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claimed and rechecked it twice, the last time being in New York’s JFK airport only a few hours ago, and each time she had seen her big pink bag it had seemed less like a thing that belonged to her, more like something that should have stayed in Kolkata with the mess she’d left behind. She considered grabbing another bag, one of the nondescript black ones that just now thumped onto the conveyor, and taking her chances with someone else’s affairs.
    â€œIndia seems so cool,” said Cat.
    â€œTruly?”
    â€œSure. I guess, right? At least it’s not here. I don’t know why you wanted to come here.”
    Sejal had not often thought of her home, or of India asa whole, as cool. She was dimly aware, however, of a white Westerner habit of wearing other cultures like T-shirts—the sticker bindis on club kids, sindoor in the hair of an unmarried pop star, Hindi characters inked carelessly on tight tank tops and pale flesh. She knew Americans liked to flash a little Indian or Japanese or African. They were always looking for a little pepper to put in their dish.
    â€œIndia and I had a talk,” Sejal said finally, “and we decided it would be best to see other people for a while.”
    Cat stared for a moment, not laughing. Sejal had to smile to let her know that she could, too.
    â€œYou were joking,” said Cat.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt didn’t sound like you were joking.”
    â€œPerhaps it is my accent.”
    Â 
    This was the second time that day that Sejal had used what she’d considered to be a discreet and charming line about India and her needing some time apart, and in neither instance had it gone well. On the flight from JFK she’d been asked the same question by a University of Pennsylvania undergrad, and had given the same answer.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” the coed had asked. “Are you in trouble with your government or something?”
    â€œNo,” Sejal answered. “I am sorry. I only mean that I had a…personal situation back home. It was a good time to try some studies abroad.”
    â€œWhat was the problem?”
    Sejal had pulled her arms closer to her sides and folded her hands.
    â€œNothing so terrible. Just a situation.”
    â€œYeah,” said the girl, “but what was it?”
    Sejal lowered her eyes to the seat pocket in front of her.
    â€œC’mon,” the girl prodded, leaning close. “You can tell me.”
    Sejal sighed. “I have the Google.”
    â€œOh. Oh, ” said the girl, and she pulled back against her seat.
    Â 
    Sejal had been one of the first clinical cases. India was a bit of a hot spot, Kolkata in particular. So many software companies, so many new jobs making web protocol work better, faster. The old system had been pieced together by all kinds of different people in cubicles and basements all over the world, and it worked about as well as a steam-powered igloo. The last couple years had seen significant upgrades. There were suddenly so many sites and stats and blogs and vlogs that you could search your own name and find out what you had for breakfast that morning. You could download a widget that graphed your last five haircuts. Webcams were everywhere.
    Some people couldn’t deal with all the new information. They couldn’t pull themselves away from their computers. But that had always been a problem. That was nothing new. The people who contracted a clinical case of the Google couldn’t pull themselves away from themselves. With everyone online,there was always somebody mentioning you in a blog post, and you were always in the background of someone’s video. The new search engines could show these things to you. They could show you to you. The internet knew what you looked like. The internet had your scent. And if these rumors and blurry visitations weren’t enough (and they weren’t), you could move out of your body and onto the web’s muddy