Mr. Ashok had no clue, though-he began humming a film song, until she said, "What a fucking joke."

"What was that?"

"You lied about returning to America, didn't you, Ashok-you're never going back, are you?"

"There's a driver in the car, Pinky-I'll explain everything later."

"Oh, what does he matter! He's only the driver. And you're just changing the topic again!"

A lovely fragrance filled the car-and I knew that she must have moved about and adjusted her clothes.

"Why do we even need a driver? Why can't you drive, like you used to?"

"Pinky, that was New York -you can't drive in India, just look at this traffic. No one follows any rules-people run across the road like crazy-look-look at that-"

A tractor was coming down the road at full speed, belching out a nice thick plume of black diesel from its exhaust pipe.

"It's on the wrong side of the road! The driver of that tractor hasn't even noticed!"

I hadn't noticed either. Well, I suppose you are meant to drive on the left side of the road, but until then I had never known anyone to get agitated over this rule.

"And just look at the diesel it's spewing out. If I drive here, Pinky, I'll go completely mad."

We drove along a river, and then the tar road came to an end and I took them along a bumpy track, and then through a small marketplace with three more or less identical shops, selling more or less identical items of kerosene, incense, and rice. Everyone stared at us. Some children began running alongside the car. Mr. Ashok waved at them, and tried to get Pinky Madam to do the same.

The children disappeared; we had crossed a line they could not follow us beyond. We were in the landlords' quarter.

The caretaker was waiting at the gate of the Stork's mansion; he opened the door of the car even before I had brought it to a full stop, and touched Mr. Ashok's feet.

"Little prince, you're here at last! You're here at last!"

The Wild Boar came to have lunch with Mr. Ashok and Pinky Madam-he was their uncle, after all. As soon as I saw him enter the mansion for lunch, I went to the kitchen and told the caretaker, "I love Mr. Ashok so much you must let me serve him lunch!" The cook agreed-and I got to take my first good look at the Wild Boar in years. He was older than I remembered, and more bent over, but his teeth were exactly the same: sharp and blackened and with two distinctive hooked ones curving up by the side. They ate in the dining room-a magnificent place, with high ceilings, heavy, old-fashioned furniture all around, and a huge chandelier.

"It's a lovely old mansion," Mr. Ashok said. "Everything's gorgeous in here."

"Except the chandelier-it's a bit tacky," she said.

"Your father loves chandeliers," the Wild Boar said. "He wanted to put one up in the bathroom here, did you know that? I'm serious!"

When the caretaker brought out the dishes and put them on the table, Mr. Ashok looked at them and said, "Don't you have anything vegetarian? I don't eat meat."

"I've never heard of a landlord who was vegetarian," the Wild Boar said. "It's not natural. You need meat to toughen you up." He opened his lips and showed his curved teeth.

"I don't believe in killing animals needlessly. I knew vegetarians in America, and I think they're right."

"What crazy ideas do you boys pick up?" the old man said. "You're a landlord. It's the Brahmins who are vegetarian, not us."

After lunch I washed the dishes; I helped the caretaker make tea. My master was taken care of; now it was time to see my family. I went out the mansion by the back door.

Well, they had beaten me to it. My family had all come to the mansion, and they were around the Honda City, staring at it with pride, though too frightened to touch it.

Kishan raised his hand. I hadn't seen him since he left Dhanbad and came back home to work in the fields-that was three months ago. I bent down and touched his feet, and held on to them for seconds longer than needed, because I knew the moment I let go he would bugger me badly-I hadn't sent any money home for the past two months.

"Oh, so now he remembers his family at last!" he said, shaking me off his feet. "Has he thought about us at all?"

"Forgive me, brother."

"You've not sent any money for months. You forgot our arrangement."

"Forgive me, forgive me."

But they weren't really angry. For the first time I can remember, I got more attention than the water buffalo. Most lavish in her fussing, naturally, was sly old Kusum, who kept grinning at me and rubbing her forearms.

"Oh, how I used to stuff your mouth with sweets as a child," she said, trying to squeeze my cheeks. She was too frightened of my uniform to try and touch me anywhere else.

They almost carried me on their backs to the old house, I tell you. The neighbors were waiting there to see my uniform.

I was shown the children that had been born in the family since I had left, and forced to kiss them on the forehead. My aunt Laila had had two children when I was gone. Cousin Pappu's wife, Leela, had had a child. The family was larger. The needs were more. I was chastised by all for not sending money each month.

Kusum beat her head with her fist; she wailed into the neighbors' house. "My grandson has a job, and he still forces me to work. This is the fate of an old woman in this world."

"Marry him off!" the neighbors yelled. "That's the only way to tame the wild ones like him!"

"Yes," Kusum said. "Yes, that's a good idea." She grinned, and rubbed her forearms. "A very good idea."

Kishan had a lot of news for me-and since this was the Darkness, all of it was bad news. The Great Socialist was as corrupt as ever. The fighting between the Naxal terrorists and the landlords was getting bloodier. Small people like us were getting caught in between. There were private armies on both sides, going around to shoot and torture people suspected of sympathizing with the other.

"Life has become hell here," he said. "But we're so happy you're out of this mess-you've got a uniform, and a good master."

Kishan had changed. He was thinner, and darker-his neck tendons were sticking out in high relief above the deep clavicles. He had become, all of a sudden, my father.

I saw Kusum grinning and rubbing her forearms and talking of my marriage. She served me lunch herself. As she ladled the curry onto my plate-she had made chicken, just for me-she said, "We'll fix up the wedding for later this year, okay? We've already found someone for you-a nice plump duck. The moment she has her menstrual cycle, she can come here."

There was red, curried bone and flesh in front of me-and it seemed to me that they had served me flesh from Kishan's own body on that plate.

"Granny," I said, looking at the large piece of red, curried meat, "give me some more time. I'm not ready to be married."

Her jaw dropped. "What do you mean, not yet? You'll do what we want." She smiled. "Now eat it, dear. I made chicken just for you."

I said, "No."

"Eat it."

She pushed the plate closer to me.

Everyone in the household stopped to look at our tussle.

Granny squinted. "What are you, a Brahmin? Eat, eat."

"No!" I pushed the plate so hard it went flying to a corner and hit the wall and spilled the red curry on the floor. "I said, I'm not marrying!"

She was too stunned even to yell. Kishan got up and tried to stop me as I left, but I pushed him to the side-he fell down hard-and I just walked out of the house.

The children ran along with me outside, little dirty brats born to one aunt or the other whose names I did not want to know, whose hair I did not want to touch. Gradually they got the message and went back.

I left behind the temple, the market, the hogs, and the sewage. Then I was alone at the pond-the Black Fort on the hill up in front of me.