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Interview with Author Robert Benjamin

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Interview with Author – J.T. Kirk

The Flat on Malabar Hill, ISBN 9781440146428, iUniverse, Paperback, 254 pages, $16.95 by Chitra Kallay.

The story follows the closely interwoven lives of the members of three generations of an Indian family through a number of years of life. Shanti and Vinod, are the well-to-do mother and father of two totally different sons. Kishore, the oldest, is a brilliant Mombai (Bombay) businessman who had been an honor student and is a graduate of MIT in the United States. Dev is a drop-out who plays drums in a Night Club, spends his time with wealthy friends consuming alcohol and drugs, and like many young people in many parts of the world today, has assimilated many American-like ways and thought patterns.

When Kishore returns from America he brings Anjali, his wife. She is Indian, but thoroughly Americanized as the daughter of a diplomat to the United States. Anjali does not show the traditional respect for Shanti and friction increases with birth of her son. The friction gradually is lessened but she persuades her husband to take a job in California.

Short years later, Anjali again is pregnant when they move back to Mombai, and things progress a little better. Meanwhile, Dev believes he has found a perfect mate in a singer hired by his band. The subdued remnants of the all-important caste system raises its ugly head and adds another set of problems to the already complicated relationships that have evolved by the subtle clash of cultures.

The story continues through a number of changes in the living conditions of each member of the family and provides a most intimate look at the manner in which the often incompatible, mores of the two societies affect each member as time progresses. The author also brings in to play the subtle changes that take place with aging in the family members, and how these conditions serve to exacerbate the troubling differences of the cultures, as well as between the different needs and thought processes of the different generations.

I am impressed with Chitra Kallay’s astute observations. A few years back, I was in India to check on a research project at the Tata Research Institute. I stayed with an officer who lived on Cumbala Hill overlooking “the queen’s string of pearls” mentioned in this book. Even at that time, I was aware of how the differences in mores already were beginning to present problems for traditionalists. As a result of this experience, I sincerely believe that The Flat on Malabar Hill is more than a timely novel. It provides an enlightened look at a clash of cultures that so typically is taking place throughout much of the world, and simultaneously, it graphically demonstrates an outlook by the younger generations that they may want to examine for their future peace of mind.

This book is a good novel, but, more importantly, should be on a must list for members of the younger generations.

Author: My book is about a family in India.  I thought it fascinating that although the Indian family is halfway around the world from any American family,  the problems are still the same.  Although the traditions are very different, the values are the same in both India and the U.S.  I wanted to show this–both the differences in traditions and the similarity in values.  I chose this topic because I believe that the family is the heart and soul of any culture.

Q: How long did the book take you from start to finish?

Author: “The Flat on Malabar Hill” took me about three years to write.  I was teaching Middle School at the time, so I did my writing at night after I finished my school day and graded papers.  I started the book in a class on novel writing.  After the instructor and my classmates encouraged me to continue the story, I started writing a chapter a week so I could have it ready for the next meeting and the critique.  After the class was over, I slowed down.  I spent a lot of time editing and couldn’t  get motivated to write more.  Then suddenly one night a character from my book began speaking in my head.  So I got started again.   I did have dry periods, but I learned to wait for those little voices to show me the way.

Q: What aspect of writing the book did you find particularly challenging?

Author: Editing is the most challenging aspect of writing for me. It is never-ending–I am always ready to go back and change a word or a mood.  I was glad to see “Malabar Hill” published–because it meant now I couldn’t change a thing.

Q: What surprised you the most about the book writing process?

Author: I was surprised by how hard the process was.  Sometimes, sitting at the computer without a word on the page was torture.  Waiting for inspiration is a daunting experience.  There is always the nagging fear that all inspiration has dried up.  Thank goodness, it didn’t for me!

Q: Did you have any favorite experiences when writing your book?

