exchange he just had with Emilia's mother. He intimidated them, Maite and Ernesto. Use no euphemism, yeah–he scared them. Scared them right, or maybe scared them good. Ignorant about what he truly conveyed, what they actually felt, so they could rationalize ambiguous threat, make external with context, for our daughter. Maybe that's what Maite just showed, a willingness to still be distant, to show she would still draw the shield around her family. Even as he would die for, kill for, just like. . . He shakes his head and runs faster. Turning at an intersection with a forest on the other side that reminds him of school and down another long parkway until he's beside a bank and a dark Whataburger and he sees cars on the freeway, then back.

Andrew removes his shoes in the entryway. The sisters are still in bed but Ernesto is up, helping Maite in the kitchen, bringing her raw ingredients from where they've been busily arranged on the kitchen island. He says "Buenos días, Andrew. ¿Cómo fue tu carrera?"

It's the best he's felt after a run in some time and he says as much. "Fue estupendo, creo que realmente me gusta estar aqui." Friendly people, friendly dog, pleasant area. He does like it here.

"Eso es bueno. Puedes ir a mi oficina hasta que se despierte." A very polite way of saying "You can leave us now." Andrew does as Ernesto suggests, going to the library-office. The door slowly pulls closed behind him, a quirk of the house, not his doing. The bottle and glass have been put back, the table is covered in the books Ernesto pulled the night before. Andrew looks at the stack of Octavio Paz, El laberinto de soledad at the top, and beneath it a copy in English, The Labyrinth of Solitude. He takes that copy and turns it to the back, but stares blankly. Emilia still sleeps. It's funny, he thinks, are other relationships like this, always one person the sleeper? He could look at his phone, but there is no real news anymore, he feels the news before it happens. Nothing to do but wait. Might as well read.

. . .The adolescent, however, vacillates between infancy and youth, halting for a moment before the infinite richness of the world. He is astonished for the fact of his being, and this astonishment leads to reflection: as he leans over the river of his consciousness, he asks himself if the face that appears there, disfigured by water, is his own. The singularity of his being, which is pure sensation in children, becomes a problem and a question. . .

He reads, aware as always of his surroundings, but not focused on any part of them. The younger sisters are up first, and Emilia rouses, checking her phone, then she gets up and goes to the bathroom and looks inside her old room. The bed is made, his packed bags on the covers. She walks down the stairs, hand hanging at the end of the rail, one foot still lingering on the last step. She can hear her parents in the kitchen with her sisters, and nothing from the living room. She looks up the hall, to the closed door of the office, and chooses that.

Andrew hears her enter, he says "Hey, good morning."

She sits beside him. "How did the talk go last night?"

"It went great."

Andrew helps Ernesto carry a long white folding table from their garage. It's set on a long sheet of vinyl above the carpet of their living room, wooden folding chairs placed around it. They return to the garage for wooden leaves to insert in the dining table, doubling its length, and a last trip for more chairs to fill the added spaces. Long golden tablecloths go on each, then Andrew helps the sisters with the last of the tidying, though in this spotless house he isn't sure what's left to clear in their sweeping, dusting, and vacuuming.

The smell of the cooking fills the house. Familiar, like what Emilia has made for him, and unfamiliar, to experience it here, and most of all on Thanksgiving. In his family fridge there is without a doubt an enormous bird still sleeping in its brine, in its turkey purgatory, the space between its death and the deep fried finish that will guide it beyond limbo. Maite briefly breaks from cooking to examine the house, and finding it to her satisfaction frees them until the guests arrive. Emilia and Andrew take their bags to the rental car, then go on a late-morning run. She knows the dog he pet earlier, she coos to her and scratches her behind the ears. Andrew sees how much more the dog likes her than him, he thinks about the sticky stars.

They're in her old bedroom. Emilia is lying down on her bed while Andrew sits on the floor beside it. She has one hand on her chest, the other runs through Andrew's hair. "So what happened, exactly, when you talked to my parents?"

"I told them I wasn't going to play in the NFL."

Her hand stops. "What did they say?"

"Your mom was concerned that I'm being foolish and I couldn't read your dad at first, but I explained myself and I think they respect my choice."

She takes her pillow and turns around on the bed, her head now just behind his. "How did you manage that?"

"I told them what you mean to me, and I told them that this is the right decision."

She leans over and kisses his cheek, then her phone makes a chirping sound Andrew recognizes as a text from her sister. "What'd Sofia send you?"

"Um. . . oh wow. Shajangali has a woman traveling with him, she's writing about it."

"Want to send me the link?"

"I have it open, I could just read it."

He turns to face her and says "Yeah."

Emilia begins.

"Hello, my name is Sonal. I know you are not here to read about me nor am I one to boast, but I believe a preface is in order. After all, these are my words typed on my laptop from events I witnessed, so please forgive and feel free to frame as self-indulgent this poor introduction to my travels with Dinesh. I promise it shall not take long.

I am the fifth child of six and the third daughter. My two older brothers are doctors, my father is a doctor, his father is a doctor, his father was a doctor. . . I am technically still a doctor. I was an "actual" doctor for only one year–after my formal education and a year's internship I was supposedly qualified and provisionally certified, freed under nominal oversight of a senior physician and thrust into the crucible of Indian public healthcare (my place there is another story, but I am not here to boast!) I believe I thrived, I believe I helped more than I hindered, but I am writing this rather than practicing medicine, so questions of my fit feel self-answered by my self-sorting out. Still I must protest, I did not hate my work in those busy wards. You can see them well enough, you have surely been in crowds and visited a zoo or else been in a place where animals ran free. Combine those and add the sick and dying prone and now you know that place. You are already in my head, please step forward to my eyes. Watch me stop to shoo a mutt who marked a corner. Hear a pleading mother beside her dying son while two tomcats struggled beneath his bed over a slain rodent. Smell excrement from one of our animal cohabitators and read my thoughts: at least they provided a service to the hospital, the dogs and cats would eat the rats."

Emilia grimaces.

