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Radhika was making the evening meal when Pramod gave her the news. The steam rising off the rotis she was cooking burned his nostrils, so he backed out of the kitchen and into the narrow hallway. When she turned off the gas and joined him, he put his arms behind his back and leaned against the wall.

“What should we do?” she whispered. Their seven-month-old baby was asleep in the next room.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Who could have foreseen this?”

“Hare Shiva,” she said. “How are we going to pay the next month’s rent?” Her eyes filled with tears.

“What’s the use of crying now? That’s why I never tell you anything. Instead of thinking with a cool mind, you start crying.”

“What should I do other than cry? You’ve worked there for three years, and they let you go, just like that? These people don’t have any heart.”

“It’s not their fault.” He tried to sound reasonable. “The company doesn’t have enough money.”

“So only you should suffer? Why not one of the new accountants? What about Suresh?”

“He knows computers,” Pramod said.

“He also knows influential people.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then opened the bedroom door to check on the baby.

“Okay, don’t cry. We’ll think of something. I’ll go and see Shambhu-da tomorrow.” Shambhu-da, though only a distant cousin of Radhika’s, was very fond of her and referred to her as his favorite sister. He was friends with a number of bureaucrats and had helped several relatives find jobs. Pramod knew Shambhu-da’s business was shady; he was involved in building contracts throughout the city that were the source of numerous under-the-table handouts. But if anyone could help him find a job, it would be Shambhu-da. “Something’s bound to happen,” Pramod told Radhika. “We will find a solution.”

Yet despite those spoken assurances, Pramod did not sleep well that night.

*  *  *  *  *

The next morning, while it was still dark, he went to the Pashupatinath Temple, made a slow round of the temple complex, and stood in line to get tika from the priest in the main shrine. After putting the paste on his forehead with his third finger, he prayed that Lord Shiva’s blessing would help him. When he was young, Pramod loved to visit this famous temple of Lord Shiva, who had protected the inhabitants of the Kathmandu Valley since ancient times. He used to walk through the large complex, making his way among the other worshipers to touch the feet of the gods scattered throughout. But he hadn’t been here in months, and he briefly wondered whether he had neglected Shiva. By the time he stepped out of the temple’s main gate, the sky was tinged with gray, and he remembered that he would not have to go home to eat and change his clothes for work.

Yesterday afternoon, his director had called him into his office. “Pramod-ji, what can I say? Not everything is in my power.” Power, thought Pramod. Of course the director had the power!

On his way from the temple, Pramod saw pilgrims going to pay homage to Lord Shiva. The beggars who slept around the temple complex lined the side of the street, clanking their tin containers. When people threw money and food in their direction, the beggars would eye one another’s containers to see who’d got a better deal. The monkeys that roamed the area were also alert, ready to snatch bags and packets from people who looked timid. The smells of deep-fried jilebies, vegetable curry, and hot tea wafted from stalls.

Pramod noticed Homraj slowly walking toward the temple, his cane hanging from his arm. A few years ago Pramod had worked with him in the accounts department of the Education Ministry. Although Pramod turned his face as he passed, Homraj saw him. “Pramod-ji, I didn’t know you were such a religious man!” he shouted. Then, coming closer, he added, “What is the matter, Pramod-ji? Is everything all right?”

Pramod hesitated, then told him about the loss of his job.

“Tch, tch,” said Homraj, shaking his head. “I’d heard their profits weren’t so good, but I didn’t imagine they’d let go a diligent worker like you.”

The temple bells rang in the background as they stood in the middle of the street. Pramod remembered that he had to catch Shambhu-da before he left for work, so he excused himself.

At Shambhu-da’s house, he found two other men waiting in the living room. An old servant told Pramod that Shambhu-da was still doing puja, praying and chanting to the gods, but would join him after half an hour. Pramod sat down on the sofa, and the two men looked at him suspiciously as he gazed at the pictures of religious figures on the wall. He ignored the men and concentrated on the framed picture of Lord Shiva with the snake god, Nag, around his blue neck. After a few minutes, one of the men asked, “Aren’t you Prakash-ji?’’