Author: Well, I’d heard stories about authors who said that their characters spoke to them.  I half believed it.  Then I started writing–and it’s true!  My last chapter, “Kisan” came to me whole in my sleep.  I woke up at three in the morning and knew I had the end of my book!  I went  to my computer and wrote the whole chapter in twenty minutes. Here I must say that the chapter is a little over two pages. The next morning, I remembered what had happened.  I approached my computer apprehensively–what gibberish would I find there?  I found a coherent and emotional piece–and that is one set of pages I have hardly edited.  Then, the one page chapter toward the end of the book that is not written in any character’s voice was the result of the same experience.  I had been worrying about how to broach a very difficult subject–and it came to me at night.  Again, I booted up the computer and typed up the page.  I did not edit here either. I’m particularly fond of those pages!

Q: What do you hope your readers will gain from reading your book?

Author: I hope my American readers will gain a better understanding of family life in India.  Talking at book clubs after people have read “Malabar Hill”, I have found that they were surprised by the similarity of problems in India and the U.S. Some had a family member who had a drug problem. So many of them had to worry about the best place to raise and educate children.  And how many of us agonize about our aging parents, some of whom might be afflicted with Alzheimers.  What my readers found intriguing was the way the Indian family faced and dealt with these problems–in ways that were not American.

Q: What projects are you currently working on?

Author: I am working on my next book, also set in India.  I have known some intriguing families–some were almost Faulknerian–and I hope to make some of them the disguised basis of my characters.  Since this is a work in progress, I don’t want to say too much about it–it may change completely!

Q: Is writing your sole career? If not, what else do you do?

Author: I taught English at the UCLA and later at high schools.  I finally settled down at a private school in Los Angeles where I taught for a number of years.  Now I enjoy doing volunteer work and traveling when I am not writing.

Q: Did you do any research for your books, or did you write from experience?

Author: I wrote entirely from experience.  Whatever research I did was in calls to relatives in Mumbai to get the names of clubs, restaurants, colleges and stuff.

Q: How did you come up with your title?

Author: I played with many words mostly to do with family.  Then a dear friend suggested that the action was so centered on the location, The Flat on Malabar Hill seemed like a wonderful choice.  Everyone who has read it loves the title and the cover which is brilliant and vibrant.

Q: What books have influenced you the most?

Author: I think I am most influenced by Indian writers.  I love the writing of Rohinton Mistry, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Amitav Ghosh.  Their prose is so lyrical and powerful.

Q: Who was your publisher and why did you choose them?

Author: I went to Iuniverse for publishing.  I had read an article about them in Time magazine which spoke about the new era of publishing and of Iuniverse being in the forefront.  I had a very good experience with them and would use them again!

Q: Is there anything we haven’t covered that you would like to include?

Author:  Yes!  Part of the proceeds from the sale of my book will be donated to the Alzheimer’s Foundation and to Maitri, an organization in San Francisco which  helps abused women, particularly those from  Asia.

Thank you for taking the time to be part of this interview!

To learn more about the book and Author, please visit – http://chitrakallay.com/

A: I was enrolled in a writing class through UCLA Extension.  The first assignment was to tell a story in one page.  I could not think of a thing!  Then I remembered a little nugget I had read in an Indian newspaper about a couple who had deeded their home to their son–and the consequences of that action.  People loved my one page story and urged me to expand it.  So–I started from the factual  end and built a fictional family to take me to that end.  Along the way, I found the opportunity to write about the dilemma of a generation caught between children and parents, about the heartbreak of Alzheimer’s disease and about the differences and similarities between family life in India and the U.S.

Q: Do you have any secret writing tips you’d like to share?

A: Writing is hard work!  I never realized how hard it was going to be. One of the best writing tips I can give is read, read, and read!

Q: Tell us a quirky or funny story about you!

