Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

“What is it dear?” Mrs. Solanki asks. “Are you going to be sick?”

Anju manages to nod as she stumbles out of the van.

“Rohit, go with her,” Mrs. Solanki says.

“Um, clearly she’d prefer another female to hold back her hair,” says Rohit.

Through the open windows, Anju can hear them arguing over who should go until Roy suggests that they both give her some privacy. She hurries up the road from which they came, her chappals flapping loudly. Anju can feel the anxieties shedding from her body like a snake writhing out of its old, translucent skins. Is this what it is like to travel in time — part of you pulled forward as if by a little girl’s hand, part of you floating above, watching from where the world is timeless?

As she rounds the bend, the woman in brown is there, farther away now but still trudging with her head down. Even from this distance, Anju can distinguish the clumsy braid.

Anju looks back over her shoulder. No cameras have followed. There is no one on this stretch of road but Linno and herself.

Finding her voice, Anju calls her sister’s name.

ND NOW LINNO IS STOPPED by the sound of a voice in her ear, as far and as close as a memory. She listens to the sizzle of insects in the leaves but, afraid to linger, she continues on. Already she spent every last ounce of strength to pull herself from the steps of the church, where the Kapyar must have thought her crazy. Hearing voices, maybe she is. The possibility makes her move faster, as though she might outrun her own mind. There was a time when she thought she heard her mother’s voice calling to her as if for dinner or a bath, and every time Linno strained to hear, she felt her heart straining as well, like a balloon stretched too thin, until she forced herself to stop remembering, forced herself to forget until.

Until.

Her name again. And breathing, heavy and not her own. She stops, sure that if she turns she will find that she is as alone as she ever was.

She turns around.

“Linno,” Anju says.

The distance between them is only as wide as a well. And in Linno, a familiar dizziness returns, from trying to net a butterflying hope. In a blink, this all could disappear.

“Anju?” Linno whispers. It is not possible. She blinks, and Anju is still standing before her. Anju’s eyes are bright and wet in a face much leaner than when she left. She takes a step forward.

“Oh.” Linno’s sound is no more than a sigh. “Oh,” she says, and they reach for each other.

I’d like to thank Nicole Aragi, whose energy and kindness inspire me always, and Jordan Pavlin, my wise and endlessly generous editor. Thank you to Leslie Levine and everyone at Knopf, and to Jim Hanks and Lily Oei for smoothing the process.

My gratitude to my teachers: those at the Columbia Graduate Writing Division, especially Nathan Englander, Jamie Manrique, and Alan Ziegler. Thank you, Anne Glosky. And to Frank X Walker and Kelly Ellis, who gave the first nudge.

Thank you to those who patiently walked me through their various worlds of expertise: Chandradasan, director of Lokadharmi Theatre Company; Prabuddha Kothari from Regal Cards; and Arlene Lyons, wizard of immigration law. I also drew from several articles in The New York Times , particularly “Dollars and Dreams: Immigrants as Prey” by Gary Rivlin and “Neighborhood Report: Jackson Heights; Landmarks Proposal Intensifies Debate Over Store Facades” by Jane H. Lii.

I owe much to those who have read this book in earlier forms: Jenny Assef, Karen Thompson, Sheela Maru, and Vivek Maru, from whom nothing escapes. And to Ragdale, for the space and time to begin.

To my extended families on both sides of the world, especially my ammachis, Rachel Kurian and Mariakutty Lukose, who have been generous with hymns and love. To Neena, for earlybird calls and sisterly guidance; Raj, caring brother and grill maestro; and the ever loyal Christine, who has read every single word.

And finally, to my mother and father, for wondrous stories and wisdom and figs. All my love and thanks for making each day a blessing.

Tania James was raised in Louisville, Kentucky, and is a graduate of Harvard and Columbia. She has published her work in One Story and The New York Times . She lives in New York City.