here, with all this going by?
It helps me to concentrate, she said.
She was used to the noise as she studied, as she slept; it was the ongoing accompaniment to her life, her thoughts, the constant din more soothing than silence would have been. Indoors, with no room of her own, it was harder. But the balcony had always been her place.
When she was a little girl, she told him, she would sometimes stumble out of bed during the night, and her grandparents would find her in the morning, fast asleep on the balcony, her face against the blackened filigree, her body on the stone floor. Deaf to the traffic that rumbled past. She had loved waking up out-of-doors, without the protection of walls and a ceiling. The first time, seeing that she was missing from the bed, they thought she had disappeared. They had sent people down to the street to search for her, shouting her name.
And? Udayan asked.
They discovered that I was here, still sleeping.
Did your grandparents forbid you from doing it again?
No. As long as it wasnât too cold or raining, they left a little quilt out for me.
So this is your bodhi tree, where you achieve enlightenment.
She shrugged.
His eyes fell to the pages sheâd been reading.
What does Mr. Descartes tell us about the world?
She told him what she knew. About the limits of perception and the experiment with a piece of wax. Held up to a candle, the essence of the wax remained, even as its physical aspect changed. It was the mind, not the senses, able to perceive this, she said.
Thinking is superior to seeing?
For Descartes, yes. Common sense canât be trusted.
Have you read any Marx?
A little.
Why do you study philosophy?
It helps me to understand things.
But what makes it relevant?
Plato says the purpose of philosophy is to teach us how to die.
Thereâs nothing to learn unless weâre living. In death weâre equal. It has that advantage over life.
He handed the book back to her, closing it so that he caused her to lose her place.
And now a degree has become meaningless in this country.
Youâre getting a masterâs in physics, she pointed out.
My parents expect me to. It doesnât matter to me.
What matters to you?
He looked down at the street, gesturing. This impossible city of ours.
He changed the subject, asking about the others who lived with her and Manash: two uncles, their wives, two sets of children. Her maternal grandparents, who had once owned the flat, were dead, as were her own parents. Her older sisters lived elsewhere, scattered here and there, now that they were married.
You all grew up here?
She shook her head. There had been various homes in eastern Bengal, in Khulna, in Faridpur, where her parents and sisters had once lived. Her father was a district judge, and her parents and her sisters had moved every few years from place to place, to beautiful bungalows paid for by the government, in pretty parts of the countryside. The houses had come with cooks, servants whoâd opened the doors.
Manash was born into one of these homes. He barely remembered, but her sisters still spoke of that phase of their upbringing, their shared past. The teachers who would come to give them dance and singing lessons, the marble tables on which they ate meals, the broad verandahs on which they played, a separate room in the house that was just for their dolls.
In 1946 those postings ended, and the family came back to Calcutta. But after a few months her father said he did not want to live out his retirement there. After a lifetime outside it, he had no patience for city life, especially when its people were butchering each other, when entire neighborhoods were going up in flames.
One morning during the riots, from the same balcony Gauri and Udayan were standing on now, her parents had witnessed a scene: a mob surrounding the Muslim man who delivered their milk on his bicycle. They were seeking revenge; it was reported that a cousin of the milkman had
It helps me to concentrate, she said.
She was used to the noise as she studied, as she slept; it was the ongoing accompaniment to her life, her thoughts, the constant din more soothing than silence would have been. Indoors, with no room of her own, it was harder. But the balcony had always been her place.
When she was a little girl, she told him, she would sometimes stumble out of bed during the night, and her grandparents would find her in the morning, fast asleep on the balcony, her face against the blackened filigree, her body on the stone floor. Deaf to the traffic that rumbled past. She had loved waking up out-of-doors, without the protection of walls and a ceiling. The first time, seeing that she was missing from the bed, they thought she had disappeared. They had sent people down to the street to search for her, shouting her name.
And? Udayan asked.
They discovered that I was here, still sleeping.
Did your grandparents forbid you from doing it again?
No. As long as it wasnât too cold or raining, they left a little quilt out for me.
So this is your bodhi tree, where you achieve enlightenment.
She shrugged.
His eyes fell to the pages sheâd been reading.
What does Mr. Descartes tell us about the world?
She told him what she knew. About the limits of perception and the experiment with a piece of wax. Held up to a candle, the essence of the wax remained, even as its physical aspect changed. It was the mind, not the senses, able to perceive this, she said.
Thinking is superior to seeing?
For Descartes, yes. Common sense canât be trusted.
Have you read any Marx?
A little.
Why do you study philosophy?
It helps me to understand things.
But what makes it relevant?
Plato says the purpose of philosophy is to teach us how to die.
Thereâs nothing to learn unless weâre living. In death weâre equal. It has that advantage over life.
He handed the book back to her, closing it so that he caused her to lose her place.
And now a degree has become meaningless in this country.
Youâre getting a masterâs in physics, she pointed out.
My parents expect me to. It doesnât matter to me.
What matters to you?
He looked down at the street, gesturing. This impossible city of ours.
He changed the subject, asking about the others who lived with her and Manash: two uncles, their wives, two sets of children. Her maternal grandparents, who had once owned the flat, were dead, as were her own parents. Her older sisters lived elsewhere, scattered here and there, now that they were married.
You all grew up here?
She shook her head. There had been various homes in eastern Bengal, in Khulna, in Faridpur, where her parents and sisters had once lived. Her father was a district judge, and her parents and her sisters had moved every few years from place to place, to beautiful bungalows paid for by the government, in pretty parts of the countryside. The houses had come with cooks, servants whoâd opened the doors.
Manash was born into one of these homes. He barely remembered, but her sisters still spoke of that phase of their upbringing, their shared past. The teachers who would come to give them dance and singing lessons, the marble tables on which they ate meals, the broad verandahs on which they played, a separate room in the house that was just for their dolls.
In 1946 those postings ended, and the family came back to Calcutta. But after a few months her father said he did not want to live out his retirement there. After a lifetime outside it, he had no patience for city life, especially when its people were butchering each other, when entire neighborhoods were going up in flames.
One morning during the riots, from the same balcony Gauri and Udayan were standing on now, her parents had witnessed a scene: a mob surrounding the Muslim man who delivered their milk on his bicycle. They were seeking revenge; it was reported that a cousin of the milkman had
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