A: The last thing I did in college was a master’s degree in journalism.  I worked for Newsweek for a spell.  I also did some writing for the Los Angeles Times–stories I sent them from India about a group of UCLA students visiting in the summer.  Teaching had never crossed my mind.  Then I married, and my husband, a lawyer in the Navy JAG, was posted to Guam!  I had always lived in cities, and Guam was a small island; I knew I’d be restless.  So I explored and found a four year college–I applied for a teaching job, but was told they had filled all their positions in English.  Then one August day, I got a call asking if I was available; someone had backed out. Yes, I said excitedly, I was available. What would I be teaching?  Basically, English literature from Chaucer to modern times–a very large order!  I asked about books so I could prepare.  Well, the books had not yet arrived from the mainland.  When would classes start?  The following week.

So my first teaching job was one where for a couple of weeks I taught from memory. I did have a very rewarding experience teaching wives, sons and daughters of U.S. Navy and Air Force officers and enlisted men.  Also in the classes were native Guamanians, and young people from neighboring islands with delicious names like Yap and Truk. When I returned to the U.S. it was easier to use my experience to get teaching jobs.  That is how I started on my teaching career.

Q: Have you ever battled writer’s block? How do you deal with it?

A: Of course I’ve battled writer’s block.  The first time it happened, I sat and stared at my computer, panic slowly spreading through me.  I thought, why did I ever think I could write a book?  Finally, I left the desk and crept off to bed.  I couldn’t move that block for a week.  I stopped trying–I thought “No one will miss the book I never wrote.”  Then one evening I booted up my computer intending to do my email–and just like that I opened up the last chapter I had written.  And I started writing as if there had been no break at all.  Several times I was uninspired–but after that first time, I didn’t worry about it.  I knew when I was ready I would go to the page and the right words would flow.  Often times, the characters would begin to weave their stories to me–that was the fun part.  They made my writing easy.

Q: What’s your favorite quote?

A: I don’t have one.

Q: Who inspires you the most?

A: My daughter and son inspire me the most.  They are amazing–and it was for them that I wrote “The Flat on Malabar Hill.”

When I started writing “The Flat on Malabar Hill”, I planned to describe family life in India as I had experienced it.  As the book progressed, I began unwittingly to draw comparisons between life in the U.S. and life in India.  So I thought I would write today about the “joint family,” where more than one family live in the home.

Unless they leave the city, either for college or for a job, young men often continue living in their parents’ home.  Why spend the money on rent when you can have the home cooked comfort of life as you’ve always known it?  So when a young man marries, he brings his wife to live in his bedroom in his parents’ house.  Yes, sometimes it can be very difficult for the young bride.

There are horror stories of the harsh older matriarch expecting her daughter-in-law to do much of the work.  If the family is not upper middle class, this work could include all the cooking (which will never taste right), cleaning all the dishes, pots and pans (forget dishwashers) washing all the clothes (forget washer and dryers).  When I was in India, most of my friends who married did, in fact, live for a while with their in-laws.  They stayed in one bedroom, had all their meals with the whole family, told their mother-in-law where they were going if they went out. They were not treated badly; they certainly were not expected to do all the manual labor. Often, however, there was the tinge of disapproval hanging in the air, the roll of the eyes, the snort and the shaking of the head. It might have been real or imagined.  At any rate, the friction was of varying degree and definitely felt. If the young husbands were successfully anchored in a career, the brides began a campaign for a separate home of their own..  When they achieved that goal, they were happier because now they could visit the in-laws when they chose.

On the other hand, the joint family has some advantages.  Put aside the American view of independence for a few minutes; go with me on this ride.  You are a young bride who has come to her husband’s home in a new city.  You know no one.  Your husband goes to work all day—you are at home.  But in this case, you are not alone.  Your sisters-in-law take you to town.  They take you shopping.  They take you the movies.  They introduce you to their friends, who will become your friends.

Then you become pregnant.  You have the worst morning sickness.  Your mother-in-law lovingly gives you herbal medicines which make you feel better.  She cooks all your favorite foods.  When the baby is born, everyone falls in love with this miracle you produced, and you are pampered along with the baby.

