The electricity was out, and David had disconnected the noisy generator. Candles in clay pots threw circles of flickering light across the screened verandah. Warm winds danced through the coconut trees and brought the heady smell of jasmine, the promise of rain. A Bangla song drifted over the high gate.

Ruma tilted her head forward, hoping that David would find that place on her right shoulder that never relaxed. She could feel it even after two sets of singles at the Embassy club and a luxurious bath. His fingers probed, found the tightness, began to battle it. Ruma exhaled slowly so he wouldn't notice her relief.

“I have a going away present for you,” David said.

“I don't like presents, remember?”

“You'll like this. I'm visiting a project in Faridpur tomorrow. And you're coming along.”

She whirled around to face him. “David! Really? Are you sure it's okay?”

“I cleared extra hours for the jeep and driver. Visiting an ancestral village qualifies as cultural orientation. It would help to know the name of it, though.”

“Poshora.” She said it quickly, surely, with the “shaw” sound that was difficult for foreigners. “Pasera,” they would say, if their cleft palate and ear hadn't formed around Bangla. “I can already imagine my Dad's reaction to this. His daughter visiting the `shoythan Muslim family who stole our land.' Isn't it interesting how the Bangla word for evil sounds like Satan?”

David settled the pillows behind her and began working on her left shoulder. “Your grandfather was a big landowner, wasn't he?”

“And his grandfather before him. They owned a jute farm and exploited their Muslim workers.”

“You do have to be careful, Ruma. I've heard of Hindus trying to re-claim land lost at partition. They say that Muslims are angry because the courts are giving land back to Hindus.”

“Too late for my grandfather,” Ruma said. “He tried hard, though. He must have sent fifty letters full of legal threats from Calcutta.”

“When did he finally give up?”

“He didn't. He ignored his children, chewed betel leaves, and died a bitter old man. You know how Dad's been affected. He never really settled in America. He talks about Poshora like it's some kind of lost paradise.”

“I'm a little worried about this visit,” David said. “Whoever lives there now is not going to be happy to see you.”

Ruma was quiet. Then she said: “I'd like to make it clear that we don't want the property back. End this bitterness once and for all.”

“How're you going to do that?”

“Easily. Drive up in a big American embassy vehicle with a big white guy. Shower their children with gifts. Wear my fanciest clothes.”

“Speaking of clothes, I still can't get used to seeing this on you,” David said, fingering the soft silk of the scarf draped over her shoulder. She was wearing a sky-blue salwar chameez, which was a matching set of baggy pants, long tunic, and scarf.

In Calcutta, where she'd stayed for a week before coming to Bangladesh, Ruma had waited in vain by the baggage claim. She'd exited the terminal with only her carry-on and traveling clothes. Delighted over their American niece's first visit in a decade, her aunts and uncles showered her with Indian replacements. She'd stepped off the plane in Dhaka wearing a green silk saree, golden bangles, and high-heeled sandals, and David had pretended to collapse. He was used to her graduate school clothes — cotton pants, baggy sweaters, and loafers.

A dry cough sounded in the doorway. It was Masjid, David's valet, fluent in Victorian English, who referred to himself only as “Bearer.”

“Excuse me, sir. Would you kindly oblige by indicating whether Bearer should calendar your navy trousers?”

“No, thank you,” David replied. “I'll wear the brown ones.”

“As you wish, sir. I shall take my leave.” Bowing stiffly, without a glance at Ruma, he disappeared.

Once again, he had flung disapproval over Ruma like a heavy veil. Masjid was a master of the Bengali art of silent communication. Even the smallest Bengali child could raise an eyebrow, wrinkle a nose, lift a chin. Ruma's immigrant parents had not managed to pass on any of this elaborate system of gestures. Now she wondered if this was why she'd become fluent in five languages, accumulating words to offset the loss of body language.

Masjid's interruption had ended their conversation, and David joined her on the sofa. They often sat together like this, diplomat and linguist, abandoning their tools of trade and sinking into comfortable silence.

A gust of wind blew out one of the hurricane lamps, and the monsoon rain began to drum overhead. Before she could anticipate the change in his mood, David reached over to pull Ruma close.

“Marry me, Ruma,” he whispered, under the percussion of the rain.

Ruma let herself rest against him for a moment before pulling out of his arms. Then she stood up. Retreating, she avoided his eyes, and made herself stop at the doorway.

