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now. But all I can remember is a line of faces uniformly Indian:
the women in mundu-veshti and laden with jewellery, and men in silk jubbahs and mundu. I can’t remember a white face, no, not even in the periphery of my vision. So why do I feel as though I know him?
    When I took his hands in mine, what was it about him that tugged at me, somewhere in the pit of my stomach? A sweeping tenderness that made me want to clasp him in an embrace. In my heart syllables tripped: Ajitha Jayahare Madhava …Krishna meeting his childhood companion Sudama after many years. Krishna the king who can read the woes of Sudama the pauper. Krishna, who forgets that his life is blessed with abundance while Sudama’s is cursed with emptiness. There is sanctity in the moment. All I can think of is, he’s here. I am Krishna. Or is he? Who is the blessed one? I do not know.
    For the past two years, Philip has mentioned him in his letters. His name is as familiar to me as the names of Thomas and Linda, Philip’s children. Is it just that? A bonding born of knowledge? That Chris prefers beer to wine; that he douses his food in hot sauce; that he tore a ligament last year playing tennis; that he is working on a travel book in which I am to feature. No, it isn’t that, either. I try to put it out of my mind. In my old age, I have discovered that the imagined and the real tend to cross over.
    But now, as he gently draws his cello out from the back of the car, it seems a gesture I ought to recognize. The squaring of shoulders, the tensing of his back, the tilt of his head. I think of a scene from Kalyanasougandhikam. Is this the unease Bheema felt, I wonder, when he found an old monkey blocking his way to the garden of divine flowers? Obstructing his path wilfully, as if to thwart his beloved wife’s desire to adorn her hair with the fragrance of the divine blossoms. Is this the feeling that crept up Bheema’s spine? That this is someone I ought to recognize. That we are more than we know.
    When Christopher shuts the car door with a backward heft of his hip, I am certain: I know him.
    Radha walks down the steps to where I am. Her gait is measured and languid. My niece bears on her face marks of dissatisfaction. It makes me sad.
    Some days ago, as I sat on my veranda chatting with her, I said, ‘Radha, do you know the significance of the katthivesham in kathakali?’

    She smiled as if to suggest that my question was a silly one. ‘Of course I do,’ she tossed back at me. ‘The villains of Indian mythology; the destroyers of all things good and noble. Isn’t that it?’
    ‘I don’t think you do,’ I said. ‘Ravana, Narakasura, Hiranyakashipu …you know why these demon kings are classified as katthivesham? They are men born with noble blood in them. They could have been heroes. Instead, they let their dissatisfaction with their destinies curdle their minds, and so they turned out arrogant, evil, demonic. Like you said, destroyers of all things good and noble.’
    ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Radha asked. Her eyes blazed into mine. Her voice was quiet and low but I could read the rage in them.
    I reached forward and touched her forehead with my index finger. Then I touched the skin around her nostrils.
    ‘The lines here speak of dissatisfaction. They could just as well be the white bulbs a katthivesham wears on his forehead and the tip of his nose,’ I said, trying to smooth the lines away.
    Radha brushed my finger away and got up. ‘Sometimes, Uncle,’ she said, ‘you let your imagination see things that don’t really exist. These lines, marks of dissatisfaction as you call them, are an indication that I am growing old. I should buy an anti-ageing cream. That’s what I need. Dissatisfaction! Why on earth would I be dissatisfied?’
    I did not want us to quarrel, so I let it rest. You cannot make someone see the truth unless they want to.
    Radha, my darling niece, my surrogate child, is not afraid of the truth. She has always