Back home, in their cosseted life on their cul-de-sac, it was easy to pretend that life in the US was pretty and benevolent; hearing a story like Sunil’s blew open that myth, laid bare the fact that the comfort and luxuries enjoyed by the few—the fancy restaurants, the manicured lawns, the beautiful monuments, the movable feasts, the supermarkets fat with bacon and cheese and gourmet breads—were built on the backs of brown-skinned ghosts.