“We'll probably leave early tomorrow — I'm going to my room,” she said, hating the low, unsteady candles for making David seem even more alone on the sofa. She turned and left the verandah before he disappeared entirely in the darkness behind her.

_________________

The ferry pushed steadily through the currents of the Padma river. Mid-morning sunshine spangled the water. Fishermen called greetings from rafts to sailing boats, and huge, silvery fish leaped unexpectedly into the air. Passengers perched precariously on the open edges of the ferry, sipping tea from tiny china cups. They watched as Ruma and David squeezed through lines of parked vehicles.

At the tea-seller's stall, Ruma leaned against a barrel and clutched her cup of tea.

David broke the silence. “Sorry about last night,” he said. “Temporary insanity. First-term culture shock.”

Ruma took a big gulp of hot tea. “It was my fault,” she answered. “I don't want to hurt you, David. I shouldn't have come.”

They were quiet again. Then he nudged her, and pointed to a low country boat passing by. “We both needed a rest,” David said. “That's why you came.”

Inside the boat, five sand-haulers lay beside their empty buckets on a flat bed of sand, fast asleep. They were leaning against each other in an intimate tangle of cigarette smoke, brown limbs, and plaid lungees. Ruma watched them until they disappeared.

In Faridpur, Ruma asked David to drop her off at the market while he did his work. She wandered through the stalls, enjoying the easy give and take of bargaining in Bangla. A blue saree with delicate white embroidery caught her eye, and she bought it, along with sweets, trinkets, toys. She tucked 100 Taka notes, worth about three dollars each, into separate envelopes.

It was almost two when the car arrived. David handed her a turmeric-stained cardboard container of chicken curry, and Ruma watched the passing countryside as she ate. Spiky clumps poked out of muddy rice paddies, fed by slim chains of water. Hibiscus bushes leaned over ponds of floating purple flowers, like dancers trying to see their own reflections.

The driver stopped for directions, and they climbed out into the heavy, still air of mid-afternoon. Purple and blue cotton sarees were slung across the open windows of a clay house. A breeze lifted the light material, and Ruma glimpsed three babies sleeping side by side on a bamboo cot.

An elderly man stood by the door, smiling toothlessly. He was wearing a white dhoti instead of a lungee, which marked him as one of the few remaining Hindus in Poshora. “Banerjee house?” he repeated. “Yes, yes. It's still standing. Last house down that lane, about three kilometers, just past the bridge.” He peered up at Ruma through thick lenses. “So you've come back, have you? High time. That son of a scoundrel will be more than surprised to see the face of a Banerjee again.”

Ruma nodded, too surprised to answer.

“You've still got the Banerjee face,” David said, as the jeep hurtled over the narrow, muddy road. “This could be more dangerous than I thought.”

Ruma handed her camera to David. “Not once he understands why I'm coming. Take photos for Dad, will you?”

They rattled over the bridge, and the driver turned off the engine. “Banerjee House,” he announced, like a conductor at the end of the line.

Ruma's eyes quickly scanned the property. A square bungalow, paint peeling, faded green shutters closed against the afternoon sunshine. Two huge mango trees, laden with fruit, shading a wide, grassy space in front. A dirt path winding down to a pond, lined with purple and white bougainvillea. Tops of countless fruit trees in a grove behind the house. Beyond, a sea of jute, with no other house in sight.

She walked to the threshold of the house, with David snapping photos as he followed. Before they could knock, a man came out, re-tying his lungee. He shut the door firmly behind him, but Ruma could see a row of eyes peering through the slats of the window shutters.

“What do you want?” the man demanded, his glance shifting back and forth to settle on David's face. “I have no business that concerns any Americans.”

David stepped back, and raised the hand that wasn't holding the camera. “It is not my business,” he said in simple Bangla.

“What does she want, then?” the man asked.

Ruma held out the bag of presents. “I am Dilip Kumar Banerjee's granddaughter. I came with gifts for your children before departing for my home in America.”

The man was quiet, his eyes now focused on Ruma, measuring the unspoken language that would either vindicate or contradict her claim. Ruma held his gaze, keeping her whole body still.

Suddenly, the man clapped his hands twice. “Bring tea!” he shouted. Ruma heard muffled gasps come from inside the house and then a scurrying began. Pots and pans clattered and a baby began to wail.

The man led them to a shady bench. “You speak Bangla well,” he said to David. “What is your job?”

