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to wash clothes by hand and hang them on the balcony; the cook; the post boy; the paperboy; and the milk boy, among others. She grows accustomed to hearing the doorbell ring several times an hour and eventually learns to tune it out as the extraneous sound of a normal day’s workings. The reality of this India clashes with the images she held in her mind, her hopes and expectations. As the days wear on, she longs for the simple comforts of home: a bowl of cereal, an ice-cold Coca-Cola, an evening alone with her husband.
    As Somer observes this man she thought she knew, it becomes clear there is a side to him that is utterly foreign. This Krishnan wears white loose-flowing cotton tunics from morning to night, drinks milky tea instead of black coffee, and eats meals dexterously with his hands. He is not the least bit uncomfortable with the complete lack of privacy. She finds it curious, this person who seems to enjoy the din of a crowded household, so different from the quiet man she met at Stanford, living in a spartan bedroom with only a mattress on the floor and secondhand desk. Somer begins to wonder if she knows him at all.

15
VICTORY
    Dahanu, India—1985
K AVITA
    T HE BABY GURGLES AS K AVITA KNEADS COCONUT OIL INTO HIS pudgy frog legs. He squirms and vigorously waves his arms in the air, as if to applaud his mother for this daily practice. She gently massages his delicate body, first stretching out one leg fully, then the other. She rubs circles on his belly, which is barely bigger than the whole of her palm. This is the one time each day she can delight in seeing every astonishing part of his body. She never tires of looking at him, inspecting every perfect detail: the soft curl of his eyelashes, the dimples in his elbows and knees. She bathes him in a wooden bucket, pouring small cupfuls of warm water over his body, taking care not to get any in his eyes. As she finishes dressing him, her mother comes to tell her dinner is ready. Kavita has been at her parents’ home since the birth of her son, enjoying the luxury of focusing on her baby, free from any household responsibilities.
    When she walks into the front room, she sees Jasu sitting there, his hair freshly oiled and combed. He stands, with a broad grin, to greet them. On the table between them, she sees, he has brought afresh jasmine garland for her hair. Yesterday, it was a box of sweets. He has been coming here every day for nearly two weeks, and always with something for her. Now, walking toward him, she is struck by his smile, as wide as his arms, which reach out for his son. “Say hello to your papa,” she says, handing him to Jasu. Unsure how to handle a newborn, he holds the baby tenderly, almost tentatively.
    Jasu eats voraciously at dinner, scooping large bites into his mouth too quickly to taste the food. She suspects he is not having much at his other meals, but he hasn’t pressured her about coming home. He told her he expects her to spend the customary first forty days with her mother. Not all husbands are so patient during this time. As she watches their son in his father’s arms, she thinks of how fortunate this boy is, what a cherished life he will lead. Tomorrow, relatives are gathering for the baby’s namkaran, his naming ceremony. Everyone has been overjoyed with the birth of their first son, bringing celebratory sweets, new clothes for the baby, fennel tea to bolster her milk supply. They have showered on her all the traditional gifts, as if this is her first baby, their first child. What about the other times I’ve carried a baby in my womb, given birth, held my child in my arms?
    But no one acknowledges this, not even Jasu. Only Kavita has an aching cavity in her heart for what she’s lost. She sees the pride in Jasu’s eyes as he holds his son and forces herself to smile while saying a silent prayer for this child. She hopes she can give him the life he deserves. She prays she will be a good mother to her son, prays she has enough