One of the most difficult things a new mother in the United States deals with is the loneliness that engulfs her when she stays home to care for the infant. She is away from her friends and her work.  If the baby is cranky, if it shows any symptoms of pain or illness, the inexperienced mother is helpless and frustrated.  She begins to feel depressed and could spiral into the now diagnosable ailment, post-partum depression.

No so in India in the joint family. When the baby cries, many experienced hands quiet and soothe the baby when he is in pain. Grandmothers and aunts abound, each willing and eager to help.  The new mother has time to spend with her baby and take naps when she’s tired. She does not feel isolated because she always has someone to talk to.  If she feels crowded, she can go into her room, close the door and be alone.  If she chooses to go out with her friends, she can do so knowing her child is in loving hands at home.

And there is comfort for the older couple as well.  As they age, become ill or just plain tired, they can draw solace knowing their son and his wife will care for them.  It is the way things are done.  Very few “assisted living homes” exist in India, even in the big modern cities.  An old person will always have a place in his son’s or daughter’s house.  When I lived in India, most of my friends lived in a three generational family—grandparents, parents, children. I did too.  My grandparents lived with us until their death. Each generation looks after the one that came before it and the one after it.

Both the Indian and the American ways have their advantages.  As for me, personally, I did not marry an Indian, nor did I live in India after I was married.  I cherished my independence, but…When my children were born, my mother came from India to help me and stayed for several months.  Having her with me was invaluable and I would not trade the bonds she formed with my daughter and son for all the world.

Anjali hated the showers in India—they were so drippy, just a drizzle coming out of the shower head with no pressure. She preferred having two buckets of hot water which she could cool to her liking and pour over herself with a large brass cup. Now, while Anjali soaped herself in the bathroom, she felt twinges of guilt. Should she stay home and entertain her mother-in-law? No, dammit. She hadn’t been out for so long. But, she could go out tomorrow with Kishore; she really should stay home with Shanti who had come over in the torrential rain. She dried herself, slipped on a caftan, and went to the bedroom to say she wasn’t going to the club after all, but Shanti had already left. Anjali was relieved—and virtuous because she had been willing to stay home. She felt light-headed—she could dress up and go out! How long it had been.

Her mother, Subadra, had descended on them when Kisan was born and stayed a whole month; Anjali had almost gone mad. She did not respect her mother, nor did she expect to get worthwhile maternal advice from her. The woman was tentative, trembling, and foolish. Anjali’s attitude toward her mother was perfectly understood by her peers when she lived in Boston. Now that she was in India, however, everyone, old and young, expected her to respect and revere Subadra. Since she could do neither, she’d kept her feelings to herself.

Kishore had serenely accepted Subadra’s presence in their flat. He kept assuring Anjali that this was the way it was done, that she should take advantage of it and rest. What he did not understand was she was fearful that Kisan would be dropped on his head every time Subadra lifted or carried him. Well, she had finally left last night—to everyone’s relief.

Anjali stood in front of a mirror, removed her caftan and appraised her body. Still a roundness in the tummy…well, she would aerobicise that off in a few weeks. She wriggled into her slimming black Guess jeans. Uh-oh. She couldn’t button them at the waist. She lay on the bed, sucked in her stomach and pulled on the zipper. She was working up a sweat, and the zipper wasn’t moving. The jeans were not worth it. She threw them carelessly on the bed and reached for a forgiving salwar kameez, with the drawstring pants and the loose flowing top. She flipped through several, finally settling on an ethnic white print on a celadon background. It would keep her cool in this heat and humidity.

She put her guilt about Shanti aside and entered Kisan’s room to give the nanny instructions on caring for the baby. She looked at him sleeping peacefully; she caressed his tousled head, surprised by her feeling—she didn’t want to leave him. She, Anjali, the Boston sophisticate, the party lover, was feeling qualms about leaving her baby with a nanny. Who would believe it? Giving the infant one last look, she told herself she would be back in two or three hours—tops.

