Free Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri Page B

He did not know what he would do or say to Mrs. Das once they arrived at the hills. Perhaps he would tell her what a pleasing smile she had. Perhaps he would compliment her strawberry shirt, which he found irresistibly becoming. Perhaps, when Mr. Das was busy taking a picture, he would take her hand.
    He did not have to worry. When they got to the hills, divided by a steep path thick with trees, Mrs. Das refused to get out of the car. All along the path, dozens of monkeys were seated on stones, as well as on the branches of the trees. Their hind legs were stretched out in front and raised to shoulder level, their arms resting on their knees.
    “My legs are tired,” she said, sinking low in her seat. “I’ll stay here.”
    “Why did you have to wear those stupid shoes?” Mr. Das said. “You won’t be in the pictures.”
    “Pretend I’m there.”
    “But we could use one of these pictures for our Christmas card this year. We didn’t get one of all five of us at the Sun Temple. Mr. Kapasi could take it.”
    “I’m not coming. Anyway, those monkeys give me the creeps.”
    “But they’re harmless,” Mr. Das said. He turned to Mr. Kapasi. “Aren’t they?”
    “They are more hungry than dangerous,” Mr. Kapasi said. “Do not provoke them with food, and they will not bother you.”
    Mr. Das headed up the defile with the children, the boys at his side, the little girl on his shoulders. Mr. Kapasi watched as they crossed paths with a Japanese man and woman, the only other tourists there, who paused for a final photograph, then stepped into a nearby car and drove away. As the car disappeared out of view some of the monkeys called out, emitting soft whooping sounds, and then walked on their flat black hands and feet up the path. At one point a group of them formed a little ring around Mr. Das and the children. Tina screamed in delight. Ronny ran in circles around his father. Bobby bent down and picked up a fat stick on the ground.
When he extended it, one of the monkeys approached him and snatched it, then briefly beat the ground.
    “I’ll join them,” Mr. Kapasi said, unlocking the door on his side. “There is much to explain about the caves.”
    “No. Stay a minute,” Mrs. Das said. She got out of the back seat and slipped in beside Mr. Kapasi. “Raj has his dumb book anyway.” Together, through the windshield, Mrs. Das and Mr. Kapasi watched as Bobby and the monkey passed the stick back and forth between them.
    “A brave little boy,” Mr. Kapasi commented.
    “It’s not so surprising,” Mrs. Das said.
    “No?”
    “He’s not his.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Raj’s. He’s not Raj’s son.”
    Mr. Kapasi felt a prickle on his skin. He reached into his shirt pocket for the small tin of lotus-oil balm he carried with him at all times, and applied it to three spots on his forehead. He knew that Mrs. Das was watching him, but he did not turn to face her. Instead he watched as the figures of Mr. Das and the children grew smaller, climbing up the steep path, pausing every now and then for a picture, surrounded by a growing number of monkeys.
    “Are you surprised?” The way she put it made him choose his words with care.
    “It’s not the type of thing one assumes,” Mr. Kapasi replied slowly. He put the tin of lotus-oil balm back in his pocket.
    “No, of course not. And no one knows, of course. No one at all. I’ve kept it a secret for eight whole years.” She looked at Mr. Kapasi, tilting her chin as if to gain a fresh perspective. “But now I’ve told you.”
    Mr. Kapasi nodded. He felt suddenly parched, and his forehead was warm and slightly numb from the balm. He considered asking Mrs. Das for a sip of water, then decided against it.
    “We met when we were very young,” she said. She reached into her straw bag in search of something, then pulled out a packet of puffed rice. “Want some?”
    “No, thank you.”
    She put a fistful in her mouth, sank into the seat a little, and looked