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It was the start of June, and rainclouds had begun gathering over the Brahmaputra. The university campus was cloaked in mist, with raindrops dripping from the aged teak leaves. Dhruba Sir stood in the veranda of the department, sipping lal chah, reciting bits of Jyoti Prasad Agarwala’s poetry in his head.
That morning, she walked into his class.
Karabi wore a Mekhela Chador with small blue floral prints, her hair braided loosely, a notebook hugged to her chest. She was late, rain-soaked, and out of breath.
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Bernhard Singer
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