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the door, holding a short-handled broom.
    Kavita watches Rupa speak to the old woman, but all she can hear is the ringing sound in her ears. Who will take care of my baby? This woman? Will she love Usha? Kavita’s mouth feels dry and dusty. The old woman gestures for them to follow her inside and leads them down the hallway to the end. A tall woman in a blue silk sari stands in the doorway of the office.
    “ Shukriya. Thank you, Sarla-ji. See you next time.” A man’s voice comes from somewhere within the small office. The tall woman turns to leave. In her elegant sari and diamond earrings, she looks as out of place in the orphanage as a Bengal tiger. Upon seeing the sisters, she smiles and nods slightly, then continues past them.
    Inside the office, a middle-aged man with a mop of black hair is squinting at a typewriter through horn-rimmed glasses. “Sahib,” Rupa says, “we have a baby for your orphanage.”
    The man looks up toward the door. His eyes focus first on Rupa, then on Kavita standing behind her, and finally rest upon the baby in her arms. “Yes, yes, of course. Please have a seat. I am Arun Deshpande. You must have had a long journey,” he says, noting their disheveled appearance. “Please, will you take some tea or water?” he asks, gesturing to the old woman to bring it.
    “Thank you, yes,” Rupa answers for both of them.
    At this small show of kindness, Kavita begins to cry silently, the tears tracing two lines on her dust-streaked cheeks. She is thirsty—yes, of course she is thirsty. Her head is throbbing from heat and hunger. Her feet ache with cuts and blisters from walking through the city. She is exhausted from the journey, and from the childbirth, and from the hours of labor before that. She has slept little in the past few days. She is tired from all this, and even more from the looks she has seen on so many faces she has encountered today, looks of shame.
    “Just a few questions,” he says, picking up a clipboard and a pen. “Child’s name?”
    “Usha,” Kavita says quietly. Rupa looks over at her, a startled sadness in her eyes.
    Arun makes a note. “Date of birth?”
    These are the last words Kavita hears clearly. She holds Usha close, the baby’s head tucked under her chin, and begins to sway slightly. In the distance, she hears Rupa answer him. Kavita closesher eyes, and her crying becomes louder until Arun’s questions and Rupa’s answers fade to a background murmur and she almost forgets they are there. She almost forgets where she is. Kavita continues like this, weeping and rocking, oblivious to the persistent ache in her pelvis, and the bloodied, cracked soles of her feet, until she is interrupted by Rupa shaking her shoulder.
    “ Bena, it’s time,” Rupa says, gently reaching for the baby in Kavita’s arms. And now, all Kavita can hear is screaming. As she feels Usha pried from her hands, she hears only the screaming inside her head, then the shrieks coming from her own mouth. She hears Usha wailing. She sees Rupa yelling at her, watches her mouth moving, making the same silent words over and over. She feels Rupa firmly pulling her up by the shoulders and pushing her down the hallway toward the front door. Kavita’s arms are still outstretched, but they hold nothing. After the metal gate clangs shut behind them, Kavita can still hear Usha’s piercing wail echoing inside.

8
OUT OF OPTIONS
    San Francisco, California—1984
S OMER
    “H ONEY, DID YOU HEAR ME ?” K RIS HOLDS BOTH OF HER HANDS in his lap as they sit facing each other on the sofa in their living room. Somer tries to recall what he just said.
    “I said, we have other options,” he says.
    She looks around the room and notices he has lit some candles and drawn the window shades. A bottle of red wine and two glasses sit on the coffee table, next to a thick brown envelope. She hears the sounds of rush hour traffic and the N-Judah streetcar squealing outside. When did all this happen? Wasn’t it just an