"I say again, I believe I thrived in that place! (That you no longer work in, Doctor Sonal.) I will surely return when Dinesh wishes to be free of me. Do not think I was looking for an escape, I was not, fate appeared and I followed. I do not know if he saw something in me or if I found a lapse in his resolve, for others had tried to follow him only to be sent away. I remember his arrival especially well I think. It was not the fanfare he received at his entrance to Indore, the parade that followed him through the streets with the city as his entourage. No, I felt his presence in the ten thousand rats in a mad drive around and over my feet, fleeing the inevitable end as that shuddering host was struck suddenly, seizing and turning to nothing. Surely few have experienced this; if you have, well we must have worked together, so I hope you have some understanding of what made me so possessed to leave."

Andrew laughs. Emilia smiles at him and continues.

"I remember vividly the compulsion that took me, to chase after him, the feelings of urgency and haste, hurrying to change from my clinical attire and gather some of my things. (I would be reckless with my work, I was not trying to be too reckless with my life as it would follow.) I joined the procession, enthralled in the great revelry. People were singing and there were spontaneous expressions of emotion in laughter and shouts and cheers. I still moved with purpose, I pushed through the crowd, saying little pardons and apologies, until I reached the front, but still a little to the side of Dinesh. I followed him out of the city, all the way to Khudel, where he thanked what few of us were left and took the hands of all who proffered and wished us good returns home, which caused most to turn back, but still a handful stood or sat on the spot, content to witness his departure. Only I continued. Vehicles would often stop as passengers greeted him. I stayed at a distance, but he had long since noticed me.

We arrived at Chapda with the sun low, and there he finally addressed me. He said 'You were at one of the hospitals.' That surprised me! So great was the crowd I still do not know how he noticed, but I suppose such awareness is one of his many gifts.

I answered 'Yes.'

He asked 'What do you do there?'

I answered 'I am a doctor.'

He frowned, I think, I could not easily tell for the low light and his beard. He said 'Following me is foolish. There is nothing I can offer, and nothing to be gained.'

I looked at my boots and the edges of my pantlegs, well-covered in dirt. I said 'Foolishness is why I have done this, I think. I was there when you dispatched the rodents, they were all around my feet. I used to write when I was younger, and I would like to write about you.'

He looked at me for some time, enough that my cheeks flushed in embarrassment and I had to look away. I think what has followed has colored my memories, for I surely must have felt anticipation and fear that he would insist I leave. But as I write this now I remember none of that. I remember my cheeks and how my feet felt and I remember his face in the evening shadow, but the only emotion I recall is certainty. Yes, we would have this rote conversation, but when it finished I would continue walking behind him.

He asked me 'What is your name?'

I said 'I am Sonal.'

He said 'It is good to meet you, I am Dinesh. You are not the first to ask to write about me. I suppose more will try. . . Come, walk beside me. I will find rooms for the night.'"

Emilia puts down her phone. "That's the end."

"That's incredible. I've seen pictures of the crowds that follow him but hearing about it hits different."

"She's a doctor and she ran out on her own life."

"Yeah. Hard thing to do."

Emilia rolls back onto her bed and looks up at the ceiling. "To see that. . . of course she would want to follow him."

Andrew looks at her, at her cheek, down her long yellow shirt, to her jeans, to her yellow socks. He thinks. He thinks. Then shakes his head very, very slightly.

The first guest arrives at twelve. The padre of their church, Gabriel. He carries a dark green bottle sealed with wax.

More from the church at ten past. Isabel and Hector and their son and two daughters, all children, roughly the same ages as Emilia's sisters.

The last guests at fifteen past, once again from the church. Pablo and Rebecca, who is visibly pregnant, and their three young sons. Pablo is as tall as Andrew and was one of the few who recognized him the night before. His greeting is the same, firm handshake, good smile.

Maite wastes no time. After a few minutes of chat she calls everyone to the kitchen. The padre blesses their meal, their gathering, and the children stand first in line at the island where Maite fills their plates and waves them off to the living room. The spread is incredible, no carved turkey, but stewed with potatoes in mole negro, served with corn tortillas brought by one family along with cornbread with peppers and cheese. Another bowl is lined with foil and roasted corn, brought by the other family, who also brought a plate of pan dulce, sweet bread, and at the center Maite's hard work, an iron-ceramic pot filled with squash soup and a platter of tamales, butcher's string tying the husks.

Andrew eats and he does not speak, listening to rapid conversations that jump between subjects and little banters. He pulls out his phone under the table and texts Michael, There’s always one gringo at Thanksgiving. "Ya tenemos lista su cuarto!"–The words begin to blur together, his ear and head having increasing trouble keeping track–"Unpequeño enamoramientodela niñez"–until it's almost unintelligible–"Treshermanosasitresprotectores"–and he closes his eyes, longer than a blink, trying to focus on the words of only one person. On Hector, on each syllable, until he hears a low, gentle ringing, and the blurring of words slows and stops and he hears clearly, as if it could all be in English.

"Desaparecidoyantidemocraticoysimplemente, simplemente injusto!—Unaccountable, undemocratic, and simply unjust!" says Hector

"And the reverse of those have worked so well for Mexico, huh?" says Pablo.

"That is not what I am saying."

"I've forgotten, when is your daughter due?" asks Ernesto.

"Christmas. Well, Christmas Eve." says Pablo, "Rebecca's family is coming in from Arizona."

"That's wonderful." says the padre.

"Yes, in a few years we'll have a very busy little gathering here, Nestor's grandchildren, we'll need another table." says Hector.

"Perhaps." says Ernesto, Andrew thinks he can see a slight smile, and notices the other men are looking at him. Pablo winks, Andrew can't help but grin.

The table is cleared, everyone helping except for the priest who is given five small glasses by Maite. He cuts the wax from the bottle and uncorks it and pours clear drink into each glass, then places them together on the table. The women go together to the living room, the men stay in the kitchen, returning to their seats. None of the others ask about the drinks.

"What were you saying then, Hector?" asks Pablo.

"There have always been ways to keep power accountable. We may not agree with it, or even have a say in it, like the world under the threat of nuclear destruction when our parents and grandparents could hope the Americans and Soviets would keep their fingers away from the button. But who keeps them accountable? What system is there to regulate their behavior? There isn't one. I think we are hostages again, reliant on the magnanimity of those few. They seem good, they seem good."

"We're already hostages, we always have been. More hands in the bureaucracy is just more links in our chains." says Pablo.

