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he and you went for a few walks on the beach at night and he kissed you? He and I also went on walks and he kissed me too. One day he even touched my breasts. That’s not—”
    Anger and betrayal flashed within Kokila. “You are no better than your mother.”
    Chetana sighed and instead of fighting with Kokila spoke patiently. “I saw you and him on the beach one night. I never went with him after that, even when he asked. I love him too, Kokila. But he was with you and me at the same time without us knowing about it. What kind of a person does that make him?”
    Through the red haze of anger Kokila could somehow clearly see what Chetana was telling her.
    “But you let him touch your breasts,” Kokila accused.
    “And you let him kiss you,” Chetana countered.
    “I love him,” Kokila said, the anger seeping out of her.
    “I love him too,” Chetana said with a sad smile.
    “He lied to me,” Kokila said, her heart breaking. What had she done? She had given up her husband to be with a boy who had no loyalty.
    “What did he lie about?” Chetana asked.
    Kokila tried to remember what it was Vidura had lied about, but there was nothing to remember. “I just assumed,” she said weakly. “I thought if I stayed for him . . . but he told me that I should have gone with my husband, that I was a bad Hindu wife. Am I a bad Hindu wife?”
    Chetana snorted. “You are not a wife anymore.”
    Even though he had broken Kokila’s heart, she was prepared to forgive Vidura, if only he would speak with her and not be so remote. But Vidura isolated himself more and more from the people around him. And three months after Kokila had her first menses, Vidura ran away from Tella Meda without saying anything to anyone.
    Kokila never saw him again.
    1964 27 May 1964 . Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, the architect and first prime minister of modern India, passed away at the age of seventy-four.
    28 May 1964. A slow-moving funeral cortege containing the body of Jawaharlal Nehru inched through the streets of New Delhi. A million and a half Indians lined the route to pay final respects to their beloved leader.

A Modern Woman
    V idura ran away on the twenty-seventh of May, 1964, the day Jawaharlal Nehru, the first prime minister of India, died.
    Ramanandam Sastri was destroyed.
    He was like a walking corpse, going up the stairs every day to stand on the terrace under the splintering sun, watching and waiting for his son to come home.
    Telegrams had been sent out, letters had been written to relatives, friends, anyone Ramanandam could think of. Most of them replied apologetically that they didn’t know Vidura’s whereabouts. The inspector of Bheemunipatnam also investigated but no one had seen Vidura with his battered suitcase filled with his belongings. Vidura’s room, one of the small rooms across from the kitchen, was bare except for his bed and an empty Godrej steel cupboard. He had managed to take everything away but no one knew when, no one knew how, and most important, no one knew why.
    There was speculation that he had been kidnapped and taken away to the docks where young boys were used as slave labor. Some thought he had seen something untoward and had run away because of fear. And some thought that he was just a crazy boy who had left his nice home for God only knew what. Everyone believed he would come back and they tried to console Ramanandam Sastri with that hope. But he was inconsolable, both because of Vidura and because of Nehru.
    Kokila cried for days after Vidura ran away. It didn’t seem fair that she was allowed to stay in Tella Meda but had to lose Vidura. Chetana was morose as well but less affected, Kokila thought, than herself. A gloom settled on the ashram. The ringing voices of play and laughter vanished, as if Vidura had taken not only his belongings but also the happiness out of Tella Meda.
    Kokila found it hard to wake up in the morning and start a new day. She found it hard to find sleep in the night. She would