Almost as one, the women put their heads down and gathered their children close. Trouble was easy to come and hard to leave, and no one wanted to be denied water.

When his mother told him she bought fresh mango from the fruitwala, he turned back to look at her. She was draped in the same emerald green silk saree she had worn on the day she died in a car accident some sixty years ago.

Rani Amma’s voice rose to cracking point and Kasturi jumped in to soothe her, saying: “A few things, Akka. Don’t let her eat papaya. That papaya tree in your backyard, cut it down at once.”

It’s a cold winter night. The cars on the freeway come and go like waves. The lights from the George Washington Bridge reflect off the Hudson River like the shine in glassy eyes.

Pepe knew it was a matter of time before he caught his own disease from the mines. That did not bother him. His father used to tell him that dying was inevitable and something must bring death to a man’s doorstep. His parents were hacked down like trees on their way to the farm three years ago. A militia group had been prowling the forest.

She toured The Maze looking for laughs. She stopped in front of a video of a large teenage girl wearing a short skirt who didn’t realize a camera was videotaping her large granny underwear as she climbed up the stairs.