Pramod gave him an irritated look and said, “No. My name is Pramod.”

“Oh, yes, yes, Pramod-ji. Why did I say Prakash? I know you. You’re Shambhu-da’s brother-in-law, aren’t you?” He was a small, ill-dressed man with a pointed nose and a pinched mouth.

Pramod nodded.

“I met you here a year ago. Don’t you remember me?”

Pramod shook his head.

“Kamalkanth; that’s my name.” The man looked at him expectantly. The other man, who had a broad, dull face, nodded.

“So what brings you here this morning?” Kamalkanth asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Pramod wished the man would stop asking questions.

But he didn’t. “You work for Better Finance, don’t you?”

Pramod was about to say something when the servant appeared with three glasses of tea and announced that Shambhu-da was coming out. Now all three men concentrated on the doorway, where Shambhu-da shortly appeared.

He was wearing only a dhoti, his hairy stomach and his ample breasts bulging above it, and was singing a hymn, one from the puja he performed every morning. After solemnly distributing fruit offerings from the gods to his guests, he asked the servant to bring him juice.

“What brings you here today, brother-in-law?” Shambhu-da asked Pramod.

“Oh, it’s been quite a few days, so I just came to see about your health. Radhika sends her regards.”

Shambhu-da nodded and turned toward the other men.

Kamalkanth took a sheaf of paper from his briefcase and said, “I have arranged everything here in order, Shambhu-da. All the figures are accurate—I checked them again and again.”

“All right,” said Shambhu-da. “Why don’t you two come back next week? Then we can sit down and talk about your commission.”

The two men left, smiling obsequiously, and Shambhu-da turned his attention to Pramod.

“Everything is finished, Shambhu-da,” Pramod said. “I’m finished.”

Shambhu-da took a sip of juice.

“I’ve lost my job.”

“Why?” Shambhu-da didn’t look the least bit perturbed.

“They say the company doesn’t have any money.”

“Do they have other accountants?”

“Yes, there’s a young man who knows computers.”

“Ah, yes, computers. They’re very fashionable these days, aren’t they?” Shambhu-da smiled, then became serious again. “This is no good. No good. Hmmmmm. How is my favorite sister taking all this? How is the baby?” When the baby was born, Shambhu-da had declared that he would be her godfather. Pramod hadn’t liked the idea, but Radhika assured him that if something were to happen to them, Shambhu-da would see to it that their baby didn’t suffer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Shambhu-da said. “We’ll come up with a solution. Not to worry.” He asked Pramod about the director and jotted down his name. Then he stretched and yawned. The telephone rang and Shambhu-da became engrossed in a conversation, mumbling hmmm and eh every so often. Pramod looked at all the paintings of the religious figures on the walls—Kali, Ganesh, Vishnu, Shiva—and wondered whether they had anything to do with Shambhu-da’s prosperity and quiet confidence. When he realized that the telephone conversation was not going to end soon, he got up to leave, and Shambhu-da, covering the mouthpiece with his palm, said, “I will see what I can do.”

*  *  *  *  *

Everyone came to know about Pramod, and everywhere he went, friends and relatives gave him sympathetic looks. He was sure that some, those who saw his work at the finance company as lucrative and of high status, were inwardly gloating over his misery. But he tried to act cheerful, telling his friends and relatives these things happen to everyone and that he would certainly find another job. After all, his years of experience as an accountant had to count for something.

He hated his voice when he said this. He hated his smile, which painfully stretched the skin around his mouth; he hated having to explain to everyone why he had lost his job; he hated their commiseration; and he hated Radhika’s forlorn look, especially when they were with her relatives, who were more well-off than those on his side.

Every morning before sunrise, he walked to the Pashupatinath Temple. The fresh air cleared his mind, and he found solace in the temple lights before they were switched off at dawn. A couple of times he came across Homraj, who always asked anxiously, “Anything yet?” Eventually Pramod timed his walks so that he would not run into Homraj again.