As David stumbled through his language school answers, Ruma finished her tea. She could hear laughter, conversation, a creaking pump handle in the distance.

“May I go inside?” she asked, standing up.

The man nodded. “Your husband will remain with me.” David winked at her behind the man's back.

Ruma gathered up the presents and walked to the house. Once again, the door opened before she could knock. A tide of women and girls engulfed her and pulled her inside. Curious hands smoothed the material of her salwar chameez, fingered her bracelets, caressed the skin of her forearms. A flood of questions in village Bangla swirled around her. Quickly, a young girl pulled a chair under a fan and wiped it clean with a damp cloth. Two of the oldest women seated Ruma, like ancient handmaidens attending a foreign queen.

Ruma counted thirty-five female faces beaming at her in a semi-circle. Shy children peered out from behind their mothers' sarees.

“Come,” Ruma said, reaching into her bag. She spread out the toys and sweets, and the children came, their eyes bright. Ruma began tucking envelopes into their shirts while their mothers tried to stop her.

“You should not give this kindness to us,” one of them protested.

“It is my privilege,” Ruma answered. “Where is your new bride?”

The girl who had polished the chair was pushed forward. “She has married our third son,” the oldest woman said.

Ruma handed her the blue and white saree. The girl lightly traced one loop of the embroidery, grinned at Ruma, and slipped away.

A baby tried to climb on Ruma's lap, his naked body camouflaged in talcum powder. He tugged at her leg, frowning, demanding. In English, softly, Ruma told him: “It's yours, baby. Yours to keep. We don't want it back.”

The baby was whisked away to make room for another cup of tea and biscuits. When Ruma finally stood to go, a chorus of protests arose again. The circle of women, their hands constantly caressing, clustered around her as she made her way to the door. She turned for one last look, one last smile, before stepping into the empty courtyard. The door closed behind her.

She wandered down to the pond, recognizing landmarks from stories her father had told. Stooping, she splashed water over her hot cheeks, drying them on her scarf. She gazed across the water, knowing that in places it was too deep to measure. Here my great-uncle drowned when he was three. Turning, she climbed the steps and walked behind the house, touching the clay walls that housed chickens in cool, connected holes. Here my father ran his hand along the length of a sleeping python as he hunted for morning eggs. She counted fruit trees: thirty-two banana trees, seven guava trees, fourteen mango trees, countless coconut and lychee trees. Here, in the great storm of 1936, lightning destroyed the tallest mango tree in Poshora.

Jute fields stretched out to the horizon, thirsty for rain. Sitting on the stump of the dead tree, Ruma imagined the woman she might have become — a matron in an arranged marriage, dutifully bringing her children from her husband's home to visit Poshora.

Be thankful for freedom, the American dream, that independence you guard so fiercely, she told herself, trying to silence the raucous chorus of guilt, desire, and fear inside her head. These were familiar enemies, hurling their accusations each time she pushed David away. But now a new voice joined their clamor — the sharp staccato of envy. Envy of the woman she might have been, envy barking out the list of Ruma's losses. A community of decision-makers. The tutoring of tradition. Predictable rites of passage. A circle of connection. Gone, gone, all gone, with nothing new to replace them.

When she finally headed back to the bench, black crows rose from the trees, flying west against a fading sky, calling to one another. David stood up to meet Ruma, and so did the man.

“Ready to go?” David asked. He sounded eager.

Ruma turned to the Bengali man. “Do you have any old letters or papers that belonged to my family? I'd like to give them to my father.”

The man frowned. “We kept a trunk of some such things. Photographs, letters, school certificates. But nobody came for them.”

“May I have them?”

He hesitated. “My father took care of them,” he said.

Ruma came forward, caught and held the man's eyes. “What did he do with them?” she asked.

The answer came in a low voice. “He burned them.”

Nobody spoke.

“I am sorry for that,” he said finally, ending the silence.

Ruma stepped back then, and nodded. Their eyes met in one more unspoken exchange. Then she walked to the mango tree, leaving David to complete the elaborate courtesies of farewell. She plucked one yellow-green mango and held it in her palm. The fruit glimmered in the last light like a huge opal. Ruma peeled the skin back and took a bite.

“Are they ripe?” David asked, coming to stand beside her.

Ruma hurled the rest of the mango as far as she could. It landed with a distant, muted splash in the pond. “Not yet,” she answered.

Turning to face him, she gathered up his hands, one in each of hers, like one shy child inviting another to join a circle game.