"Links that we chose to insert. They increase our leverage, give us more to pull on."

"Yeah, more for private interests to pull on too, to slow things down and get nothing done. Such that those economic abstractions hold more weight, slowing the tangible. The few represent an ultimate tangible action–just as Porfirio got things done."

"Yes, quite effectively for his private interests–" says Ernesto.

"–Until he left no chance for peaceful succession." adds Hector.

Pablo shakes his head, "He still helped Mexico leap forward. Imagine what he could have achieved with ninety-seven years like Don Fidel. Imagine a century of Porfiriato. We talk and talk about a frozen bureaucracy that does nothing good for the people, as if it's okay just because we have a say. Strong leadership works, and can work for the people. Look at both Roosevelts. Imagine such leadership!"

"Yes, fine," says Hector, "maybe there is the possibility of good, but I fear a much greater possibility of terror. Revolution still threatened the others, as the people's final method of denying mandate. Those great men always knew their mandate was in peril. What happens if it is not?"

Pablo again shakes his head, "And maybe that hindered them. Dictators fear loss of power, that's why they purge ranks and massacre civilians, it's all done in fear. So I wonder, what if certainty of power inspires temperance?"

The padre speaks, "What if it inspires even grosser hedonism and largesse? It has in one already."

The men are silent, but each show little gestures acknowledging it. Ernesto finally says, "You two talk as if they cannot be harmed, cannot be killed. As if they have no need to fear a knife in the dark."

Hector and Pablo look to one another, then to Ernesto. Pablo says "Look at Mexico City, Nestor. Look at the sands."

"What of it?" asks Ernesto.

Hector says "A trick is being played on us." Andrew sees Pablo nod, Hector continues, "Those. . . few, may be nominally human, but what is human about what they can do? Something has elevated them above so many human concerns, why would it leave them susceptible to a dagger?" He laughs, "They can fly and lift buildings, but I have a sharp stick. Wanting and struggling for power is intrinsically human, possessing it unconditionally is not. Besides, that 'man' in Florida passed through the rock-and-metal rapids of the inner sphere and his clothing wasn't even torn, assuming it is clothing and not some essential spectral garb. In a fair world they wouldn't exist at all, but the world is unfair, and this is a trick, a cruel joke, and the punchline is mankind entirely at their mercy."

Ernesto frowns. Pablo says "I almost agree with you, Hector. I also believe it is a trick and a joke, but a good trick. One God himself is playing on the wicked. God is merciful–he sends his archangels among us as examples while every sphere is a message. This is his power, ye mighty, look upon his works! They're his heralds, performing miracles that leave no room for doubt, so everyone can see and believe and repent. And if they don't, well. . ."

"Maybe we agree more than we think. What do you believe, father?" asks Hector.

The padre takes a glass and sniffs it. "I have heard the First spoke to a priest in Mexico City. Maybe they are an angel–a herald–and they delivered some kind of message, but I don't know, maybe it is all hearsay. I know that I have faith, and that is all I need. Even the grandness they show does not compare to the infinite, they too must be formed from his will, more pieces of clay. They exist because he allows them to exist. Whatever happens, I will not be afraid." He sniffs the glass again. "These are ready." and he pushes a glass to each man.

"Cheers to that," says Pablo.

Ernesto raises his glass and looks directly at Andrew, "Family and fellowship. Up—down—and in."

They leave early, after drawn-out goodbyes. Emilia still drives as they go up the state and through Fort Worth and on to Arlington. A stop at their hotel to check-in and for Andrew to hang his suit and Emilia her dress and then a short-distance but relatively long drive for stadium traffic to AT&T. Parking passes came with the lanyards and badges, the lot is steps from the stadium. Easy to get in, but Andrew can already see the nightmare of getting out. He pulls on a Braves hat and sunglasses, knowing in this crowd he might be recognized a dozen times and asked for just as many pictures before they even reach the doors. To a private entrance, cap and shades off already, badges checked but not IDs. A rare perk, perhaps.

Andrew re-reads the text Devaris sent that morning. YOU READY FOR A FUCKING SHOW, DREW?!

Through the clubhouse halls, past fans waiting at Miller Lite to cheer the players who will soon follow. He hears calls, of course–"Oh shit, Andrew Black!"–"Drew! Drew!"–and ignores them. This entrance opens on the fifty, Andrew looks up at the full seats in the nosebleeds, already packed house. The club behind them clamors, Emilia takes his arm with both hands. The cheerleaders first, past metal arches and fittingly ostentatious prop stars on the field that shoots jets of smoke into the air, the women forming a V on the field as the cowboy flag team runs in next. Andrew is amused by the more-than-a-few whose bellies hang over large belt buckles, white shirts tucked, blue jeans, black boots, black Stetsons, the grand banners releasing fountains of sparks as each man reaches the star in the middle of the field and they form a line on the away side, flags and stars still in the pyrotechnic display. Finally the team, the announcer bellowing the introduction over the stadium's roar, the stars producing flames and previously quiet boxes on the field sending up fireworks.

The Bucs fight well, matching score for score across the quarters and finishing with a field goal at a minute in the fourth, but that's more than enough. Dallas running a lightning drive until ten seconds at second and goal and a bad read leaves the defense open for Devaris to carry it himself. He tosses the ball and runs and vaults the rails of the field boxes behind the goalpost, raising his arms to the crowd, a dozen hands from the fans around him clapping his helmet and chest and back. Andrew laughs, fuckin' Devaris. Emilia laughs too, pointing to the jumbotron, "Hey, look who it is." The comedian from their flight is one of the fans around Devaris.

Post-game rituals, coaches and players in a mass, shaking hands and dapping and hugging. Devaris is interviewed, then as he walks to the sidelines he's approached by a very tall black woman, instantly obvious as a model, who kisses him. He's already noticed Andrew, and he holds his arms out and calls out "I promised you a fucking show, Drew!"

"Yeah you did, and you delivered. That was fucking great, man."

"You're goddamn right!"

They shake hands, a photographer already taking pictures of Devaris recognizes Andrew and has them stand for more. Devaris introduces the woman, Reinauda, then says "Alright, we're going back to my place to change and then we'll pick you up."

Back to the hotel, traffic lessened for their time on the field after the game. Andrew texted Devaris on the way.

