Ashima had felt a moment’s panic, a protective instinct, wanting to retract her offer, wanting the house to remain as it’s always been, as her husband had last seen it. But this had been sentimentality speaking. It is foolish for her to hope that the golden letters spelling GANGULI on the mailbox will not be peeled off, replaced. That Sonia’s name, written in Magic Marker on the inside of her bedroom door, will not be sanded, restained. That the pencil markings on the wall by the linen closet, where Ashoke used to record his children’s height on their birthdays, will not be painted over.
