* * *
—
She wrote a first-person account that afternoon—the chaos, the chain of events, the visceral shock. She had even managed to gather quotes. The demolition had been suspended, a protest broke out—it gathered strength, almost burst into a riot. But her copy for the newspaper was dry, functional, it communicated the bare bones of the situation and little more.
* * *
—
She realized she was on TV. The demolition had been filmed by a news crew. The moment of the kids’ death was right there. She was gasping, crying.
Dean wanted to take her to dinner that night, but she declined. She said she wanted to be alone. He told her he would check in on her later.
* * *
—
The bereaved parents had been working on a construction site. They’d been assured the demolition would be delayed. They’d taken the risk, gone to work, left their kids at home. A neighbor was to watch over them, but the neighbor had been beaten by the police. In that moment they lost their children, their belongings, their life.
* * *
—
Neda’s mother studied her with the minute care and attention she habitually employed against the world. Her gaze missed nothing. She was a hawk who never swooped, but Neda knew she was there.
“You’re all we’ve got,” her mother said, taking Neda’s hand. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I don’t,” Neda said, trying to pull her hand away.
Her mother wouldn’t let it go. “And we’re proud of you.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“What you’re doing matters.”
She blinked and the tears fell.
“Nothing matters.”
Her head was fog.
“Shhhh.”
“I can’t take this,” she said. She looked up to meet her mother’s eyes and her voice changed to a plea. “Can I go now? I want to sleep.”
Her mother nodded. “Shall I send up tea?”
“No.”
“Whisky?”
“No.”
“Will you share a cigarette with me before you go?”
* * *
—
She went upstairs and sat on the edge of her bed a moment, sick, immobile, then undressed and entered the shower and stood under the hot water, willing her mind to dislodge itself of the nightmare repetitions—the woman screaming, the tiny bodies, the frenzied barking of the dog, the guttural engine of the JCB, the glare of the TV cameras. She lived the moment again, seeing herself seeing the devastation, and her memory was grafted onto the TV cameras, making the event an out-of-body experience, detached from any discernible reality. The hot water ran out, the shower turned cold, but still she stood under it, letting the stream numb her body and so her mind. She lost sense of place and time; it might be a jungle, it might be the mountains, it was not Delhi.
* * *
—
She had no idea how to run from it. She heard the low hum of voices downstairs. Her mother speaking. A man’s voice. It had to be Dean.
Yes, Dean was there.
She threw on a kaftan and crept down, hung at the curve of the marble stairs, peeking like a child.
It was not Dean.
It was Sunny, sitting with her mother at the round table in the heart of the home, dressed in his simple white shirt and chinos, sipping tea, looking tired, drained. He was listening to her mother speak, speaking in reply, her mother receptive, calm, nodding with him.
He must have heard or sensed or seen her from the corner of his eye. He looked up and made eye contact and she hugged the wall a little tighter. Then she took a few steps down, trying to be bold.
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw you on the news,” he said.
It didn’t seem real, Sunny sitting there, crossing this boundary, invading her life.
“I’m sorry,” her mother said, “my daughter can be very rude.”
“It’s OK,” Sunny replied. “She had a bad day.”
Neda shook her head in disbelief. “A bad day?”
“I’m going to rest,” her mother said. She turned to Sunny. “Take care of her.”
Sunny stood, extended his hand. “It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Kapur.”
Her mother took it. “Ushi,” she said. “My name is Ushi.”
She glanced at Neda but said nothing and turned and retreated to her bedroom, and Neda watched her go without moving. She only came to sit at the table once she was gone. Only then did Sunny take his seat.
“She’s like I imagined.”
“Did she ask who you were?”