It was another Tuesday night, and Nayana was still pretending to have a class to teach. It had been two weeks since she’d last met Daniel at the hotel. They were slowing down. Nayana’s dress more casual, her makeup subdued. In her pocket she once again carried a key to the hotel room, though she had yet to contact Daniel. She knew he would come as soon as she called. Ramesh was at the other end of the hallway, his hands resting on his hips. Nayana watched him from their bedroom door. He was stretching his back, looking up at the ceiling. He complained of stiffness in his neck and shoulders as well, and this had only gotten worse lately with the stress of work. Years of planning, and the tunnel’s first test run was just over a week away. She didn’t know how she felt about being in a train under water for so long, but to know that she would be leaving England for France might just make it worthwhile. Now he rubbed his knees, which he said creaked when he stood. She could see he was tired. He placed a hand on his belly, which he always said was slightly larger than the last time he was fitted for a suit. The aging process had begun to accelerate as he tumbled toward forty. Nayana assumed that he was making excuses for her, for the distance she kept; that he was afraid he was getting too old for a beautiful wife, seven years younger than he. He often told her she was too beautiful. And when he made this claim, she assured him he was being ridiculous and always replied, “You’re as handsome as the day I met you.” She had no trouble saying this. It was true, because he was a handsome man and because the most handsome part of Ramesh would never spoil with age. It was his goodness, his love for her. It was etched in every feature as though in marble. Ramesh had the remarkable ability to always remain himself. What she couldn’t admit to him was that it was she who had changed so much that she was no longer certain she could remain.
She waited for him to leave the hallway and retreat to his reading chair, then she went to the little table in the entryway. Ramesh must have picked up the mail after caring for Felix, a responsibility that would not last much longer. Beth would be back over the weekend. Where would Ramesh steal away then, if not downstairs? She was convinced it was how he managed his doubts and fears, maybe even an anger he never let Nayana see. She seized her sister’s letter from the bowl. He’d put it on top. As always, Nayana softened at the sight of her sister’s handwriting, then softened further as she turned the envelope over to find whatever message or decoration awaited her from Birendra: this month, Diwali greetings from your loving nephew. She placed the letter in her purse, hating that she still hadn’t responded to October’s letter while Aditi remained, of course, right on schedule.
“We’ll read it later. I have to get going now,” she said, as much to herself as to Ramesh, and turned toward the door. She pressed the latch and opened the door.
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to join you for that lunch after all. The dean has asked to meet.”
“The dean?” he said, sounding impressed.
“We’ll see,” she said, attempting to project her concern. She knew what was coming; she just didn’t know what she would tell Ramesh.
The air outside was the coldest it had been this year. She enjoyed the shock of it as she unzipped her coat and loosened her scarf. Winter nights in Delhi could be like this autumn evening in London. But in Varkala, where Aditi lived, it would be warm as always.
“Of course your letter would arrive today, sister,” she said aloud, looking up at the brightest visible star—or was that Venus?
Star or planet didn’t matter, as long as it carried Nayana’s message of love and regret: a cosmic telegraph between twins, the way they so often communicated silently about their classmates at school. Or at home, where they spent whole weekends anticipating each other’s thoughts and actions, hiding places. Two decades later, on a walk that ostensibly led her again to a lover and an act of adultery, Nayana felt Aditi was still seeing right through her. She could hear her sister’s voice asking, Who have you become?
The hotel was dimly lit by a single lantern above the door. It looked drab and uglier than Nayana remembered, more so than it had even earlier that day when she’d stopped in to pay for the room, averting her eyes from those of the man at the reception desk, though he’d never shown much interest in whatever she and Daniel were up to. Her legs felt heavy as she climbed the stairs to the room where, until two weeks ago, Daniel would have already been waiting for her. She felt an irrational fear that he was inside the room, that she would turn the knob and the door would swing wide—the frequently borrowed space appearing again like a stage for her poor choices—and Daniel would be lying there, naked as before, under a single white sheet, boyishly smoking a cigarette. He was handsome, yes, more handsome than Ramesh in some respects, but impermanent, mere plaster to Ramesh’s marble.