Can you bring me a green tie?

Def want a pocket square too?

Yes please

Black suit, black shirt, belt with gold buckle, Oxfords. Emilia in black dress, high neck, long sleeves, skirt just above her knees, gold necklace and the gold earrings Andrew gave her, black coat, black flats. Devaris calls, they wait in the lobby for the eventual black SUV. Three doors on each side, RR on each wheel. Two of the back passenger doors open, four seats with two facing two. Andrew takes the seat beside Devaris, Emilia beside Reinauda. Not a limo, better.

Andrew makes a show of looking over the interior, "Man, what is this?"

"What can I say, Mister Jones loves me."

"Dev, I can't be meeting Jerry Jones."

Devaris snickers, "C'mon bro, you know better."

They're taken somewhere modern, every inch of the exterior saying equally great; overpriced. The women exit, Devaris has the driver go around the block and presents Andrew with a thin box, green silk tie inside.

"You're the best."

"I know."

Devaris opens the first heavy wooden door, Andrew opens the glass door in the vestibule. Emilia sees him and her eyes widen in surprise then soften with her smile. Andrew points at Devaris' back, she nods and takes his arm. They're seated at once, drinks are ordered and brought and then food. Devaris of course takes over the conversation. Aperitifs and starters, each expectedly excellent. The women excuse themselves before mains.

Devaris says "I really like her, Reinauda."

"I bet. She's beautiful, Dev."

"I know. And I see you and Emilia–I guess all this time you've been a couple of role models."

"I don't know about that."

"She's it though, right? You two for good?"

"Yeah. I don't know when exactly, but yeah."

Devaris grins, playfully shaking his head. "Drew Black, so fucking good at everything from the first day! Marrying the very first girl you met at school. That's fucking funny. Put me down, hopefully for two. I'm going to be one of your groomsmen, okay? I mean it. And we will fucking party."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

They eat, they talk, Devaris stepping back so Reinauda can talk candidly and to Andrew oddly engrossingly of her life in modeling. They group together for final pictures for the night and they're driven back to the hotel for last handshakes and hugs and goodbyes.

"Reinauda was interesting." says Emilia.

"Quite a life."

"Yeah. Same with Devaris. Same with you."

"Maybe." Andrew's phone chimes, a new change for a very specific email alert. He grabs for his phone and grins at the subject line, "Sonal posted again."

"Read it!"

Andrew does.

"Hello again! This second post comes quickly after the first but it did not happen so quickly in reality! To be honest I would have rather published them together, but such is my life, and I will dally no longer.

Dinesh stayed on the little roads of the countryside. Visiting towns who were not quite so boisterous as the cities but the people there still recognized him and were happy to see him. They would gather around him, to touch him and speak with him and have pictures taken, and he always stood for them, always smiling and going to each, asking if there was any way he could help them.

We would take rides when offered, I became quickly accustomed to riding in the backs of trucks and unfamiliar cars, friendly strangers asking Dinesh about his travels. They loved to ask him about the tigers he had encountered, but I quickly realized in his words Dinesh did not enjoy to talk of them. But he was polite, and he said a little sadly the details of whatever they asked. How when he had done it twice and his name spread, people began to approach him and ask for help with other things, until sometimes it was soldiers who approached, to ask him to hunt great beasts.

As we walked we would talk of our families. He grew up in Mumbai, his three brothers and three sisters still live there. He spoke of his childhood and his adolescence, of his growing understanding that he had been set apart, and how one day his gift truly came upon him. He had been a student, almost finished with university when his restlessness finally became too much and just as I would later do, he walked from his life, though he at least told his family of his intentions. He wandered north, sometimes taking little work that he could quickly drop. He did not elaborate, but an event transpired when he reached New Delhi, and after that when he heard another story of a great tiger attacking men in the north, he walked until he reached Uttarakhand and hunted through the mountains until he found the tiger and slew it. He did not enjoy it, but he knew it was necessary.

It took two weeks across the little towns for us to reach Mandla. The town knew he approached, and held a celebration. For this I was more thankful than Dinesh, I felt the people were being so unnecessarily kind to me, I had purchased more clothing and been gifted it, but the simple dress sewn by the women there specifically because they knew I was coming–I could not and cannot thank them enough. We stayed for two days, and on the evening of the second as the sun fell beyond the horizon and we approached Amanala, a car played its horn at us.

It was a little black-and-yellow sedan, a taxi, but there were strips of black tape on its doors that must have covered its markings. The driver slowed to match Dinesh and rolled his window down. "Mister Shajangali!" he called, and Dinesh pointed to the shoulder, inviting him to park.

'Mister Shajangali, hello!' said the driver. 'I am Balram, I can take you wherever it is you are going.'

Dinesh turned his head about in the dark, reaching his hand out and tapping the roof of the taxi. 'A moment please, Balram. Sonal, it may become uncomfortably bright.'

I closed my eyes and soon felt light on my eyelids, but no heat. I looked down and opened my eyes and finding the illumination not unpleasant, lifted my head until I saw the small glowing sphere. It was bright indeed! But not so much to leave a lingering spot in my sight when I looked back to the car. The driver's head was going back and forth between Dinesh and the light upon the taxi, he was clearly impressed.

Dinesh said 'That is better. I am grateful for your offer, but I must tell you I have no money or trinkets.'

'What is your destination?' asked Balram.

'Dindori next, but my wish is to quickly reach Ambikapur.'

Balram showed his toothy smile, in the little ghost-light I could quite easily see his gums. 'Ambikapur! My brother lives in Ambikapur! Well he lived there, anyway. . . that's fine, very fine. I will take you all the way, I didn't drive so far already hunting for a fare!' His enthusiasm was infectious!

Dinesh said 'If you are certain–I am no stranger to these treks–yes. Sonal, what do you think?'

'Whatever you choose.' I said.

'Then we shall, thank you, Balram.'

The light waned and disappeared and Dinesh took the front passenger seat, I sat behind him. I thanked Balram as well and he pulled back onto the dark road.

'So!' said Balram, 'Why are you traveling to Ambikapur?'

Dinesh said 'I have not visited before, and I would like to see the great tree.'

