A memory: It is 1978 or ’79, and I am about eight or nine. My father has returned from a business trip. His bags are still in the car, and a glass of ice water is sweating on a tray on the dining room table. It is one of those blistering afternoons in Delhi when the ceiling fans seem to slosh heat around the room, making it feel even warmer. Two of our neighbors are waiting for him in the living room. The air seems tense with anxiety, although I cannot discern why.
