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midnight; he hastily frowned at his laptop.
    “I can’t believe you left so early.” Vidya seemed undeterred by his apparent absorption elsewhere. She sat on the couch and pulled off her sandals. Her makeup was slightly shop-soiled, the eyeliner slipping at the edge of one eye, the lipstick eaten away until no more than a bright pink outer ring remained. “And I can’t believe you said you pay bribes….”
    I try to avoid it, said Anand.
    “I was talking to Kavika tonight…. The things she’s done! I think she is just fabulous…. I’m going to meet her again tomorrow.”
    He kept his eyes on the computer screen. Good, he said. That’s good.
    Her slight frown was speculative. “Ey, I know what it is! I know why you left early. It’s Kavika. Isn’t it?” she said, with an uncomfortable, unexpected perspicuity.
    He looked up, not daring to speak.
    “You know, Anand,” his wife said. “There’s nothing wrong in being a strong, independent woman like her. You should learn to handle it.”

four
    THE NEXT MORNING, NARAYAN WAS ready before Kamala was. He stuffed his bread and coffee into his mouth and proudly told her not to bother with making and packing his lunch. “I will buy something,” he said, “with the money that I earn.”
    Eat things that will give you strength, she wanted to say. Do not overtire yourself. Do not get into mischief. Be careful with your earnings; do not spend it all on some nonsense. But she said none of it, watching him run off.
    SHE TURNED TO LOCK her door and stopped, glaring. The pile of garbage was still there. Insouciantly resting against the wall by her door like a guest who has every intention of outstaying his welcome. It had been there the previous day—and there it was still. In fact, it had indisputably grown larger overnight.
    She could hear them inside their room, her neighbors, in sweet newlywed tones that could change with lightning speedto sharp words and shouts that echoed around the courtyard and disturbed everyone else. She wondered whether to slap on their door. Just then, as though summoned by Kamala’s angry thoughts, the new bride emerged, dressed in the most slatternly way, her face unwashed, her hair uncombed, in a thin polyester kaftan that immodestly delineated the ridges and valleys of her body.
    “What am I,” Kamala said straightaway, “your maid-servant?”
    The young woman seemed surprised, as she did every time Kamala scolded her. “Why are you shouting again, old woman?” she said, taking outrageous liberties with Kamala’s age. “Who asked you to be anything?”
    “Do you expect me to clean up after you?”
    “It is just a bit of dirt. I am cleaning it up. I will do it.”
    “Do it now,” said Kamala, knowing it would not happen. She locked her room, placing the key at the bottom of her woven plastic bag. “How many times am I to ask. Do it now.”
    The bride yawned at Kamala, the garbage already forgotten. “Tell your friend Thangam that I have the money ready.”
    “Tell her yourself,” said Kamala, walking away crossly.
    Despite the occasional irritation of infelicitous neighbors, her home was ideal for her needs. The little room was painted a lime green, and if the color had faded with time and was stained in places, it nevertheless remained cheerful. Her possessions were stacked neatly against the wall: two bedrolls, the kerosene stove, aluminum cooking utensils, a few shelves for their clothes. Years before, Kamala had covered the tiny window with a sheet of plastic; this occasionally left the room filled with cooking smoke but blocked out the discomfiting stares of passing strangers on the gully outside, which was more important for her peace of mind.
    A tap in the courtyard supplied water; there was also a common bath and toilet. It worked well, as long as one coordinated one’s bathroom habits with everyone else in the courtyard and with the flow of water from the tap, officially rationed to one hour in the morning and an