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don't tell me how to raise my children. It's not like you did such a great job with me that you can tell me what to do,” Saroj replied. A part of her could see sense in what her mother was telling her, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it. How could Vasu, the most irresponsible mother anyone could have, be right?
    •••
    “Maybe if you had been a better sister …,” Saroj said angrily to Shobha, who was standing in the hallway just outside Devi's hospital room with her husband, Girish.
    Shobha had just seen Devi, seen the bandages on her wrists, the paleness of her skin, and it had horrified her. The image still had the ability to constrict her throat, choke her. So she tried to make it fade away, to somehow replace the pain with anger. Anger was easier to deal with, pain was so difficult, almost insurmountable, and Shobha always avoided the difficult.
    “What? If I was a better sister she would not have gone and slit her wrists?” Shobha demanded icily. “Did you hear that, Girish? Now I'm to blame for my insane sister's insanity. How about genes, Mama? Maybe she got it from your father. He hung himself, didn't he?”
    Saroj's eyes filled, and Shobha shook her head in disgust. “So it's okay when you blame me for Devi's suicide attempt, but when I say something, you have to get all teary-eyed. Don't you ever get tired of the double standard?”
    “Stop it, Shobha,” Girish interceded and slowly let out a long breath. “We're all a little stressed, but it doesn't help to gouge each other's eyes out.”
    Shobha wanted to respond with something catty, something so Shobha-like, but the image of Devi lying in a bloody bathtub sailed through her mind. And because that imagined image shook her up so much, Shobha decided to give her mother some leeway. She didn't have any children, but she knew that nothing could be as painful as seeing what Saroj had seen.
    “I'm sorry, Mama,” Shobha said, which was a first. Shobha never apologized, never second-guessed herself, and never showed any weakness to anyone.
    “She could've died. I had no choice but to drag her out ofthat bathtub,” Saroj said, now indulging merrily in large tears. Shobha considered yelling at her again. Saroj just couldn't help milking this for all it was worth. Even at this time, she wanted to make this about her, show how she was affected by it all.
    But Shobha didn't believe she had any right to criticize; at leastSaroj saved Devi's life. The last time Shobha spoke to Devi was a week ago at their parents’ house and she'd told Devi that her life was a mess and not really worth living. It was said in the heat of the moment and Devi retorted right back with something about Shobha's useless and loveless marriage to Girish. It wasn't like Devi was washed in sacred milk or anything. She could give as good as she got. But Shobha could feel guilt eat at her insides despite all logical rationalizations.
    After Saroj's panic-stricken phone call that morning, Shobha left work hurriedly and drove to Redwood City like an automaton. Parts of her brain simply wouldn't function. She couldn't even remember clearly what Saroj said. Disjointed words flashed in her head.
    Devi slit her wrists.

In her bathtub.

Died.

Blood.
    Even as she drove to Devi's house, Shobha knew that something was wrong. The rational Shobha was telling her that she had to go to the ER at Sequoia Hospital but she found herself stepping into Devi's town house all the same. The front door was open, and Shobha felt the first lick of fear race through her. What if she'd heard wrong? What if Devi was dead, lying in her bathtub here?
    She sprinted up the stairs as panic set in. But before she could enter Devi's bedroom, a policewoman stopped her. “Ma'am, can I help you?”
    Shobha looked past the policewoman. She could see blood streaming on the white-tiled bathroom floor from where she stood in the hallway. She couldn't see the bathtub, but bloody water was everywhere on the