The Way Things Were Read Online Free

lives on. Not this shabby Sovietic state the witch and her son want to shove down our throats.’
    ‘Careful, Raja saab,’ Tripathi said, and laughed. ‘You’ve only just arrived.’
    ‘The hell I care. By what I gather, I have more friends in jail than out. But, listen, Tripathi, we’ll have some good times together now that I’m here.’
    ‘Will you stay for a while this time?’
    ‘Maybe,’ Toby said with a grin. ‘Maybe for a long while.’ Then, recalling the secret cause of the elation he felt, he said, ‘Tripathi, tell me: did you see that lady sitting next to Isha Singh Aujla? The one in the green sari?’
    ‘Viski saab’s wife?’
    ‘Yes. No, I mean. Not her, but the one next to her.’
    ‘Her sister? Mishi madam, I think.’
    ‘Mishi? Is that her name?’
    ‘No. Uma, I believe. Odd choice of name for a Sikh girl. Punjabis, I tell you! They give a girl a name like Uma, then call her Mishi. Ishi and Mishi!’ Tripathi said and laughed. ‘Why? Some problem?’
    ‘No, no, nothing.’

Skanda is alone after what feels like days. And back in Delhi.
    He had feared dislocation, feared things not ringing true. But it had not been like that. From the moment he set eyes on the Tamas ā he had known a great sense of familiarity. And later, when they had all come down to the banks of the river – to the uninhabited left bank, at the shmashana ghat – and the Tamas ā was visible behind the veil of sooty smoke and orange oblation-fed fire, he had known a sense of purpose too. When in the hour before the cremation the sky darkened, robbing the river of its glitter and threatening rain, he had, despite the entreaties of the Collector to wait for the arrival of an important MLA, given the priest permission to begin. Just as well. For the MLA did not arrive for another hour. And by then it was dark.
    He had feared passivity, withdrawal, his tendency to retreat behind the walls of some inviolate system or structure; what his sister, Rudrani, angry that he was angry (for her not coming) had called his ‘little fortresses’. ‘That’s right. I’m really to learn how to take things head on from you, Mr Let-me-find-the-most-complicated-language-in-the-world-to-lose-myself-in – a dead one at that! – and-if-I’m-lucky-it-might-just-get-me-through-my-entire-life. Give me another one, Skandu. At least I have a relationship with a human being, someone I love; I have children. It could be said that I’m living my life. That I don’t want to come to India is my business. Everyone deals with these things in their own way. And Baba, more than anyone, would have understood.’
    But grief was not purely a private matter. There was Kalasuryaketu to think of. His father had made it clear what he wanted; and someone had had to execute his wishes. He, Skanda, had done that. He had cremated his father. He had watched as the fire rose and darkness fell; watched as the flames, overcoming their initial reluctance, coaxed the flesh off his father’s body. He had watched them make a cathedral of his ribcage and give to his mild face a fierce and aboriginal aspect. Then, when the priest instructed him, he, Skanda, had smashed open the back of his father’s charred skull, so that there would be an aperture for the spirit to escape its earthly prison.
    Had that not all been real life? What could be more real than death? And had he not lived through it? Had he not done all that was asked of him? He had taken his father’s body from Geneva to Kalasuryaketu, returned with his ashes in a terracotta urn so that they could be immersed at the Confluence.
    A message on Skype informs him, ‘Theo Mackinson is online’. He has been fighting to keep awake. Drinking black coffee, eating peanuts. Narindar has left him a Coke on the desk, his father’s old desk. And, in a moment, he brings up his class in New York on his computer. He can see them all ranged around a large brightly polished table: Liese, the yoga teacher; Diksha, the