Balram nodded energetically. 'The evergreen-and-yellow Ginkgo! I saw it when I was a boy, far smaller than it is now, I understand.'

The exertion of the day weighed heavy. I laid across the seats, listening to Balram talk of his brother, and I soon fell asleep. I did not sleep for long, it was night still when the car stopped. We had reached Dindori, we were in a little square adjacent to a hospital. I could see Balram looking at Dinesh, and when I raised I saw him leaned over, head resting on one hand, the eye that I could see closed. I knew what he was doing, and I whispered 'This will take time.'

I laid back down and Balram reclined his seat. I slept lightly, waking when Dinesh said 'I am finished.'

Balram asked 'What were you doing, Mister Shajangali?'

'Clearing rats from the town.' said Dinesh.

Balram made a little humming sound. 'Some of our countrymen venerate rats. Has that ever worried you?'

Dinesh nodded, but it was not in agreement. He asked 'What do you think of Suraj, Balram?'

Balram frowned. 'He claims he is Shiva. I see what he can do, what you can do, and I think. . . what do I know?'

'I am a man, Balram. I was not the product of a virgin birth nor did I come from heaven. I was born of my mother and my father just as my siblings who followed. I am blessed, and I do sometimes wonder when I hear little whispers if it is the Gods who speak with me, but if so their manner for such is in their wisdom, it is only what I need and nothing more. Suraj, I assure you, is the same.'

'But what if you too are a God, and you do not know it?' replied Balram. (Even for what Dinesh has said, I cannot help but sometimes wonder this myself.)

'I am not. I know this as plainly as I speak with you now. There are four of us yet only Suraj makes this claim. More shall follow, and I know even now none will say the same as him.' (And now a fifth has indeed appeared!)

Balram was quiet in thought. 'So what of the rats?'

'Indeed. I shall say it like so: the worship of our Gods is holy, but it is often twisted. By him, for example. The devoted who believe he is as he says, they truly feel they are doing right, that they are in communion. For them I feel sadness at their faith exploited, twisted. Love is holy, but it is so often twisted. Charity is holy, but it is so often twisted. Our fellow creatures, yes even rats, are holy, but they are twisted in our poor shepherdship, allowing them wanton proliferation. I do not eradicate, I do not wish to, nor could I if I wished. I send back but I do not unmake. Even now rats in the countryside smell the difference, in here and at Indore far behind us, the scents of empty burrows and unmolested grains. They will return quickly enough, but the little effort it takes to bring even brief respite is worthwhile.'

Balram laughed softly. 'You say you are a man, but your wisdom would be worth recording, yogi Shajangali.'

'No.' said Dinesh, 'This is not my wisdom, it is what I have read from others who are wise. I am engaged in action, that is my blessing and my obligation, just as we are all obligated to action. So I act on the ideas of others who would do the same if they could. Just as you would do the same if you were in my place.'

Balram waved his hand, as if to push away the words. 'You think too highly of me, Mister Shajan–'

Dinesh interrupted, 'Please, call me Dinesh.'

'–You think too highly of me, Mister Dinesh. Desire is my sin, it is good that I cannot indulge.'

'You think too little of yourself, Balram." said Dinesh, 'Though I do not converse with heaven I feel its hand. I know what I must do, and I know what Suraj shows, his aberration is meant as an example, at least for now: his acts are wicked, he cooks for himself. And yes–' he turned to look at me, 'I know these words may find his ears, and I hope they do. None are beyond this path.'

Again Balram stayed quiet in thought before speaking. 'Well then. . . what if he is doing right after all? What if your offerings are your wealth of ability, and his offerings are his presence to the devout who come to him? You say you are blessed, then he is also blessed, yes? What if you both were righteous souls and in rebirth you were justly rewarded? But your soul is still so humble you believe you are undeserving. Maybe Suraj accepts what he earned.'

Dinesh looked back at me, I know he wanted me to give my opinion. I shook my head, but he pressed. 'I do not have a phone, I know the world through those who speak with me, through what Sonal tells me. Doctor, what does he do in that temple?'

I relented and spoke. 'He never leaves. He is brought food and drink and. . . young women come to him. He does not always wear a halo, but there is always a great ring of light above the temple, keeping it as if always under the sun. He sometimes walks about it, and sometimes hovers, but he always stays, sometimes greeting those who come to see him, but often leaving them waiting for days. It is said he speaks wisdom but what I have read are just paraphrasings from the Mahābhārata. Miracles are claimed but I do not believe them, because, well. . .' I looked at Dinesh.

'Because many come to me, thinking that touching my shirt or my hand will free them from ailment. I truly wish it could, but it does not. That is why I know I am blessed but not divine–why that hermit is blessed, for whatever reason, but certainly not divine. If we were being rewarded we could have born into wealth or freed from Saṃsāra. We were born with power, but he only acts for himself.'

'I suppose.' said Balram. 'But it would be nice. . . I guess that is what I think, to have such certainty of the Gods.'

'It would. But that is not the point.' and at that Dinesh leaned his head back and closed his eyes and said 'You two should sleep. The morning will be very busy.'"

"Wow." says Emilia. Andrew can only nod.

"In the day Dinesh helped the people of Dindori as I observed. As always, whatever they asked that he could effect, he would. In the evening a meal was prepared for us, and in the night rooms were offered that we each took, although Balram declined and slept in his taxi.

With our kind driver we passed between towns quickly, listening to cheerful American music he played from a sleeve of discs. At each one Dinesh met the crowds then went house to house. I remember many things, but most fondly are Amarkantak, where he leveled an uneven field so the children could better play cricket and football, and Manendragarh, where a great pile of refuse had been raised ahead of his arrival, and he turned it to dust and reformed it as a fractal cube. It was there he directed Balram to drive through the coming towns straight to Ambikapur, and in the morning when we left, Dinesh again laid his head back.

'He often does this, hm.' said Balram.

'Yes, he has in every vehicle we have traveled in.'

'The world on his mind, no doubt!' said Balram. 'Shall I play music?'

Dinesh spoke, 'Feel free, always.'

Balram laughed. 'Ha, yes! The world on his mind indeed, and this little taxi in it too.' I watched his hand leave the wheel and reach under the dash, tossing the blue vinyl disc case to me. 'Look through, it is time you chose one!'

