You've been lost," she said. Which was more accurate and also, he registered, more generous than he probably deserved. "I was happy because the class is mine. And I am happy that you joined because you seem — you seem less lost. But Vikram." She looked at him with the direct, specific gaze of a woman who has waited a long time to say something important. "If you were unhappy, you could have told me."
"I didn't know I was unhappy. I thought I was managing."
"Managing," she said, with the tone that placed the word precisely in context. "We have been married thirty-four years and managing is not the ambition."
He looked at his wife. At the woman who reorganised her own shelf if she needed to, who sang in the kitchen when he wasn't listening, who made excellent shrikhand and had the patience of someone who understood that people came around eventually if you gave them enough time and enough shrikhand.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For the spice rack. And for Freddy."
"The spice rack I can forgive. For Freddy you have to come to class every Monday, Wednesday, Friday without complaint for six months."
