Excerpt from An Unrestored Woman by Shobha Rao, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

He reached for her absently, as if reaching for fruit on a high branch. For fruit he barely wanted to eat. It occurred to her in that moment that her husband had not died. He had not. And that her life had taken yet another turn: she was no longer a widow. Neela also knew that from then on she would remain a fruit her husband didn't really want to reach, that he would watch ripen and fall with only a vague and stolid interest. She heard the laughter of the women in the camp. The sound came to her as if through a long and airy tunnel. She listened for Renu's. What reached her instead was Babu's voice saying, "Get your things. The bus leaves in ten minutes."

* * *

This time the bus ride seemed much longer than four hours. Neela was crushed against the window on the women's side of the bus. A fat mother with both children perched on her lap sat next to her. The older of the two children—a boy who Neela guessed was two or three—kicked and dug sharply into Neela's thighs. When Neela asked the woman to watch her boy's legs, she turned and glared at Neela and said, "Watch yours." Neela strained her neck trying to spot Babu, but he was too far back, on the men's side.

Near Rangarh the woman and her children disembarked and an old woman with gray-blue hair sat next to Neela. She held a small bundle in her lap close against her chest. Even on the dusty and crowded bus Neela could smell the clean, scrubbed scent of the old woman's skin, with only the slightest hint of sweat, almost pleasant, in the din of the bus. Neela turned and looked out into the endless landscape of dirty fields and sparse, drooping trees. She closed her eyes. When she opened them the sun was setting; she must've dozed off. She noticed the old woman with the gray-blue hair leaning toward the man in the seat across from theirs, in the opposite aisle. He too was old. Neela pretended to be adjusting the bag at her feet to hear what they were saying. "They were plump, for the season," the man was saying.

"We should've bought more," the woman said, "I could've sent pickle to the girls."

The old man leaned closer. Neela realized they were husband and wife. "Rajan's coming by next week for the receipts. I'll tell him to bring another bushel."

"I thought he got them last week."

The bus bounced over a pothole. The old woman hugged the bundle closer.

"Did you take your medicine?"

"No, not yet," the old woman replied.

Neela turned toward the window. The landscape was the same though the wind had changed direction. She thought again of turning, looking for Babu, smiling, but she didn't. She only screened her eyes, shielding them from the dust.

* * *

The hut was just as she'd left it. Babu's pants still hung from the nail by the door. The reed mats were still folded neatly in the kitchen. The bag of rice stood untouched. Even the banyan tree looked as if not a wisp of wind had troubled it in the nine days Neela had been gone.

For dinner that night she made rice and dal and subzi with the eggplant Babu had purchased at the market on their way home from the bus stop. After they'd eaten she made two cups of tea and took them out to the banyan tree. Babu was sitting cross-legged beneath it. Earlier she'd noticed his eyes glisten with tears when he'd discovered that the police hadn't lied: his mother was dead. He'd stood at the door, stolen one quick glance at Neela then left the hut without a word. Now he was bent over something she could not see. When she handed him his tea she saw that it was her mangal sutra. She sat down beside him.

Babu took a sip of his tea. "I'm glad I found you," he said.

Neela turned to look at him. He was? A sudden warmth flooded her. Her fingers gripped the cup tighter as her thoughts tumbled and tripped over each other. She'd been wrong. He cared for her after all. He'd been lonely too. He just hadn't known how to show it but now he would. Now they'd show each other.

Excerpted from An Unrestored Woman by Shobha Rao. Copyright © 2016 by Shobha Rao. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.