The driver had driven slowly on the Mumbai roads and turned into the entrance of the Willingdon Club. The long driveway was smooth and lined with perfectly manicured beds of red zinnias and saffron marigolds. At the entrance, he got out and held an umbrella over Anjali even though they were in a car port. She smiled at the red turbaned Sikh doorman who smartly opened the front door. In the foyer were several talking, laughing club members, shaking out their umbrellas and signing in for lunch.

Anjali loved the Willingdon for its exclusivity and beauty. The entrance alone bespoke wealth white marble floors inlaid with crimson squares. The stairway with the glistening Burma rosewood banister split in two at the second floor dining room and gently curved into the foyer. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung in the entry hall where the members signed in. Anjali chose not to go up to the dining room but went onto the verandah which looked out on the lush green lawn and garden. Here she was sure to find some friends having a drink.

She had deliberately arrived at the club early. She wanted to be seen, admired. She was tall, for an Indian woman, and quite striking. She wore her dark brown hair shoulder length, soft around her oval face, and the celadon kameez emphasized her kajal-lined hazel eyes. Everyone could see that she had almost regained her pre-baby figure.

“Anjali, is that you? My God, you look fab!” Sure enough, rising from a table, her new friends were rushing to surround her, as glad to see her as she was to see them. Secretly pleased, she waved away their compliments: “No, no. I still have so much more to lose. I can barely fit into my clothes. Thank God for the salwar kameez; you can be as plump as you want under it.” She hoped they would notice how slim she already was.

Anjali had grown up intermittently in New Delhi. Her dad was in the diplomatic corps, and when he got a posting in Washington D.C., he took his family with him. Anjali, 15 at the time, went to high school in D.C. and then on to Boston College. These women at the club she’d known for only the short six months that she and Kishore had lived in Mumbai. And she had no compunction about judging them. These girls comprised “the idle rich.” She could see them playing bridge or gin rummy at the club in a few years, the card room becoming the highlight of their lives. Conversation with them was light, shallow and effortless.

“How is it being a mother? Have you found a good nanny?” They were eager to know about her baby and how she was adjusting.

“Oh, Kisan is an angel. You all must come and see him soon. He sleeps most of the time, and thank God he doesn’t have that colic some of you scared me about.”

“So now you can go out? Listen, do you want to go with us next Wednesday? Sheeraz is having a private showing of her new designer clothes. It’s going to be marvelous. I hear that she has gossamer like chiffon kurtis embroidered with the tiniest beads. She only has the best colors and styles.”

“Anjali, if you buy a salwar kameez from her, you’d have something new to wear to the D’Souzas’ big bash next week. You are coming, no?”

Soon, Anjali was buoyed by their infectious spirits. After being cooped up in the house for so long, she was living again. Clothes! Parties! Shopping!

When the white uniformed waiter came for her drink order, she automatically said, “Gin and lime–oops. I forgot. Make that a plain lime and soda, no ice. I shouldn’t drink.” Looking around at her new friends, the smiling faces that included her in all they did and would do, she suddenly blurted out, “Guess who came by today? Unannounced and uninvited. Right in the middle of my aerobics routine.” They all looked blank. “My mother-in-law. She wanted to teach me how to give Kisan an oil bath, if you please. Now what’s so special about an oil bath for a four-week old?”

There were some sympathetic murmurs. “If you live in India, that’s what happens. In-laws, cousins, cousins of cousins, they all feel they can drop in any time. And everyone expects you to give up your plans to entertain them.”

