“I will move one bed into the other room for myself.”

He looked through the door beyond and glimpsed a room tinier and in worse condition, crowded by a cupboard (also with a suitcase on top), a rickety table, two chairs, and three rusting trunks stacked on a trestle.

“I am turning you out of your own room,” mumbled Maneck, the surroundings depressing him rapidly.

“Don’t be silly.” Her tone was brisk. “I wanted a paying guest, and it is my great good luck to get a nice Parsi boy — the son of my schoolfriend.”

“It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Dalai.”

“And that’s another thing. You must call me Dina Aunty.”

Maneck nodded.

“You can bring your things here any time. If you are not happy with the hostel, this room is ready — we don’t have to wait for a special date next month.”

“No, it’s all right, but thank you, Mrs. -”

“Ahn, careful.”

“I mean, Dina Aunty.” They smiled.

When Maneck left her flat, she began pacing the room, suddenly restless, as though about to embark on a long voyage. No need now to visit her brother and beg for next month’s rent. She took a deep breath. Once again, her fragile independence was preserved.

Tomorrow she would bring home the first batch of sewing from Au Revoir Exports.

I. City by the Sea

DINA DALAI SELDOM INDULGED in looking back at her life with regret or bitterness, or questioning why things had turned out the way they had, cheating her of the bright future everyone had predicted for her when she was in school, when her name was still Dina Shroff. And if she did sink into one of these rare moods, she quickly swam out of it. What was the point of repeating the story over and over and over, she asked herself — it always ended the same way; whichever corridor she took, she wound up in the same room.