I had been very curious about it, so it was a funny little moment of happiness to finally hold it. Balram added 'I have turned the ones already played to their backs.' (Oh Balram, I hope you are doing well, wherever you are.)

I pulled the zipper, it was a satisfyingly heavy little toggle, and I turned through the sleeves, looking at the covers that were still visible. I did not ask, but each disc had writing and little marker drawings that were so cute I wondered if someone other than our ebullient driver made these and gifted them to him, like a sister or a niece. One disc had the head of an ape, another with books and glasses and musical notes, a third with briefcases and little sheet-ghosts, and one had only fat letters in English–SATURATION3. I laugh now thinking about how I chose that! I lifted it on one finger and Dinesh, whose head was still back and his eyes still closed, reached to take it and hand it to Balram, who glanced at it and said happily 'Do not worry, the sirens are part of the music.'

I did not expect that!

We listened all the way through the album and when it was finished we traded discs, me handing him the one with the little sheet-ghosts. Again it was quite different from my expectations, a completely different genre that brought a darker ambience to the taxi, an introspective feeling.

Dinesh returned to us once that album ended. 'We are close to the city, but the Twins stand not far ahead. The sister blocks the road, be prepared for the traffic to slow and stop.'

'Yes, Mister Dinesh.' said Balram.

We could soon see the Twins, the pair of great cattle each several meters tall, the bull with his tail to us, the cow indeed blocking the road. Balram pulled to the shoulder and when we were parked Dinesh left the car and I ran after him, nearly stumbling as my bag swung around my neck. A crowd was gathered around her, and they gasped and clamored when they recognized the arrival of Shajangali. Their calls brought even more to join us, and once he had greeted enough, they stepped back so he could attend to this unexpected task.

Dinesh grinned at the cow, I did not expect him to show such joy!

He said 'I have not had the pleasure of meeting these beautiful siblings.' He raised his right hand and held it near her head, waiting for assent that he saw and I did not, as soon enough he placed it on her wide cheek. 'I do not know the wisdom that placed giants among us, but maybe it is the feeling they inspire. Perhaps my gift is a lens through which I may better see and appreciate my fellows, and maybe she too has been magnified by a lens-of-sorts, made large so all may better see and appreciate living things.'

The cow licked his head! Dinesh and I laughed and so too did the crowd."

Andrew glances at Emilia, who's grinning.

"'Yes, I am also glad to meet you!' said Dinesh, 'But please, these people must be on their way, so you must leave the road. Don't make me do it for you, I worry that will surely be unpleasant. Come, come, I suppose I need a rope–' Heads turned in the chattering crowd, but Dinesh raised his left hand and a rope came out of the pasture beside us (I had to push back the thought of a flying serpent!) It landed gracefully upon her neck and he grasped both ends and when he pulled she followed. He lead her to the bull, her brother, slightly shorter than she but with magnificent horns and hump. I found myself amused not only by the sight of Dinesh between the giants, but by my wandering thoughts, imagining a family of confused elephants approaching the cattle and the farcical exchange they would have.

Dinesh returned to the taxi for only a moment. He said 'Balram, I am going to walk into the city proper. I am sure you will have no trouble finding me.'

Balram grinned and said 'Yes of course, I will see you soon!'

I stood beside him. He looked at me. 'You can take the car ride.'

I said 'I would rather stay with you.'

He looked at me and smiled very slightly and said 'Very well.'

I had witnessed crowds form so many times, and I had myself been in the great crowd at Indore, but I had not seen one come together in a populous place. Even as Dinesh kept to smaller roads, people of every age would recognize him and call his name and run from houses and fields. 'Shajangali! It is Shajangali!' they cried. Hundreds, then thousands walking behind him, until even the small roads were completely full of people and some drivers would angrily honk until they too recognized what was happening, and they jumped out of their cars and would run up to quickly shake his hand or touch his shoulder, then join the rest of us.

I could at almost all points see the great tree, the evergreen-and-yellow Ginkgo. It rose high above Ambikapur. Mind you, though the city is very populous, do not envision a place with towers across an imposing skyline. Ambikapur spreads out rather than up; the tree spreads out and up!

The tree, as I have learned, found its place by luck. Ginkgo biloba is already uncommon in India, it feels quite right that the tree whose presence would alone be unusual further distinguished itself by such size, and oh how it did and how it does! Between a cricket stadium and a government office a field is set apart for the majesty himself. I felt such wonder, this king of trees, his body his own crown and castle. Two hundred feet tall and its branches spreading out such that I could believe it was almost as wide! The massive trunk, I thought of how many of us in the crowd it would take to wrap our arms around it, and its last flourish, the little fan-leaves, a wave of green-and-yellow that blended together, and the field at our feet, covered in fallen leaves as a golden carpet.

Dinesh worked and I followed. In the evening Balram rejoined us and we ate in a grand hall with many townspeople and the mayor, and at night we were given accommodations. Even our driver acquiesced (I was glad to know he was finally sleeping in a bed!) As I typed notes from my recollections I heard Dinesh pacing in the room beside mine, until he walked into the hall and knocked at my door.

He said 'I am thankful that you followed me. I am going to send Balram away tomorrow.''

I said 'I am thankful you allowed me to. He will decline, but that must be why you intend to.'

'Yes,' said Dinesh, 'but he will relent. He has already done too much. As have you, though I think if I tell you to go, you would ignore me.'

I shook my head, 'If you truly wished for me to leave, I would.'

He shook his, 'Yes. . . and I do not. You have seen me most of all. I ask this in earnest and I want candor. What is your impression of me?'

I said 'I think back to Indore. It was the same day I always had, so busy, so loud. But I enjoyed it, or I tell myself I enjoyed it. I ran out, I left my duty, not even telling them what I was doing. But when the rats were all around me, I was used to them, seeing them even when I never wanted to, seeing cats pounce on them and dogs shake them to death. When so many were over my feet and then gone just like that? In that moment I had to know you. And that was the right decision. Seeing you help however you can, raising walls, digging trenches, clearing fields, all at a whim, and hearing you speak your thoughts. How you truly never take rewards, how your actions are never done for the fruit they bear. I could not describe myself as religious, but. . .'

'Nor can I. Not truly.' said Dinesh.