But there was no one inside this time, no lover stubbing out a cigarette and beckoning her to join him. She was relieved to be alone. The curtains were drawn, and she left the lights off. The room was dark except for the glow of a digital clock that faintly illuminated the familiar floral print of the quilt, which shamed Nayana now from the bed. Being with Daniel in that bed felt so different from being with Ramesh. It was more than the hotel room: physically, there was nothing to stand between them and their desire. They surrendered to each other’s bodies with ease, their minds never getting in the way. When Daniel wanted her again, she simply knew it. And yet she felt no ties to the man inside. Not the thinking man, the colleague from school hallways and break room. She knew what she liked about being with him; they had no history, no shared loss. She didn’t care what he thought about her, only that he wanted her. She had no fear of disappointing him. With Daniel, Nayana was finally not a failure.
She set her coat and scarf on the chair, unzipped her boots, and stepped onto the dense carpet, one foot at a time. The silence and solitude were perfect. She would not call Daniel tonight. It was the guilt she’d wanted to experience again, not the pleasure. Actually, she would never see him again, not here, though this wouldn’t resolve anything, really. She set her arms free from the dress and slid it down to the floor. Unhooking her bra, she swayed under the sensitivity of lace brushing against her skin. She would miss lunch with Ramesh and her mother-in-law tomorrow, but it was not, as she’d claimed to Ramesh, because of the meeting with the dean, which would take place earlier in the morning. Her lunch conflict was an appointment with the gynecologist, though this was merely a formality. Nayana already knew that she was pregnant. And that the gynecologist would not be able to tell her, at least not tomorrow, what she truly wanted to know.
The sliding closet doors were covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She stared at her feet and worked her eyes up from there. She studied her body, which had extinguished the life that had tried to grow there. Twice. She was afraid to ask if this pregnancy was the product of her affair. She looked back at the bed, as if it might provide the answer. With Ramesh, in the years since her last miscarriage, she had learned to be precise, to keep track. Eventually, though, she’d assumed herself incapable of getting pregnant again. And so with Daniel there had been no precision or precaution. This thought now made her nauseated. And yet she could not help but wonder, if the child were Daniel’s, would that help or harm her chances of carrying to term? Who indeed has your sister become to even think such a thing?
She pulled back the covers and lay down, setting the alarm for 9:00 p.m. Outside the window, she could see the flashing lights of a plane passing in the sky, and she apologized to it—as if to a star, to her sister, to herself, and to Ramesh. She would start there, with apologies, alone in no one’s room. She remembered the letter from her sister in her bag and fished it out, then turned on the bedside lamp. As she opened the envelope, she studied her nephew’s greeting again, noticing that his cursive had improved. He was growing older, and she was far away, missing out on that growth. She quickly skimmed her sister’s words, feeling the need to take in the letter all at once. How she missed Aditi. How she needed her now. Then she read each word slowly, stopping only to wipe the tears from her eyes. And then she read it once more in order to fall asleep.
Dearest Nayana,
On this last day of Diwali, I miss my sister as always. Birendra is here beside me. Tonight I told him the story about when you asked Baba and Maa if you could bring me gifts on this day so long ago. I could sense his little mind at work, wondering what happens if you don’t have a sister.
I can already tell that he will want to follow in your footsteps one day, and we will finally join you in London. He has grand ambitions and a mind like yours—so clever. And he’s growing fast. He will want to go soon. And the truth is I’m lonely, Naya. But what will happen when I take him away from India altogether? I fear that his father’s memory, of which he already has so little, will fade, as it will for me as well. Will I ever be ready for that? Sometimes I feel guilty for marrying a man with an even smaller family than ours. I maybe should have married into a big family, for Birendra’s sake, but then he wouldn’t have come from my Srikant and me. Please know I don’t say any of this to make you feel responsible for being so far away. It is my own guilt I wrestle with. I try to comfort myself knowing that, when the day comes and we have to leave India, I’ll have my sister close again. For now, you’ll be happy to know I’ve finally done as you asked and put in a request for telephone service. Who knows how long it will take, but we will be able to talk more.
Birendra wants you both to know that he’s written about you in his “family history,” a report for his English class. This week alone, he’s read three books in English. Sound like anyone you know? Please send more when you can.
I didn’t want to press things when we last spoke, but you seemed a bit preoccupied. How is dear Ramesh? Please send my respects. With your work and Ramesh’s family, I guess you wouldn’t know loneliness there. Of course you can always visit. I won’t push you, but you are welcome. I want Birendra to spend time with his brilliant aunt. To have a model of life beyond the small world I can offer him.
My diya are always lit for you.
Your loving sister,
Aditi