“TIME, TIME,” CALLS A GUARD. She strides about the room, striking each bench with a stick. Our hour is over. My brother, Purnendu, stands up and lifts the cloth bag on his shoulder. “Next week,” he says, “and the week after that, and the week after that, for as long as it takes.” His words play in my ears with the sweetness of a flute. I watch him go, past a door which magically opens for him, and I turn back. Inside, a woman beats her head on the wall. Once, I might have felt that way too, but now I don’t. Now I float beside her, her scrape only hers, not mine. I am on my way out. As soon as
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