I was stunned by this.

'It has always seemed a contradiction. I know it is trite, a child's verbal trick, but it resonates with me. Wanting nothing is still wanting nothing. I want nothing in return for my actions because the only cost is time and that I have in abundance. I am in perpetual perfect health, my strength never falters, I never tire, I am never bored of this. It takes nothing of me to lift earth, to move air itself. I simply can. So I think what fairness is me charging for what costs me nothing? I hear these praises, like from Balram, who is so kind, but this isn't wisdom. He is a true man of indifferent action, he only does it for the act itself, not concerned of the fruit he might reap. I am unconcerned, but why would I be concerned? I need nothing, I want nothing, not because of enlightenment, but because of what I am already. I. . . I fear these words, because I believe it is truly wrong to dismiss faith, to guide others away from it, because faith is good, and I know I have faith myself. But in what, I do not know, in existence, I suppose. A great hope of something more. A yearning.'

'You are something more, Dinesh.' I said.

'Yes, exactly. I describe myself as blessed because I am blessed, but I do not think is from the divine, and that gives me doubt. And I think, ah–the doubting man is never happy. But I do not doubt my action, I know it is good that I do something at least over nothing. I do not doubt there are even greater things I could do. But I must accept my place blindly? When this is my place? Look at what I can do, Sonal. Behold.'

He rose into the air in that little room. I had always wondered but never asked.

'But what good is this? That I can travel a little faster? I already have so much time. I do not know what I fear in this. I am already treated as if I walk on air. What good is this. . . only to set me further apart. To further push me away. From others, from you. An even greater reminder of inequity that I guess the Gods must tolerate, but it is not of their hands, it is from something else, and I go to the depths of my reason in search of why. I do not doubt my action. I doubt my purpose.' He lowered to the floor and turned away from me.

'But you can do all of these things. . ." I said softly, and he turned back to face me. "What good is it for you to worry about why? You said you have heard little whispers, but that they are not directives?'

'Little hints from something, yes, but no calls for specific action.' he answered.

'Then doesn't that mean it is for you to make your purpose? That for whatever reason you have this, it was accompanied with a lack of direction, so you could choose your own? And you have done that so admirably. None of the others are like you. The American does a little, but you have impacted far more than him, all while taking nothing in exchange. Regardless of faith I do believe you are righteous. And like you said, you do not doubt your actions, maybe that is enough. Maybe doubt is bad, maybe it has sapped your happiness, because you have already found purpose.'

'Maybe.' he said.

He sat down on the floor, but just as quickly raised and walked to the window, peering beyond the curtains. "Soldiers have just arrived, I am sure there are here to speak with me. Please wait, I will return.'

He left and I went to the window, looking to the dark entrance of our hotel. I could just see the jeep the three men arrived in, too dark for me to see details beyond the berets worn by two, and the turban worn by the third. They spoke with Dinesh quickly, then left, and I sat on the bed until he returned.

He stood in the doorway and said 'In the morning we shall go West Bengal. There is a man-eater in the Sundarbans, near Kalitala.'

'My eldest sister lives in Kolkata.' I said.

'Then I would like to meet her.'"

Andrew says "That's it."

Emilia has a hand on her cheek. "Makes everything from tonight just seem. . . so small."

"Yeah."

"I, um. I feel weird after last night at church and. . . the confessional. I don't feel any guilt about us, and I don't even feel like I should, but I–" she laughs but it seems more of a response of uncertainty, "I feel like I feel like I should? Like what my mom would say."

"That's fine, Em. We didn't sleep in the same bed last night."

"I wanted to. Something about you being in my bed makes me happy. . . I just wish I'd been there with you."

"It's okay. I'm right here, it's just sleep."

She gets under the covers and he clicks off the lamp. She tosses and kicks around but eventually he hears her breathing slow with sleep. His sight rises and drifts, over the interstate to the amusement park. He sees the few guards on duty, mostly stationary. One at a desk looking at monitors, one in a break room, legs kicked up, obviously dozing. One standing, smoking a cigarette, and the last on patrol, walking beside a long roller coaster, one earbud in, one dangling.

It is not long before Emilia wakes and turns back and forth, then pushes herself up. She moves around to sit on the side of the bed, her head turned in the darkness toward him. She places a hand on the nightstand and gets up, reaching in the dark for Andrew's bed, finding it and then his covered arm and his partially covered chest, which she rubs slightly. "Andrew."

"Yeah?"

"Move over."

Skiplagged itinerary, their return flight late the next morning. Emilia sleeps in, they eat at the hotel then drive to the airport. Andrew keeps his cap and sunglasses on, no one recognizes him, no one runs up and asks for pictures. He reads Sonal's posts again on the flight, then searches Sonal + Shajangali. There are many pictures, some from afar with her beside him, some in the crowds as she stood to the side.

Sunshine Showdown on Saturday in Tallahassee. Emilia with his parents and brother in the crowd. The Seminoles stand no chance, the Gators winning in a blowout. Repeat a week later in Atlanta for the SEC championship. Alabama shows better than Florida State, Andrew still runs away with it. He tries to remember the last football game he lost but nothing comes.

Finals approach. Classes end. Reading days ahead of the week of exams. Early Friday morning Andrew is at his desk in the living room, reading over his notes while occasionally clicking to check the news. Suraj still a hermit, Redhat still in South America, more rumors of Mondai but nothing Andrew can interpret as evidence of his action.

His phone chimes, a new post by Sonal. The subject line reads The Tigress.

In Kotulpur a nice family offered us a ride to Kolkata. Their several sons sat with us in the bed of their truck and asked Dinesh many questions about the tigers he had seen and of his thoughts on Suraj. He was gracious, but the boys did not hear the pain and contempt in his voice.

The woman and man were quite insistent on delivering us to my eldest sister's house in Alipore. Rather than masking himself, Dinesh laid down in the bed and pulled on my sleeve to follow. There we were stuck, our backs to straw and boards. The boys looked down at us, grinning and giggling, and once Dinesh started laughing I joined him. My sister knew Dinesh was close to the city and that I was accompanying him, but she was not expecting Shajangali to so suddenly appear at her door! We ate with them, with each again asking Dinesh questions, my sister and her husband of his travels and of Suraj, my nieces and nephews of stories of tigers. In the morning my sister's husband enthusiastically offered extra food and the use of his car. Dinesh drove us through the countryside, on roads he had walked before. We passed more than one mural of his face, and sometimes people noticed him and we would have to stop for the crowd.

