Free Partitions: A Novel by Amit Majmudar Page B

scar.”
    Her voice, when she is dealing with Saif, takes on a haggling hardness, at odds with how she speaks to my twins. “What will I do with two?”
    “Shanaaz bibi, they are Hindu boys, clever Hindu boys. In two years, they will manage your money for you. You know how they are—wherever they go, the house fills up with gold. In ten years, I will come visit you in a new haveli, and then we’ll talk.” He can tell she isn’t persuaded, so he looks at the boys. “Boy, what did your father do for a living?”
    Keshav answers him.
    Saif smiles at how well the gamble of posing the question has worked. His teeth show crooked, stained. The two front ones chipped sharp. “Did you hear that? A doctor.”
    The widow Shanaaz covers her mouth. “Your father wasn’t Dr. Munshi, was he? The one who had his clinic near the old fort?”
    Shankar shakes his head. Keshav declares, still more boldly, “Our father was Dr. Roshan Jaitly.”
    Hearing my name in his voice dizzies me. This is the first time either son of mine has said my whole name out loud. I was gone before I could sound it out and have them repeat it. Sonia must have taught them.
    “And your names?”
    “Keshav.”
    She nods and murmurs “Qasif,” as if she were repeating what he said. “And yours?”
    Shankar doesn’t answer, worried, nervous about relinquishing his name.
    “My brother’s name is Shankar.”
    The name is not as easy to revise to her liking. She pauses and strokes Shankar’s cheek.
    “How many years apart are you?”
    “We’re twins.” Keshav sounds almost angry. “Can’t you see?”
    Saif Nasir laughs. The widow does not turn to him. “When did you boys eat last?”
    “Shanaaz bibi, it is getting late. Take them both for now. There are places that will take the one you don’t want. I’ll come back tomorrow morning. But before I go…”
    She turns sharply and puts her finger to her lips. “I’m bringing it, I’m bringing it.” Through the doorway, they see her lantern throw and stretch shadows, which jag across the wall and settle upright when she sets it flat. There is the scrape of a chest or safe pulled out from under a bed. I know Saif’s mind. He is speculating how easy it would be to bludgeon the widow and take what is in her little trove as soon as she tugs the lock and slides it up and around and off.… All his. Qasim would do it, maybe, with the city wild as it is. Not in more orderly times and not in daylight. Saif prefers a transaction, prefers earning his money—either off a silly widow who wants a boy to spoil, or out of the mouths and pockets of the dead.
    She counts him out the money, even though she counted it once inside already. Her bad eyes squint at each note tilted to the lamplight. The boys watch, not understanding, in spite of what they have overheard. Saif holds his hand out patiently for each note, pockets them, and skips past the boys, rubbing Shankar’s head. The gate’s catch lowers behind them. The widow waves them in.
    *   *   *
    Nightfall. Simran listens to the darkness. How noisy the hot night is, insects clicking, shirring. But no shout, no crack, no crush of leaf. The only hint of her a burble in her stomach, and the realization, after she holds her breath to listen more closely, how loudly she has been breathing. The milk had left a line of white where it touched her upper lip, still partly there in spite of her sleeve, but the afternoon sweat diluted and washed it away. That trace of tainted milk and her own salt are the closest thing to food or drink she has had all day.
    Now that she is alone and in darkness, she sees, undistracted by earth and sky, what it is she has done. To have set off like this—where? To have detached herself. It’s a kind of suicide. Leaving her family, she has left the caravan. Crowded city or empty desert were the same to a woman who had no family. That should have been the end, back there in the hot closed room, sleepy with morphine and scarcely