Excerpt from Seeking Fortune Elsewhere by Sindya Bhanoo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The worst would be if she had to split her time, I think to myself. A permanent temporary resident in two places.

"Neither," he says, his voice still quiet and conspiratorial. "She is moving back to Chennai. Her son and daughter are returning with their families, purchasing three side-by-side flats."

"But there are grandchildren?"

"Enrolling in our Indian schools."

Dr. Venugopal seems pleased that he has this information, that he is the one who is delivering it to me, Renuka's friend and witness to Mr. Swaminathan's death.

I have finished my food, and do not wish to stay through a second round of drinks.

"I am expecting a call from Kamala," I say, excusing myself.

Dr. Venugopal gives me a salute. "Best not to miss their calls. Otherwise, we may never catch them. Give her our regards."

I stand up and walk away. I hear Mrs. Venugopal say that Kamala lives in Alpharetta, and that Padmini lives in Buckhead.

"Thirty-minute drive," she says. "If there is no traffic."


When I get back to my flat, I call Kamala. It's Saturday morning there, one of the rare times I can be sure of reaching her.

"I had dinner with the Venugopals today."

"Lovely. I'm so glad you have friends there."

"I found out about a nice clothing store. We will go, you and me."

There is a pause, and then she says, "I may need to delay my trip."

"What for?"

"Work. What else?"

"We have a good Net connection. Come here and work."

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Forget about you," I say, unable to hide my frustration. "Do you ever plan to bring Veena here? Or will she always be too busy? She has not been to India since high school and now she is done with college."

"Of course she wants to come see you. Just not right now."

"Bring her to my funeral."

"Amma!" Kamala says.

I wish to hang up, but I think of my husband, and his palm on mine. I soften my tone. "How is Veena?" I ask.

Kamala sighs.

"Still trying to sort out her life. She has a temporary job at the Georgia Aquarium."

"Doing science work?"

"No," Kamala says. "She cuts up the food for the animals." Kamala goes on talking about her worries, how wayward Veena seems, but I stop listening.

I imagine my daughter's daughter as a butcher, chopping dead fish with bulging eyes for living fish with bulging eyes. I nearly comment that I know why Veena is so lost, how she needed her mother, how she still needs her mother. Maybe if you had not worked so much, I almost say. But once again, I remember my husband, the way he'd gently warn me to stop. I keep my mouth shut.

After Kamala, I could not have more children. My body tipped into menopause a decade earlier than expected, otherwise we would have given her siblings. But for Kamala, it was a choice. A second child would have been impractical, with her career to think of. The one to suffer was Veena, who spent all those hours in childcare, and then came home to that large, silent house, with all the toys and nobody to play with.

Now that I do not visit Alpharetta anymore—I find the journey far too draining—I must recall the house in my memory. The way the front hallway leads to the kitchen with the black-and-white granite counter, where, every day, I tried to make something tasty for Veena. How the family room is two carpeted steps down from the kitchen. How Kamala was always fearful I might trip on those steps. Halfway up the staircase to the upper level, there is a small landing, where Veena liked to launch marbles, to watch them roll and putter down the stairs.

When I close my eyes after hanging up the phone, I can hear the sound of Kamala's dishwasher, gushing and moaning late into the night, and her dryer, tossing clothes around and around.

From Seeking Fortune Elsewhere by Sindya Bhanoo. Used with permission of Catapult. Copyright © 2022 by Sindya Bhanoo.

This story was originally published in Granta magazine.