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great shots of the city. One day I surprise a rhesus monkey sitting on the edge of the roof. He sidles up to me. I back away. He stops, scratches himself, and comes closer. I remember Mami saying, “They’d come and snatch the food out of our hands.” I retreat, in case he decides to make a grab for my camera. Only later do I think, Oops, missed a photo op.
    After that I stay indoors and thumb through all the moth-eaten books in the glass-fronted cupboard on the landing. Issues of The Strand Magazine with the original Sherlock Holmes stories. Scads of children’s books by a writer named Enid Blyton, about little English kids having tea and going to the seaside.
    Mrs. Rama Rao comes to chat with Mami. Mami goes next door to sample Mrs. Rama Rao’s new mango pickles.
    Prospective buyers begin to arrive in small groups. They walk through the house, pointing out flaws as if we are not even there. A few relatives drop by to say hello to Mom. I begin to put some faces to the names I have heard Mom and Auntie mention—Uttam’s daughter
Raji, and Priya with the twins. They come and go like minor whirlwinds. Predictably they say, “Is this Maya? How she’s grown. Is this Maya who cried when she saw Kullan because he was so tall?”
    Lakshmi Auntie asks about others. “Did Ajit and his wife come to see you? What about … ?” She names a few others.
    â€œNo,” says Mom. “It’s okay, Lakshmi. I’m not here to hold court with the family.”
    But Auntie sniffs and says, “They are so rude.”
    Mom suggests that perhaps the family does not approve of my parents’ divorce. “What is wrong with them?” says Lakshmi Auntie. “How totally medieval. What do they think, it’s contagious?”
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    Lakshmi Auntie invites me to go with Sumati and Ashwin and her to the beach for a couple of days. “Come on,” she says. “Your mother’s busy. What will you do here by yourself? We’ll take a cottage. It’ll be a change for you, and you girls can have some time together.”
    â€œYes, do come,” says Sumati.
    Even Ashwin begs. “The beach! Yes, Maya akka, come with us!”
    â€œGo, Maya,” says Mom. “Lakshmi’s right. It must be getting pretty boring for you here, hanging around the house.”

    Well, that’s true enough. Mom certainly doesn’t have time for me. I’m only in the way.
    â€œAll right,” I say to Sumati, “I’ll come.”
    On the drive to the beach, Lakshmi Auntie chatters like a rattly set of window blinds.
    The “cottage” turns out to be a flat-roofed one-room house, painted pink, with a deep covered porch. A hammock dangles outside, slung between two coconut trees. We lug our suitcases inside. The room is painted like the inside of a peach. It has only one bed in it.
    â€œWhere do we sleep?” I ask.
    Sumati looks around. A rolled-up pile of mattresses and sheets rests across the arms of a wooden chair. “We unroll those and sleep on the floor.”
    â€œLike camping,” I say.
    Ashwin sits on the bed and swings his legs. After a few minutes he says, “I’m bored.”
    â€œCome on,” says Lakshmi Auntie. “Let’s go sit out in the hammock and read a book.” She pulls copies of Chachaji, a children’s magazine, out of a tote bag, and Ashwin follows her out.
    â€œWant to go for a walk?” Sumati asks. “I’ll take you to a special place.”
    â€œSure.” I check the film in my camera and slip a new roll into my pocket.
    Outside, Lakshmi Auntie and Ashwin have settled
down to the riddles page of Chachaji. The laziness of sea and sand and sky has even managed to slow Ashwin down.
    â€œMaybe you’ll grow up to be a photographer,” says Sumati, “like my uncle.”
    â€œYour uncle’s a photographer?”
    â€œMy father’s younger brother. He works for a