“My mother-in-law was a godsend when Mirai was born, I tell you. I came back from my parents’ home—there my mother had done everything; here I was helpless with the new baby. Thank God my mother-in-law came every day. I tell you it would have been hell without her. I could just hand over the baby when she was crying and go take a nap. I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“Sometimes they like to interfere too much. They have to tell you how to do everything, how to look after the baby, what to eat, how to dress, how to cook for their precious sons. But, really, they are the ones with experience—we should listen to them. But, Anjali, your mother-in-law seems so modern—you are so lucky, no? But tell me, what did you do?”

“Well, I told her that I had plans with Kishore for lunch.”

Eyes widened at her response. Suddenly, their voices were hushed.

“You sent your mother-in-law away? Your own mother-in-law? I wouldn’t have the courage.” And they lowered their eyes and shook their heads.

“I told her I’d phone her and she could come and teach me the stupid oil bath routine another time. What’s the big deal?”

Sonali, the most outspoken of the group, looked at Anjali with reproach. “So Anjali, have you been away for so long that you don’t even understand some basic rituals, eh? All over India, even the poorest women, spend time with their babies to massage them with oil. It removes the flaky dead skin that so many babies have; more than that it makes a baby feel soothed and loved. In the west they would probably include this ritual under their idea of bonding.” She paused, then with a sly smile, “Hell, I say, in America, don’t people pay a hundred dollars or more for a massage? Here, I pay a woman a hundred rupees—that’s two dollars—to give me ayurvedic oil massages twice a week. Ayurveda has been around for centuries, and ayurvedic oils have healing qualities, not just scents and aromas, like in your spas. Maybe the west is just catching up with us, no?” Sonali was pudgy and plain, but what she lacked in looks she made up for in brains. Anjali, to her own surprise, found herself respecting Sonali’s opinions and ideas over all others. If she would ever make a true friend, it would probably be Sonali.

Now, Anjali sat speechless; she never expected such a reaction. Nor had she ever heard about oil baths and ayurvedic massages. Something to check out. The practice of yoga was omnipresent in America, but ayurvedic massages? No, in Boston, it had been aromatherapy everywhere. Why had no one told her about these massages before? She could use a soothing massage two or three times a week. Maybe even Kishore would like one.

“Well, I’ll phone her soon and apologize and ask her to come over and teach me about oil baths. I wonder if she has an ayur—what do you call it? Sonali, could you  give me your person’s name? I could certainly use someone like that—and for just one hundred rupees. That’s bloody cheap, isn’t it?”

“Ooh, looks like a handsome man is looking for you.”

Anjali looked towards the door. Even after three years of marriage, her first unbidden thought when she saw Kishore was “Mmm! I’d like to get you in bed, gorgeous.”

Kishore was tall and slender, dark-haired. His crooked smile gave him a quizzical look. His eyes were so light brown, they appeared tawny, sitting against his olive skin. Now those eyes were riveted on Anjali alone as he walked toward her while saying casual hellos to all the other ladies.

“Ready for lunch, Anju?” His voice had a hypnotic timbre.

“See you all later. Call me about the Sheeraz showing and Sonali, I want to get your ayur—whatever person’s number. Bye.”

All eyes followed the handsome couple as they floated upstairs to the dining room. Anjali had not felt so—well, beautiful and admired—in months. Kishore was delighted to see his wife looking cheerful. Talking to her friends had been good for her. After they ordered their lunch, Kishore asked, “So, what were you and the girls gabbing about?”

“Oh, nothing special—you know, shopping, parties, the usual.”

“Well, I’m glad you are having a good time with them. They’re good company for you, no?”

“Sure, they’re fun. I’ll get to know them better once I start going out more.” Kishore was eager that Anjali make her own friends so that she would feel more comfortable in her new surroundings.

As lunch progressed, Anjali thought she had not enjoyed herself so much in ages. She had the total attention of Kishore, the admiring glances of every man in the dining room and the envious looks of most women. All too soon, she felt her breasts get heavy and swollen and knew she had to return home. She glanced at her watch—3:30 already—it would take at least an hour to reach home. Getting into the car in the rain which seemed to be pelting sideways got her thoroughly soaked. The drive home was a death crawl.

