Fiction: A British man and Indian woman’s marriage is affected by their nations’ turbulent histories

We welcomed 1965 – with hopes and without fears. My final year in the postgraduate course was drawing to an end. I had several good offers from institutions in England and Europe. You were halfway through lectures and papers on international relations. There was plenty to study and discuss that tumultuous year. I advised you to apply to international organisations. You preferred to wait until the end of the academic year.

You told me, “My father will be able to guide me on this. So, let us wait until June.” You had a touching faith in your father’s wisdom.

That June came – but not in the manner we had anticipated. You received a letter from your father informing you that he was ill and was advised to rest. Your gentle mother tried to cope but she had never dealt with finances or taxes. Your younger brothers felt rudderless. Under the circumstances, he could not attend the Conference of Commonwealth Prime Ministers. I remember that June evening when you stood in abject misery near the LSE clock, where we always met after lectures.

“What is it, Madhusri?” I asked, an old familiar fear clutching my chest, a fear I seemed to have felt across...

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