On the veranda overlooking the garden, the drive and the gate, they sit together on the creaking sofa-swing, suspended from its iron frame, dangling their legs so that the slippers on their feet hang loose. Before them, a low round table is covered with a faded cloth, embroidered in the centre with flowers. Behind them, a pedestal fan blows warm air at the backs of their heads and necks. The cane mats, which hang from the arches of the veranda to keep out the sun and dust, are rolled up now.
Pigeons sit upon the rolls, conversing tenderly, picking at ticks, fluttering.
Pigeon droppings splatter the stone tiles below and feathers float torpidly through the air. The parents sit, rhythmically swinging, back and forth. Uma comes to the door where she stands fretting. Uma twists her shoulders in impatience. In case Arun is cold in America.