And every day, after his trip to the temple, Pramod visited people of influence, those who had the power to maneuver him into a job without his undergoing the rigors of an examination or an interview. He tried to maintain faith that something would indeed turn up, that one day he would find himself in an office of his own, seated behind a desk, with a boy to bring him tea every couple of hours. He missed the ritual of going to the office, greeting his colleagues, settling down for the day’s work, even though he had been doing the same job for years. He delighted in juggling numbers, calculating percentages, making entries in his neat handwriting. He loved solving math problems in his head, and saw it as a challenge to refrain from using a calculator until the last moment, or only as a means of verification. He loved the midday lull, when everyone in the office ordered snacks and tea, and a feeling of camaraderie came over the workplace: people laughing and eating, talking about mundane things that happened at home, teasing one another, commenting on politics.

Pramod kept up his visits to Shambhu-da’s residence, showing his face every week or so, asking whether anything had come up, reminding Shambhu-da of his predicament, playing on the sense of family by mentioning, every so often, that Radhika was his favorite sister. On every visit, Shambhu-da assured Pramod that a job prospect appeared likely and would be certain within a few days. But even though Shambhu-da nodded gravely when Pramod described his strained financial situation, Pramod realized that he had to wait longer and longer to see Shambhu-da. Kamalkanth snickered whenever they happened to be there at the same time. Sometimes when he and his companion looked at Pramod and murmured to each other, Pramod felt like leaving and forgetting about Shambhu-da once and for all.

When two months had passed with no job offer, Pramod’s stomach churned. He and Radhika managed to pay both months’ rent from their savings, but they had none for the coming month. Although Radhika borrowed some money from her parents, Pramod did not like that at all; it made him appear small. “Don’t worry,” Radhika said, “we’ll pay them back as soon as you get your first salary.” She was still trying to be optimistic, he knew, but he no longer shared that attitude.

A few nights later, she brought up the idea of selling their land in the south to finance a shop of their own, perhaps a general store or a stationery outlet. Pramod disliked the idea. “I’m not going to become a shopkeeper at this stage in my life,” he said. “I am an accountant, do you understand? I have worked for many big people.” Later, while she slept, he regretted having snapped at her. For one thing, he doubted whether the land would fetch much money, because it was getting swampier every year and was far from the major roads. More important, he could never imagine himself as a shopkeeper. How humiliated he would feel if he opened a shop and someone like Homraj came in to buy something. What would he say? Or would he be able to say anything? What if someone like Kamalkanth came in? Could Pramod refuse to sell him goods and tell him never to enter the shop again? If he did, what would happen to the reputation of his shop?

Each night, these thoughts kept Pramod awake for hours. He slunk into bed, faced the wall, and let his imagination run wild. Radhika put the baby to sleep, got into bed beside him, and rested her hand on his back, but he did not turn. Soon she would mutter something, turn off the light, and go to sleep.

Often Pramod imagined himself as a feudal landlord, like one of the men who used to run the farmlands of the country only twenty years earlier. He would have a large royal mustache that curled up at the ends and pointed toward the sky, the kind he could oil and stroke as a sign of power. He saw himself walking through a small village, a servant shielding him from the southern sun with a big black umbrella, while all the villagers greeted him deferentially. He saw himself plump and well cared for. Then he saw himself as an executive officer in a multinational company where Shambhu-da worked as an office boy. Shambhu-da was knocking on the door of Pramod’s spacious, air-conditioned office, where he sat behind a large desk in a clean white shirt and tie, his glasses hanging from his neck, a cigarette smoldering on the ashtray. Shambhu-da would walk in, his cheeks hollow, wearing clothes that were clearly secondhand, and plead for an advance on his wages, which Pramod would refuse. Shambhu-da would weep, and Pramod, irritated, would tell him the company had no place for a whiner.