She could hear Kisan’s hungry screams as she entered the flat. The sound of his voice caused her milk to spurt and soak through the nursing pads and through her kameez. She ran into his room, tearing off her clothes and unhooking her sopping bra as she went. Settled with him in the rocker, she gazed at her son whose cries had quieted to whimpers. Then a satisfied snuffling sound told her that he was drinking. He had such strong suction—and it felt so wonderful. She looked at his fist lying against her breast, gently stroked the fingers and marveled at the dimples that were beginning at the knuckles. He was tiny and perfect. Placing him against her shoulder to burp him, she sniffed the new baby smell of his head. Intoxicating! She never thought she could love another creature as much as she loved this little one.

After his feed, Kisan went to sleep, and she had nothing to do. Already the euphoria of the lunch was wearing off. She tried to read, she listened to music, she lay down for a nap—nothing worked. The only constant was the unending splash and roar of the rain. The weather exacerbated the noise: the cars honked incessantly, people yelled more loudly—everything was magnified.

She could hear her neighbor Gita shrieking at her servants about some small infraction. Dogs in the adjoining flats barked and whined—they were bored too. Anjali wandered listlessly around the flat, wondering what on earth she was doing here. She had no friends and nothing to do. In Boston, she could go to the mall, the library, a movie…here every outing was a major undertaking. She finally screamed out loud, not caring that the servants were the ubiquitous ears in the flat, “When will this fucking rain stop? God! I hate it.” She wanted nothing more at that moment than to return to Boston. She wished she’d never agreed to come and live in this frightful city, but Kishore had made it sound so wonderful. Why had she ever listened to him?

It was almost seven when Kishore called on his cell phone to tell her he was on his way home. He walked in half an hour later, shaking droplets of rain from his hair. He left his dripping umbrella outside, and once in the flat, sensed a palpable distress. What could have happened? He checked the baby’s room—all was well. Anjali seemed fine too, if a bit subdued. Her cheerful lunch mood had faded.

When they were getting ready for bed, he stood close behind her, pressing his body to hers, cupping her breasts. “What’s wrong, Anju darling?” he murmured.

“I don’t know. I felt fine all afternoon, now I feel so cooped up and…and it’s so damn humid.”

“Cooped up? You have a car and driver to take you anywhere you wish, anytime you wish. That nanny is here to look after Kisan…”

“It’s this fucking rain. When is it ever going to stop? It’s driving me crazy.”

“Come on, sweetheart—it’s no worse than a Boston winter.”

“Oh, yeah? At least in Boston the roads work and cars can function. But you’re right. I’m being a brat. But Kish, I have no friends here…”

“What about the girls I saw you with at the club?”

“They’re all so shallow. They talk in such superficialities. If you sent them an idea by registered post, they wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Come on. I went to school with most of them—and they’re all smart. Any one of them could have won a scholarship like I did. Do you know that Sonali scored the same as me on the SAT? She is very clever. But she and all the others have just chosen to stay home to raise a family. You know, the famous feminist choice—career or family. These girls have made theirs—and in a few years, once their children are grown, they may choose careers and be successful.”

She nuzzled into his neck, leaning back sensually. Then she whispered, “Kish, darling, I feel so tense, so depressed sometimes. Do you think you could get me some pot? I’m sure you could get it from Dev. Please?”

He stopped his languorous swaying and stiffened. He whipped her around to face him, his eyes cold as two amber pebbles.

“Are you crazy? You may as well put an I.V. drip into Kisan’s little arm and blow the marijuana directly into it. What’s wrong with you, Anju? Tense and depressed? Your American friends would envy you—a large flat in an upscale area, a cook, a maid, a nanny, a driver and a car. What more could you possibly want?” He angrily huffed off and lay down in the bed. No love making tonight.