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of Technology in Delhi, earned a bachelor of science degree (with distinction!) in civil engineering—the most marriageable and marketable degree of his time—and now he wanted to do what? He wanted to enter the Indian Administrative Service, the IAS. The unimaginable: he wanted to shed the world of logical remuneration that had been planned for him, play the intellectual lottery of the civil service, become a babu . He wanted to shape cities, be a servant of the Public Works Department. Rakesh’s parents thought they had lost everything, and the exhaustion of keeping their only child on track as he veered away from them would have killed them if he hadn’t come in one day and said: “MamaPapa. I want to marry Rashmi.”
    He told them everything. His own revenge had failed him.
    Rashmi and Rakesh were married. The marriage had many highlights, yet nothing filled Rakesh with greater elation than sitting on the faux-throne during his wedding reception and having relative after relative come and pay obeisance (and cash, of course) to the stunning married couple. He liked sitting on the dais and hooking visitors with his eyes and then watching them proceed to greet him. It was a benign, harmless science, and yet—it required skill, to maneuver people, to engineer their fates in a way that was best for everyone. That was true engineering. Days later, he entered the room for the Administrative Service exam like a conqueror, smirking at the invigilator. But sitting at the desk, a married man, no longer a virgin, all he had were dreams of grandeur, images of gaunt architects poring over drafts of New Delhi and Chandigarh—his feet pattering alongside Rashmi’s through the perfect city. He was so in love that he failed the exam.
    Now, academically thwarted, he sent last-minute, desperateapplications to American colleges. He was accepted by the BR Institute in Vermont for a PhD in civil engineering. It wasn’t the best program but he went anyway. Rashmi enrolled in a journalism program at the same school and Rakesh acquainted himself with the vast boredom of suburbia and the glimmering perfection of American design. He disliked America; he felt self-conscious being the only Indian in a hundred-mile radius; he wished he could be back among Delhi’s teeming millions. Even Rashmi, comfortable in any setting, felt lonely. And then, deep into their first white winter, their longing for India exaggerated, both unable to handle the desiccation of central heating, Rakesh joked, “It’s too cold in this country to do it with a condom.”
    Nine months later they had Arjun.
    Arjun changed everything. If before Rakesh had felt obligated to stay in America (he wanted to prove to his father that he was responsible), in Arjun he found the perfect reason to return home—didn’t they want their son to be Indian? Didn’t his grandparents want a part in bringing him up? How would Rashmi cope on her own? But, surprisingly, Rashmi was the one who wanted to stay. She wanted clean air for her son (Delhi had made her asthmatic), safe roads, crisp winters, an idyllic American childhood. Rakesh told her there was no such thing—that she enjoyed being an exotic foreigner too much. Immediately he felt bad. Immediately she reminded him that if it weren’t for him, they’d never have moved.
    “I’m going for a drive,” she added.
    They’d been arguing all day.
    “Look, I’m sorry.”
    “There’s no point being sorry,” Rashmi said. “You’ve ruined the day. It’s the one beautiful Sunday we’ve had in months and it’s ruined. You want complete control. If you don’t get it, you’re like a child. You start snapping.”
    “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re not exotic at all. You’re a homely convent educated girl with B.A. and fair and lovely skin .”
    “Rakesh!”
    “I’m only joking, darling!”
    “I’m only going for a drive.”
    Rakesh held her playfully at the door. “Look. The