Pramod giggled at this little scene. Then when he realized what he was doing, a moan escaped his lips. Radhika sat up, turned on the light, and asked, “What’s the matter? Having a bad dream?”

*  *  *  *  *

One morning Pramod was sitting on a bench in the city park, smoking a cigarette, after having made his humiliating morning round, when a small, plump young woman sat next to him and started shelling peanuts that were bundled at the end of her dhoti. The cracking of the shells was getting on his nerves, and he was just about to leave when the woman said, “Do you want some peanuts?”

Pramod shook his head.

“They’re very good,” she said. “Nicely roasted and salty.” She looked like a laborer, or perhaps a village woman working in the city as a servant.

“I don’t eat peanuts in the morning,” said Pramod.

“Oh, really? I can eat them all day long. Morning, noon, night.”

Pramod watched a couple of men in suits and ties, carrying briefcases, enter an office building across the street.

“The mornings here are so beautiful, no?” he heard the woman say. “I come here every day.” She popped more peanuts into her mouth. “Where do you work?”

The gall of this woman, clearly of a class much below his. “In an office,” he replied.

“It’s nearly ten o’clock. Don’t you have to go to your office? It’s not a holiday today, is it?”

“No, it’s not a holiday.”

“I just finished my work. Holiday or no holiday, I have to work.”

“Where?” asked Pramod.

“In Putalisadak,” she said. “I wash clothes, clean the house. But only in the mornings. They have another servant, but she goes to school in the morning. My mistress is very generous.”

“Where’s your husband?” asked Pramod. He felt himself smile; talking to a servant girl in the park was an indication, he thought, of just how low he had fallen.

“He’s back in the village, near Pokhara. He’s a carpenter, building this and that. But the money is never enough. That’s why I had to come here.”

“You don’t have any children?”

She shook her head and blushed.

They sat in silence for a moment. She said, “You know, my husband says one shouldn’t think too much.” There was a note of pity in her voice.

“Why does he say that? Does he say it to you?”

“Not me. I don’t think all that much. What’s there to think about? Life is what God gives us. My husband says it to any of our relatives who is unhappy and comes to him for advice. In this city I see so many worried people. They walk around not looking at anyone, always thinking, always fretting. This problem, that problem. Sometimes I think if I stay here too long, I’ll become like them.”

Pramod sighed at her simple ways.

By now the streets were crowded; people were on their way to work. The park, in the center of the city, provided a good view of the surrounding buildings, many of them filled with major offices.

The woman stood, stretched, and said, “Well, I should be going home. Make tea and then cook some rice for myself.” She looked at him sweetly. “I can make tea for you in my room.”

Pramod was startled.

“It’s all right,” she said. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. Here you are, sitting and worrying about what, I don’t know. So I thought you might want some tea. My house isn’t far. It’s right here in Asan.” She pointed in the direction of the large marketplace.

“All right,” Pramod said. He got up and followed her out of the park, embarrassed to be walking beside this servant girl, afraid that someone he knew might see him. But he could feel a slow excitement rising in his body. He walked a few steps behind her, and she, seeming to sense his discomfort, didn’t turn around and talk to him.

When they entered Asan, they were swept into the crowd, but he maintained his distance behind her, keeping her red dhoti in sight. There was a pleasant buzz in his ears, as if whatever was happening to him was unreal, as if the events of the last two months were also not true. His worrying was replaced by a lightness. He floated behind her, and the crowd in the marketplace moved forward. He didn’t feel constricted, as he usually did in such places. In fact, his heart seemed to have expanded.

When they reached an old house in a narrow alley, she turned around at the doorway and said, “I have a room on the third floor, the other side.” She led him through a dirty courtyard, where children were playing marbles, and beckoned to him to follow her through another door. Pramod found himself in the dark. He could hear the swish of her dhoti. “The stairs are here,” she said. “Be careful; they’re narrow. Watch your head.” He reached for her hand, and she held his as she led him up the wooden stairs. Now Pramod could see the faint outline of a door. “One more floor.” He thought she looked pretty in that semidarkness. On the next landing she unlocked a door and they entered a small room.

