I grate my fingers on the underside of the sunmica table, asElevenguffaws at his joke. It’s unfunny, in a I-would-laugh-if-I-could-but-I-really-don’t-want-to kind of way, especially when he’s fifteen minutes late and the joke is at my expense. I look at him closely. Why am I doing this again?
He looks like a bloated version of a Bollywood heartthrob, which is his only redeeming quality. He looks thinner in his pictures. It’s early 2011; everybody looks thinner in their pictures in 2011. He’s short, but not too short. He’s fat, but not too fat. I am here, but I am not too here. He’s fun, but not too-
No, wait. He’s not fun at all. Do you know what I mean?
In a boxy apartment building in an American university town, Romola Mitra, a newly arrived young bride, anxiously awaits her first letter from home in India. When she accidentally opens the wrong letter, it changes her life. Decades later, her son Amit finds that letter and thinks he has discovered his mother’s secret. But secrets have their own secrets sometimes, and a way of following their keepers.
Amit does not know that Avinash, his dependable and devoted father, lurks on gay Internet groups at times, unable to set aside his lifelong attraction to men. Avinash has no idea that his dutiful wife had once romanced a dashing Bengali filmstar, whose memory she keeps tucked away in a diary amongst her silk saris.