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have shut up and it would have also started nonstop gossip. No one in the school knew I had been married to someone else besides Sandeep.
    If people at school found out that I was a divorcée and that I had spoken to my ex-husband again, the scandal would force us to leave Ooty. This was a small city and our circle was even smaller as he was a professor and I was a teacher. Everyone in the education community knew everyone; nothing went unnoticed, definitely not an army officer in full uniform looking for a teacher in her school.
    It was when my friend, Mrs. Rita Chaddha, a geography teacher, wanted to know who Prakash was, that I lost my temper. Rita and I were friends (well, as close as we could be). We had known each other for the past four years since she and her husband had moved to Ooty. Our social interaction was limited to the spare time we had during school hours. We didn’t share secrets, but she knew how things were in my house, who Komal was, everyday stuff. And I knew about her life, how much money her husband spent on drinking and why she sometimes sported a black eye.
    Rita had been astounded when I told her to mind her own business. A man wanted to speak with me and I knew him from long ago, why was that such a big issue? It was Rita’s response that shook me up.
    “You look like you did something wrong and that is the issue.”
    I was glad when I heard the school bell ring. I didn’t wait for the school bus as usual, even though I knew it would raise eyebrows. I had had enough silent accusations for one day. Hopefully, something else would happen the next day and they would forget about Prakash.
    I walked the two kilometers home, dragging my feet, angry and scared. Would it become a big issue? Had I made it a big issue?
    It was startling to know that the society I lived in was so fragile and my place in it was contingent on innumerable things.
    As soon as I got home I heard Komal calling out to me. I wished she would nag me right now because I would, I definitely would, snap her head off. I had been patient long enough with too many people and all I got in return was a long walk back from school.
    “The school bus came an hour ago—”
    “I am not in the mood,” I snapped, and walked past her into the house.
    “Mala’s sister’s friend, Shobha, whose brother’s wife teaches in your school, said that some army officer came to see you.” Komal’s hands were curled into fists and rested on her waist. Her eyes were suspicious, her chin adamantly rigid, as if whatever I had to say would not change her mind.
    I was not surprised by her behavior; what surprised me was how fast the news had spread.
    I glared back at her and decided to outstare her. I had put up with enough. I was not a fifteen-year-old adolescent who had to be warned against evil men. I was old enough to know whom I could speak with and when.
    “You told everyone that he is an old friend ,” Komal accused. We stared at each other with unblinking eyes in contest.
    I blinked.
    What was the point? Komal had made up her mind anyway. I walked to Amar’s room and knocked gently. His voice (it sounded strong) welcomed me in.
    I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. He looked healthy today. He didn’t look like he was ready to spring out of bed like all children his age, but in his case, it was relative. Today his pallor was not yellow, even though it was not rosy. His eyes were shining and didn’t look . . . dead.
    “How have you been today?” I asked, sitting next to him on the bed after I shut the door on Komal, who had been following me to probably demand more answers regarding the army officer.
    “I started reading Catch-22 ,” he said with a broad smile. “I think I understand some of it.”
    I smiled. He probably did. My genius son. I had picked it up for him a few days ago from the library. They had started showing the television series M*A*S*H on cable TV, and we had talked about the Korean War. I mentioned Catch-22 and