In one corner were a stove and some pots and pans; in another, a cot. A poster of Lord Krishna, his blue chubby face smiling at no one in particular, hung above the bed. The gray light filtering through the small window illuminated the woman’s face and objects in the room. She was smiling.

He was drawn to the window, where he was surprised to find a view of the center of the marketplace. He had never before been inside a house in this congested quarter. In the distance, vegetable sellers squatted next to their baskets, smoking and laughing. A faint noise from the market drifted into the room, like the hum of a bee, and he stood at the window and gazed over the rooftops and windows of other houses crammed into this section of the city.

“You can sit on the bed,” she said.

He promptly obliged, and she proceeded to boil water for tea. He wondered how she, with her meager income as a housemaid, could afford an apartment in the city’s center. Then a curious thought entered his head: could she be a prostitute? Yet he knew she wasn’t. As if divining his thought, she said, “The owner of this house is from our village. He knew my father, and he treats me like a daughter. Very kind man. Not many like him these days, you know.”

He smiled to himself. Yes, he knew. He said nothing.

When she brought the tea, she sat next to him, and they sipped in silence. Soon he felt drowsy and lay down on the bed. She moved beside him, took his hand, and placed it on her breast. He ran his finger across her plump face. Her eyes were closed. He had no reaction except that there was an inevitability to this, something he’d sensed the moment she began to talk to him in the park.

When he made love to her, it was not with hunger or passion; the act had its own momentum. He was not the one lifting her sari, fumbling with her petticoat, he was not the one doing the penetrating. She required nothing. She just lay beneath him, matching his moves only as the act demanded.

He stayed with her until dusk. They ate, slept, and then he got up to survey the marketplace again. The crowd had swelled; strident voices of women haggling with vendors rose to the window. He felt removed from all of it, a distant observer who had to fulfill no obligations, meet no responsibilities, perform no tasks.

When he got home that evening, he was uncharacteristically talkative. He even played with the baby, cooing to her and swinging her in his arms. Radhika’s face brightened, and she asked whether he had good news about a job. He said, “What job? There are no jobs,” and her face darkened again.

*  *  *  *  *

During the afternoons Pramod still pursued his contacts, hoping something would come along, but the late mornings he reserved for the housemaid. They often met in the park after she’d finished her work and walked to her room in Asan. On Saturdays and holidays he stayed home, sometimes playing with the baby, sometimes listening to the radio.

Once while he and Radhika were preparing for bed, she looked at the baby and said, “We have to think of her future.”

Pramod caressed his daughter’s face and replied, “I’m sure something will happen,” although he had no idea of any prospect.

Putting her hand on his, Radhika said, “I know you’re trying. But maybe you should see more people. I went to Shambhu-da yesterday, and he says he’ll find you something soon.”

“Shambhu-da.” Pramod suppressed a groan.

“He’s the only one who can help us.”

“I don’t need his help,” said Pramod.

“Don’t say that. If you say that, nothing will happen.” Pramod jumped from the bed and said, trembling, “What do you mean, nothing will happen? What’s happening now? Is anything happening now?”

One cloudy morning as Pramod and the housemaid left the park and entered the marketplace, he saw Homraj walking toward them, swinging his umbrella.

Before Pramod could hide, Homraj asked, “Oh, Pramod-ji, have you come here to buy vegetables?” He looked at the housemaid curiously. Pramod swallowed and nodded. “Nothing yet, huh?” Homraj asked. “My nephew can’t find a job either, but his situation is a little different.”

Pramod, conscious of the housemaid by his side, wished she would move on. He put his hands in his pockets and said, “Looks like rain, so I’ll have to go,” and he walked away, leaving her standing with Homraj.

