Song of Kali

by Dan Simmons

"She does speak Bengali, doesn't she?" Morrow had asked over the phone. "Sure," I'd said. Actually, Amrita spoke Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, and a little Punjabi as well as German, Russian, and English, but not Bengali.

"I wasn't talking about the weather," said Abe. "Although it's the hottest, most humid, most miserable goddamn hellhole I've ever been in. Worse than Burma in '43. Worse than Singapore in typhoon weather. Jesus, it's worse than Washington in August.

I've never been in a place that seemed as mean or shitty, and I've spent time in some of the great sewer cities of the world.

We lived in Boston, in an apartment where even the rats had to walk stoop-shouldered.

I immediately called Abe Bronstein to share the good news. Abe, who was as well known for never rising before ten-thirty in the morning as he was for his sense of good prose, congratulated me and gently pointed out that I had called at 5:45 A.M.

"During this time I quit attending classes at the university, and my grades rose from four Fs to three Bs and an A.

"'What in fuck do you fucking well think you're fucking doing?' The officer's broad helmet bobbed as he shouted. I thanked all of the gods that he was not a Sikh.

She had changed into shorts and a T-shirt that read A WOMAN'S PLACE IS IN THE HOUSE—AND THE SENATE.