The monsoon blows down from the high northeastern bluffs. There is often flooding. It will creep through doors and straight into parlors. You could tread a meter of it on the way to work.

Prithviraj walks past a patrolman encased in camouflaged armor and sees himself all burly and wild in the officer's shield. Sometimes there are batons in the police's hands, sometimes tear gas guns, sometimes M16s, depending on how rowdy the riots get. Prithviraj nudges his way to a fruit stand. He gropes at a peach and his thumb nearly goes clear through it with hardly any pressure. The peaches have turned to muck. Parallel are the oranges, firmer to the touch, still on the verge of rotting. The best are the apples. They will survive the trek home.

For a beat Prithviraj envies the clerk, who, sheltered by a tarp, blabbers carefree with drenched customers. Prithviraj considers making some joking comment but changes his mind. He pays, thanks the clerk, and immerses himself back in the throng.

Lightning flashes white against vehicles crammed bumper-to-bumper. Thunder booms, then vibrates. Pedestrians dance in puddles and roll in mud and lay out jugs that brim fast. A woman stops next Prithviraj as he waits at the crosswalk. He turns to her and she is Ucchal.

She grins at him. "Lovely day."

He scoffs. "Not really. Not in the slightest."

A ball bounces across a rooftop with a splat, splat, splat. The little lighted pictogram man on the traffic signal at the other end of the street blinks from red to green.

Ucchal's grin fades. "No. It quite isn't."

She stares at Prithviraj in the rain and the rain stares as well.

He crosses the street hurriedly, his thumbs pressed into his palms.

She doesn't cross with him, but she never stops staring.

He changes his clothes and settles on his bed with the pillows propped to support his back. He touches his cigarette to flame. The butt flares. He lets his body sink into the mattress, taps his cigarette on an ashtray. He brushes a book since it's already dusty although it has hardly been left sitting twenty-four hours. He holds it open, close to his face, because he's nearsighted but can't be bothered to purchase glasses.

A cell phone vibrates across the floor. He grimaces at Madam's number, takes the call, only listens, and hangs up.

He finds Yashvi watching the sky water the city.

"Why have you come here?" He munches his sandwich and swallows hard. "You shouldn't be on the balcony."

"I'm counting the rain," she answers, "and I won't miss a drop."

There are innumerable crumbs in his mustache. "Would you rather be beaten here or inside?"

"Can't we enjoy the view first?" She focuses on the traffic crawling five stories below, each car going in a different and yet somehow the same direction.

The big man nods. "That sounds like a pleasant thing."

He sits with her and together they listen to the cover tink above them.

"Have you noticed the moon has spots?" Yashvi queries.

Prithviraj nibbles his mustache. "I suppose that's why it's called cheese."

"I believe so."

"Sometimes there's a halo around the moon. Have you noticed that?"

"I have, now that you mention it."

"Itty bitty ice crystals form rings of clouds that refract and reflect." He gestures in demonstration. "That's what the halos are."

"Wow."

"Yeah, huh? Wow."

"I wish I lived on the moon."

"Really?"

"I would howl at the earth, give wolves a run for their money."

Prithviraj laughs raggedly. The air grows heavy with words unsaid.

"This is a broken life we live," he murmurs. "We're just trying to get by. It's no consolation to you, but it doesn't have to be. Truth is I'd kill you in a heartbeat if it meant protecting my own children. If my daughter was where you are, it'd devour my soul. But you're not my daughter."

So the rain sings in the alleys, rushes upon the street-strewn costumes of dead escorts, and steadily dilutes the glitter and the blood.