Later, she caught up with him and asked, “Why were you afraid? What’s there to be afraid of?” Pramod, his face grim, kept walking, and when they reached her room, he threw himself on her cot and turned his face away. His chest was so tight that he had to concentrate on breathing. She said nothing more. After setting the water to boil, she came and sat beside him.

*  *  *  *  *

Pramod stopped his search for a job and was absent from his house most of the time. One night he even stayed in the housemaid’s room, and when he got home in the morning, Radhika was in tears. “Where were you?” She brought her nose close to his face to smell whether he’d been drinking. “What’s happened to you? Don’t you know that you are a father? A husband?” Now when he went to family gatherings, he wasn’t surprised that the relatives looked at him questioningly. The bold ones even mocked him. “Pramod-ji, a man should not give up so easily. Otherwise he is not a man.” Some sought to counsel him. “Radhika is worried about you. These things happen to everyone, but one shouldn’t let everything go just like that.” He didn’t feel he had to respond to them, so he sat in silence, nodding. His father-in-law stopped talking to him, and his mother-in-law’s face was strained whenever she had to speak to him.

At a relative’s feast one bright afternoon, Pramod watched a game of flush. The men, sitting on the floor in a circle, threw money into the center, and the women hovered around. Shambhu-da was immaculately dressed in a safari suit, and his ruddy face glowed with pleasure as he took carefully folded rupee notes from his pockets. Radhika sat beside Shambhu-da, peering over his cards and making faces.

“Pramod-ji, aren’t you going to play?” asked a relative.

Pramod shook his head and smiled.

“Why would Pramod-ji want to play?” said another relative, a bearded man who had been Pramod’s childhood friend. “He has better things to do in life.” This was followed by a loud guffaw from everyone. Radhika looked at Pramod.

“After all, we’re the ones who are fools. Working at a job and then, poof, everything gone in an afternoon of flush.” The bearded relative, with a dramatic gesture, tossed some money into the jackpot.

“No job, no worries. Every day is the same,” someone else said.

Radhika got up and left the room. Pramod sat with his chin resting on his palms.

Shambhu-da looked at the bearded relative with scorn and asked, “Who are you to talk, eh, Pitamber? A bull without horns can’t call himself sharp. What about you, then, who drives a car given to him by his in-laws, and walks around as if he’d earned it?”

At this, some of the men nodded and remarked, “Well said” and “That’s the truth.” Pitamber smiled with embarrassment and said, “I was only joking, Shambhu-da. After all, this is a time of festivities.”

“You don’t joke about such matters,” said Shambhu-da with unusual sharpness. “Why should you joke about this, anyway? What about the time you embezzled five lakh rupees from your office? Who rescued you then?”

The room became quiet. Shambhu-da himself looked surprised that he’d mentioned that incident.

Pitamber threw his cards on the floor and stood up. “What did I say, huh? What did I say? I didn’t say anything to you. Just because you’re older, does that mean you can say anything?” With his right hand, he gesticulated wildly; with his left, he rapidly stroked his beard. His voice grew louder. “What about you? Everyone knows you had that police inspector killed. We aren’t fools. How do you make all your money, donkey?”

The use of the word donkey prompted the other men to stand and try to restrain Pitamber, who seemed ready to froth at the mouth. “Enough, enough!” cried one woman.

Radhika came back. “What happened?”

A shadow covered Shambhu-da’s face, and he too got up. “What do you think, huh? What do you think? Say that again, you motherfucker; just say that again. I can buy people like you with my left hand.”

Radhika went over to Pramod and said, “See what you’ve started?”

Bitterly, he said, “You are a fool,” and walked out of the room.

He was engulfed by numbness; things disappeared in a haze. Words and phrases floated through his mind. He remembered stories of people jumping into the Ranipokhari Pond at the center of the city and being sucked under to their death. Could he do it?

Pramod walked the two miles to Asan and moved through the darkness of the staircase to the housemaid’s room.

She was pleased to see him.

“I’d like to lie down,” he told her.

“Shall I make you tea?”

