The reporter’s voice-over was in Hindi, but it was unmistakable that he was yelling, frantic. Dr. Avanthikar didn’t look up from her hands. “The spice market is gone,” she said. “It . . . it vanished into thin air.”
THE NEXT MORNING, AN AIDE OPENED THE DOOR TO HEMU’S re-created living room for the last time. Both doctors nodded at the amnesiac as he stood there. Just a few minutes, it meant. That was all the time they had. After whatever had happened to Mandai, the rest of the night had been filled with uniforms, badges, interrogations. Interrogations of Dr. Avanthikar. Interrogations of Dr. Zadeh. Interrogations of the amnesiac, over and over. None of them could explain it. Hemu was the only one the officers didn’t question. They were afraid to cause whatever had happened to happen again. They watched him through the observation window for hours in silence before they let the rest of them go home.
Dr. Zadeh and the amnesiac had woken at dawn to the hotel room phone ringing. They had no idea which official was on the line, but the message he relayed from the prime minister was unambiguous: the joint Indian-American experiment was over. They had less than twelve hours to get on a plane voluntarily before law enforcement would come and forcibly deport them. As soon as Dr. Zadeh put down the receiver, it rang again. This time it was Dr. Avanthikar. More officials were coming at noon for further assessment of her research, she told him. If they could get to the hospital before that, they could say goodbye and escape clean.
“Hemu,” the amnesiac said.
“Hello,” Hemu replied. He tucked his legs up beneath him on the couch.
They looked at each other for a few moments. The amnesiac wondered if he still remembered what had happened yesterday evening—not exactly what, but that it had been terrible, and it was his fault somehow, or if Hemu was simply waiting for him to speak. If he even remembered the amnesiac at all.
“I’m leaving today,” he finally said. “I have to go back home.”
“Oh.” Hemu looked down. “That’s too bad. I like—I liked talking with you. Especially about Gajarajan.”
The amnesiac felt an immense relief. “You remember,” he said.
Hemu shrugged. “For now. Soon I might not remember you even came.”
The amnesiac walked over to where Hemu was seated. “For now is good enough for me,” he said.
Hemu looked up at him and smiled. He saw it then. How tired Hemu was. How tired he must have been for a long time.
The amnesiac held up the plastic-wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Parting gift,” he said. “You asked me—”
“Oh, yes!” Hemu grinned. “I do remember that, still. Thank you. I really—this means a lot. That you did this for me.” His voice was strangely thick, like he might cry.
“It was nothing,” the amnesiac said, surprised at the intensity of his response. “Really. Dr. Zadeh just asked the kitchen staff at the hotel to make it.”
Hemu lifted the package to look at the peanut butter smear, the purple jelly oozing out between the crust. “What’s it called again?” he asked. “I mean, I remember that I asked you for it. Just not the name.”
“Peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” the amnesiac said.
“Peanut butter and jelly,” Hemu repeated. He tucked the bag into the large pocket of his tunic. “I look forward to eating this tonight. It will be something new. A good memory—for a while at least.”
“Don’t give up, Hemu,” the amnesiac said. He felt like he might cry, too. He knew how useless it was to say that, probably better than anyone, but he couldn’t help it. “I promise I’ll remember you. Whatever happens.”
Hemu stood and embraced him gently. “If only we were elephants,” Hemu said, “we could help each other.” Then his expression changed. “Did I ever tell you about—” he began.
The amnesiac hugged him tighter.
ON THE PLANE, DR. ZADEH COMPARED HIS NOTES ABOUT THE spice market incident to Dr. Avanthikar’s draft report to her prime minister. She’d stated what everyone in the observation room had seen: Persons whose shadows had disappeared began experiencing disorganized but progressive and permanent amnesia. Shadowless Hemu Joshi was asked a question about the place where he lost his shadow, the Mandai spice market, in conversation by a visiting American patient recovering from severe retrograde amnesia, “Patient RA.” Mandai had been one of Joshi’s favorite parts of the city, according to background information provided by his brothers. However, Joshi’s reply to Patient RA made it clear he did not remember it at all. At almost the exact same time, Mandai—including all the people in it—inexplicably vanished.
“How soon until they inform the public of the connection?” the amnesiac asked.
“As soon as . . .” Dr. Zadeh paused. He reached his fingers under his glasses and massaged his eyelids. “The problem is how to explain it. What happened just isn’t possible. There’s nothing in any field—psychiatry, neurology, physics, biology . . . I mean, you were there.” He set the report down. “I don’t even know what I saw. Do you?”