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relatives’ nicknames. My parents don’t consult astrologers, but they’ve left me at Auntie’s mercy.
    She’s adorned in a woven golden silk sari. She washed her hair with the Head and Shoulders shampoo I brought from San Francisco. The clean scent mixes with Armani perfume, which I grabbed at a duty-free shop in Heathrow Airport.
    Auntie tugs the collar of my blouse. “Why are you wearing these Western clothes, Lina? Pants and top? Why no
salwar?
”
    I rarely wear a
salwar kameez
, the long, fashionable top over billowing pants, which makes me resemble a shapeless amoeba.
    I was careful to wear the golden bracelet she gave me last night, and I pinned Ma’s golden brooch to my shirt. “Pandit should see me in my regular Western clothes.”
    â€œThis way of dressing is normal in the States, I suppose. No jewelry?”
    â€œI don’t want to wear a neon sari and a hundred bangles.” Women here could direct traffic with their brightly colored clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Auntie. I’m just nervous.”
    â€œNothing to be nervous about.” She pats my knee. “Last night, I gave Pandit all of your beloved’s information, except his name, of course. We must have his name.”
    â€œIt’s a secret, until he returns from his travels. All I gave you was his birth date!” I made up a date that includes threes, after the three forms of twilight.
    â€œAnd much more, nah? Profession, hobbies. Have you got a snap of him?”
    â€œAll my photos are at home.” A calf ambles across the road, followed by a few squawking chickens. The driver hits the horn several times in staccato succession.
    â€œDoes your beloved have a natal chart?” Auntie asks.
    â€œHe comes from a family of astronomers. They’re interested in science, not astrology. Black holes and galaxies and forms of twilight.”
    Auntie frowns. “Vedic astrology
is
a science, Lina. He had no horoscope reading? He must’ve received one at birth. No diagrams of the Rasi Chakra, the Shodasavarga charts, the planetary periods—”
    â€œNothing like that. I doubt his parents even have an astrologer.”
    â€œSuch a shame. Well, Pandit will do what he can. And your natal chart? Have you brought it with you?”
    â€œI don’t carry it around. Ma may still have it somewhere.”
    The car stops in an upscale bazaar teeming with people and stray dogs. Near the street corner, a rotting refuse pile emits a terrifying stink.
    Auntie pays the driver, and we’re out, heading toward a storefront reading “Pandit Parsai” in English, followed by several words in Bengali.
    Inside, two men sit cross-legged facing each other on the floor. The younger, chubby man jabbers in Hindi, his face animated, arms gesticulating. The other man—tall, gray-haired, and long-nosed—wears a
dhoti punjabi
. His stately demeanor recalls the late prime minister Nehru. He nods and whispers “ha, ha,” at regular intervals.
Ha
means “yes” in Hindi. Neither man looks at us.
    The air hangs thick with the heady scent of patchouli incense, and a brass statue of the Hindu elephant god, Ganesh, sits just inside the doorway. His great belly protrudes. One of his brass tusks is broken. As the story goes, Ganesh used his broken tusk to write the ancient Vedas, the four ancient texts of Hinduism. Ganesh is known as the Remover of Obstacles, bringer of good luck. Every Vedic astrologer’s office has a Ganesh.
    Auntie kneels to kiss his feet. I want to turn and run. Instead I follow Auntie’s example, then straighten and clasp my hands in front of me. On the bookshelves: the Mahabharata, the Bhagavad-Gita, the Ramayana, and numerous volumesabout astrology, healing rituals, and childhood development. In one corner is a devotional altar. I don’t recognize the many-armed goddess surrounded by dried lotus flowers, sweets, and snacks. My mouth waters.