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their bodies, forming small pools where lotus flowers float. Mahesh Uncle says he designed the fountain himself, and one of his foreigner friends built it. When itwas first built, Mahesh Uncle came here often, but now he’s so busy with his work and his travels that when he comes home all he wants to do is take off his shoes and sit on the sofa with his legs pulled up and his newspaper on his lap. “Maybe you can take over this fountain, Tarun, and this garden,” he says. He calls his garden a Japanese garden, and at first Tarun thinks he calls it Japanese because the builder, his friend, is from Japan. Then Mahesh Uncle explains that the garden is built in the Japanese style, with the fountain and the rocks placed in certain ways; although with the dalmatian and the Ganesh, the garden, he jokes, is more international than Japanese. His hand on Tarun’s shoulder, he asks whether Tarun would like to be in charge of the garden, since Mahesh Uncle is getting old and needs someone responsible to make sure it works properly. Tarun nods shyly. “But, Tarun, how will you be the manager of this garden when you live in Kupondole? You’ll have to travel here every day, maybe even twice a day, in order to water the plants and to make sure that the fountain flows well. I do have a gardener, but”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“he’s not reliable, and I need someone trustworthy to keep an eye on him. But how will you do it if you continue to live in Kupondole?” He addresses Apsara: “Why don’t we make it simple and have you and Tarun move here? There are two rooms upstairs, sitting empty like unemployed workers. Our Tarun can have a separate room if he wants. And you can take that room”—he points to the window that overlooks the garden—“with a view of the garden. Sanmaya willtake care of everything, the cooking, the laundry. Where’s the harm in this?”
    Apsara blushes red, as though Mahesh Uncle has made a marriage proposal. “We’ll be a burden,” she says. Her arms are crossed at her chest. She has half-heartedly combed her hair but she hasn’t tied it properly because the wind is blowing it all over her face.
    “What burden?” Mahesh Uncle says.
    “I can’t do it,” she says.
    Then Sanmaya comes into the garden to call them for dinner. She has wrinkled, pleated skin and teeth missing. But she has a big smile and bright eyes, and anyone Mahesh Uncle likes she likes, and anyone Mahesh Uncle dislikes she dislikes.
    “ Dukh paryo timiharulai ,” she says inside when Mahesh Uncle is out of earshot. Apsara doesn’t like words of pity and commiseration. But it’s this very pride that makes her feel worse. She doesn’t break down and cry. Tarun wishes she’d cry with Sanmaya when the old servant offers sympathy. He wishes his mother would admit that yes, we are suffering, I am suffering, and as a consequence my boy is suffering. He wishes she’d cry on Mahesh Uncle’s wide shoulders, let him comfort her, perhaps even kiss her.
    Mahesh Uncle is on the phone upstairs, so Sanmaya talks: “He thinks the world of you. I have never heard him speak as fondly about anyone as you two. He has been so alone for so long—it’s really good to see him feel connected like this. People say about him, ‘Oh, he is such a wealthy manliving such a high life,’ but these people are murkhas . What do they know about him? I have seen him in his loneliest state. I came to work for him when I was much younger, about twenty years ago. Did you know that he was already a successful businessman then? He is one of the most hardworking men I know. There is something in him, a drive, that most people don’t have. Only very important people, like prime ministers and presidents, have that kind of drive.
    “He started from scratch. He came to this city as a young boy, and at first he sold newspapers, then as he put himself through college he opened up a restaurant in Ranipokhari, when he was twenty. Twenty! The rest is