PANDEY’S BODY was cremated on the banks of the Bagmati River. As he had no sons, his closest nephew, a man Goma and Nalini barely knew, performed the rites. He lit the fire that quickly engulfed Mr. Pandey’s body on the funeral pyre, made of fresh wood. Ramchandra watched the smoke drift up to the cloudy Kathmandu sky, and tried to formulate some wisdom about the nature of death, but the words became entangled with the memories of how Mr. Pandey had treated him. He looked at the windblown face of his wife, and he tried to gauge her feelings. He’d never heard Goma speak fondly of her father, although there was no question that she respected him, perhaps was even in awe of him. Did she love her father? Was it a dutiful love rather than a genuine one? But—and here Ramchandra’s heart sank—did Sanu feel the same way about him? His daughter, standing near him, appeared to have grown into a woman in the past few weeks, a wise young woman with a sad understanding of how the world worked.