At Kalitala a captain and his soldiers waited. They were so joyful! They surrounded him to take turns shaking his hand and laying their hands on his back and shoulders and chest. They insisted he should eat before the hunt but Dinesh politely declined, the work would come first. The commotion from the soldiers brought villagers and the affair repeated, the handshakes and laying of hands, the offers of food and sundries and of treasures. He always smiled and always declined. I remember their faces, I remember most of all the older woman wrapped in white sitting on a closed basket, only watching. When he had stood for this to his own satisfaction he asked them to wait and the captain took us to the river shore, pointing across to the mangroves, saying of the wall of sea-trees "She swims across." Dinesh waded into the waters and drew a little gondola that we climbed inside and when we were moving the soldiers called "Shajangali, good luck!"

The boat moved quietly in the wide rivers of the estuary. I was again in awe. There have been discomforts in this journey, but they do not compare to the unexpected pleasures, the beauty of the country I had appreciated so little of, that I still feel I appreciate so little of. We saw a herd of deer running in the shallow waters amidst trees, we heard the growls of predators hidden from sight, and as we moved from one stretch of water to an even larger one, I could see a spot of orange on a distant shore, a tiger surveying our little boat.

He found a dry place beyond Golpata palms where he raised the gondola and laid it in a row of silt grass. We walked through the grass until it stopped abruptly at a different kind of wild growth my eyes apprehended as a living cave. The Sundari trees its pillars, spaced so perfectly I could believe it was by hand, the curious root field that raised into the air its ligneous stalagmites, the canopy its flowing ceiling. Leaves often brushed his hair and I was afraid, but he shook his head when I asked if the tiger was somewhere above us.

We reached a clearing, a skylight in the cave, where the roots went no further and more grass rose around a salt pond. Dinesh stopped, I think in admiration, because I admired it too. When he next moved it was to run and he disappeared into the leaves. I was afraid again! I would have been lost were it not for a sharp wind that pushed me toward him, revealing his back through brush to clear and barren ground. He was cross-legged on the dirt, ahead of him was a tree so enormous a tiger might look like a housecat in its branches, and she sat between.

I fell at once. I could not speak! I could not breathe! She was so beautiful and so orange and so terrible! She would have been small for an elephant! The left of her face was a masterpiece of the gods and the right was a travesty of man, eyeless and scarred. She only looked at him!

Eventually Dinesh spoke. "Do you know they once called me abhibhāvak? It was an accident, but I suppose many names have started as misunderstanding. It was an exciting time; in my excitement I misspoke, in their excitement they took for granted. If they must call me something other than Dinesh I am glad it is now Shajangali. Still, I am the obligate guardian, the necessary hunter, no matter how sorry this need is to kill the man-eaters. Look at her, beauty beyond beauty. I feel no joy in this, she would keep to herself if she could. What is crueler nature than who deprived her of the strength to hunt? What is crueler nature than who drove her to be of such size–and hunger?

Tiger and man have an ancient armistice. Each fear the other and like ship and ship in the waters of the night we cross under noses in the tall grass. Unknown and unwanting to be known. But paths do cross, you know. A tiger takes a goat, must we accept this? The tiger wishes to live, but so do we. The goat surely wishes to live as well! So that excited shepherd who, shaking, aimed his rifle–he too, abhibhāvak–struck and maimed her. The wounds closed, but her sight, her jaw, forever less. The deer eludes her now. Should we expect her to starve? We should expect a better shot! Or at least a prudent one. We must finish what we start, but, a-ha. . . so easy for me to say, as tigers fear me. Her teeth and claws would break on my skin, I may place my hands on her carelessly. She knows what I am, perhaps because all beasts recognize divine blessing or perhaps because I stink of fate. What would I do without this? Please do not mistake what I do as a sign of courage, I have none. Silly to chastise the hunter who lacks courage as well. 'Follow the great tigress, Rama, with your rifle and your testicles!' Alas, that poor hunter made this poor hunter and thus did man spurn nature. She was hungry and tired and surprised by that tragic woman."

He raised his hand. Her head bowed to meet it!

"I wish so terribly that I could return fear to her heart. She fears me! I am a man, but I am not man. She would fear the queen elephant, but she does not fear all elephants nor does she fear all men. Yet this man will be her terror as I take the air as her harness and find her heart and stop it. Were I to sit through day and night to stare in her eye, would she find that fear again? Gods, do I feel such sorrow, and do I share this creature's consternation at our circumstance! To be made to bow before this mere flesh! But! Would she avoid man? No, I think not, and when she took another life it would be on my hands. Do you understand? Those who ask me why I bloody myself when I could live like that pretender Suraj–we both have chosen blood, I have chosen less. Yes, this is my purpose, Sonal. To use this blessing in self-interest is to blaspheme the Gods or whomever it was that in their wisdom, brought prosperity to our hands–if we forge it!"

Truly, I know so little. But maybe now I understand that.

We sat until night. I soon had to lie down, using my bag as a cushion for my head. I tried to stay awake, but I was overcome with sleep, and when I awoke in the morning light I found Dinesh with her head on his lap and against his chest, his own head bowed, his cheek to the scarred cheek of the tiger, his hand where her eye would have been.

The people of Kalitala wrapped and lifted the tiger to the pyre. They did not ask for his help and he did not offer. When the old woman saw Dinesh (I still worry she was out the entire night until his return,) she went to him, murmuring. I could not hear, I only watched, but I felt something as her hands raised and his head again bowed so she could reach his face. One of her hands was empty but the other was covered in blue dye. When she left him he turned and looked at me, one eye surrounded by his olive skin, the other eye surrounded by indigo. Not the handprint I expected but solid from above his right eye to his hair, down to his bearded jaw. As the beauty was held in immolation, he raised his hand to beckon me, and I took it and stood beside him.

Andrew closes his laptop and picks up his phone. Dialing, ringing, ringing.

Emilia answers from her sleep. "Andrew? What time is it?"

"Almost sunrise. I need to see you."