In all the years I have been here, there have been few visitors. I have refused to see almost all who have asked. But when she writes, I can only say yes. When she sits on the other side of the thick glass, I see that she’s grown older, of course, more staid. There’s a wing of white at each temple, but she is still tiny, and I can still see the imprint of features I loved in a different time. I say in my raspy, unused voice, “Dharshi?” and she nods and smiles, and instantly I remember how we were then when we were only girls and before so much happened. She says, “How are you?” I wave it away. My days have been the same for so many years that the question has no meaning.
We are awkward with each other. She tells me about her life. She’s an architect, as she always wanted to be. She’s created a life she likes. We talk about those long-lost days when we lived in her room, those two beds just feet away from each other. We remember those long walks after school, the hours watching TV, our feet resting on each other. She reminds me: “When you came you were such a scraggly thing. Like an alien from another world. You didn’t even know how to shave your legs. Do you remember?” I think of her showing me, of her sliding the razor along my skin. The way we had been, that kingdom of girlhood. We laugh a little shyly, aware of the sound bouncing around these walls. Her face here in this place is a blessing. I had never expected to see her again. Never expected to hear the sound of her voice. She is a dispatch from the world of the living.
It’s almost time to leave when she says she wants to show me something. She reaches into her pocket and the guard in the corner shifts, but she pulls out a photo and lays it against the glass facing me and he calms down. The picture is of her and Roshan, with two tall boys who tower over them and a pretty girl. They all have their arms around one another, their heads tilted together. They are laughing, and the love between them is alive, beating. She smiles and says, “You have to meet the kids. Their names are Dinesh and Dhumal. My girl is Asha. I’ll bring them to see you sometime.”
I say, “They’re beautiful.” Determined not to cry. No one has shown me such love in years. I don’t deserve it.
*
Another gift comes. Something I had never dared imagine. A postcard bearing a single red dahlia bursting off its surface. I run my fingers along its surface every day. I know its hues so well that I can close my eyes and see every folded petal. I imagine the live blossom in my hands, its wild exuberance lighting up this dark place. He must know that I miss flowers. Flowers and the scent of him. His writing. It says, “I’ll never forgive you. I’ll always love you.” It says his name. And this is everything.
*
There is one last thing I must reveal. You know my story and now you must know my name. My name is Ganga. Amma named me after the River Goddess. In the ancient Hindu epics, the Goddess Ganga flows down all the way from the frozen Himalayas across the immense stretch of the subcontinent and into the welcoming Ocean. She is birthed out of the purest snowmelt. In the cities they burn their dead upon her bosom, they fertilize their fields with her, they bathe and drink from her endless flow. And yet the water is always sacred, always pure, an elixir of life. I bear the name of flowing water. A name that reminds us that all liquid is connected. In this way, each of us is bound, one to the other.
I am here now alone, except for my beloved dead.
Acknowledgments
My profound gratitude to the following:
Jennifer Weis, my editor at St. Martin’s Press. This book is all the better for your careful work on it.
Dori Weintraub, my publicist at St. Martin’s Press, for all your dedication to this book.
Ellen Levine, my wonderful agent. Thank you for being my champion.
Sylvan Creekmore at St. Martin’s Press, for always responding to my smallest concern.
Lauren Cerand, for taking on this book.
My mother, Upamali Munaweera, whose love for her daughters and granddaughter is fierce and true.
My father, Neil Munaweera, who sees more than we know and whose gift of storytelling has entered my blood.
My sister and brother-in-law, Namal Tantula and Shehan Tantula, for their sweet presence in my life. To Miss Taylor Tantula, who brought the sunshine. I’m glad you were born after I was pretty much done with this book. I couldn’t have written it after I saw your tiny face.
My in-laws, Kathy and Daniel Missildine, who remind me that marriage can be blissful and that a shared life of the mind is the best possibility.
The early readers, who are also family and dear friends: Nat Missildine, Ayesha Mattu, and Yosmay Del Mazo.
Candi Martinez, the girl who survived and kept on doing so, so much love to you.
Phiroozeh Romer, so many days writing this book in cafés next to you. Thank you for being there and listening to me work out life and writing.
Yosmay Del Mazo, in gratitude for the many walks and talks on the days when writing this book was just too painful. You inspire me in all ways.
Keenan Norris, our friendship over the years is a beautiful part of my life. No one I’d rather talk writing and books with than you.