He shook his head and sank onto her cot. It smelled of her sweat and hair oil. He felt like a patient, ready to be anesthetized so that his body could be torn apart.

“Are you all right?” She put her palm on his forehead.

He nodded and fell asleep. It was a short sleep, filled with jerky images that he forgot when he woke.

She was cooking rice. “You’ll eat here?”

For a while, he said nothing. Then he asked, “Aren’t you afraid your husband will come? Unannounced?”

She laughed, stirring the rice. “He’d catch us, wouldn’t he?”

“What would you do?”

“What would I do?”

“Yes. What would you say to him if he catches us?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never think about it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not in my nature.” She took the rice pot off the stove and put on another, into which she poured clarified butter. She dipped some spinach into the burning ghee; it made a swoosh, and smoke rose in a gust. Pramod pulled out a cigarette and set it between his lips without lighting it.

“You know,” she said, “if this bothers you, you should go back to your wife.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“Sometimes you look worried. As if someone is waiting to catch you.”

“Really?” He leaned against the pillow. “Is it my face?”

“Your face, your body.” She stirred the spinach and sprinkled it with salt. “What will you do?”

“I’ll never find a job,” he said, sucking the unlit cigarette. He made an O with his lips and blew imaginary circles of smoke to the ceiling.

“No. I mean if my husband comes.”

He waved away the imaginary smoke. “I’ll kill him,” he said, then laughed.

She also laughed. “My husband is a big man. With big hands.”

“I’ll give him one karate kick” Pramod got up and kicked his right leg vaguely in her direction. Then he adopted some of the poses he had seen in kung-fu movies. “I will hit Pitamber on the chin like this.” He jabbed his fist hard against his palm. “I will kick Shambhu-da in the groin.” He lifted his leg high in the air. His legs and arms moved about, jabbing, punching, kicking, thrusting, flailing. He continued until he was tired, then sat down next to her, breathing hard, with an embarrassed smile.

“What good will it do,” she said, “to beat up the whole world?”

He raised a finger as if to say: Wait. But when his breathing became normal, he merely smiled, leaned over, and kissed her cheek “I think I should go now.”

“But I made dinner.”

“Radhika will be waiting,” he said.

It was already twilight when he left. The air had a fresh, tangible quality. He took a deep breath and walked into the marketplace, passing rows of meat shops and sweets vendors.

At the large temple complex of Hanuman Dhoka, he climbed the steps to the three-story temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. A few foreigners milled around, taking pictures. He sat down above the courtyard, which started emptying as the sky grew dark.

When he reached home, Radhika didn’t say anything. She silently placed a plate of rice, dal, and vegetables in front of him, and he ate with gusto, his fingers darting from one dish to another. When he asked for more, she said, “How come you have such an appetite?”

His mouth filled with food, he couldn’t respond. After dinner he went to the baby, who stared at him as if he were a stranger. He picked her up by the feet and raised his arms, so that her tiny, bald head was upside down above his face. The baby smiled. Rocking her, Pramod sang a popular song he’d heard on the radio: “The only thing I know how to do is chase after young girls, then put them in a wedding doli and take them home.”

When Radhika finished in the kitchen, she stood in the doorway, watching him sing to the baby. Without turning to her, he said, “Maybe we should start a shop. What do you think?”

Radhika looked at him suspiciously, then realized he was serious. Later, when they were in bed and he was about to turn off the light, he said, “Can you imagine me as a shopkeeper? Who would have thought of it?”

“I think you would make a very good shopkeeper,” Radhika assured him.

“I will have to grow a mustache.”

In the darkness, it occurred to him that perhaps he would be such a good shopkeeper that even if Kamalkanth did come to buy something, Pramod would be polite and say “Please” and “Thank you.” He smiled to himself. If Shambhu-da came, Pramod would talk loudly with other customers and pretend Shambhu-da was not there. And if the housemaid came, he would seat her on a stool, and perhaps Radhika would make tea for her.

This last thought appealed to him tremendously.