Note sull'episodio
On the last night we ate at his table, the four of us, the dinner we had promised on a Delhi morning two years ago when the promising of it had felt like reciting a sentence in a language none of us yet spoke.
I remember the promising. It was early in the thaw, one of the first calls that had lost its blade, and somebody — Meera, probably, it is always Meera — had said the words the four of us should have dinner, the four of us, at our table, when you come south, and we had all agreed the way you agree to a thing you do not quite believe will happen, a thing that belongs to some better-behaved version of your family that exists only in the conditional tense. The four of us. At a table. It had sounded then like a foreign phrase you repeat after a teacher without understanding, the...
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