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I loved her as much as our daughter Poornima did.I could never understand my wife Anita's motivation for looking for a job abroad, especially when the family property that I had inherited as an only child and my own income as a freelance writer for movies were more than enough for an above middle-class lifestyle. She was adamant - she had studied nursing, and she did not want to let it go waste. I allowed her.On this particular day, though, it seemed to me that I was more expressive about my sorrow than my nineteen year-old daughter was. That was strange, because I had always had the impression that she loved her mother more, evidenced by her joy when Anita came home almost every year. Maybe it was just resignation, I told myself, and perhaps a little of anger.The anger I could empathize with - Anita had missed our anniversary this year, and she would be missing Neem's (my nickname for her) birthday the third week. And as much as I wanted to rail at her and command her to leave her. I've had a hard day." I'm sorry," she spoke quietly, and was that a sob? "It's not very late; I thought you'd be awake." No matter," I said.There was another silence. I was not going to break it, after all, she had phoned me."If you're tired," she said more brightly, "I'll let you get back to sleep. Shall I phone tomorrow at a better time?"By now I was fully awake again."No," I sighed. "I'm awake now. Did you want to talk?" D'you think we could meet? I don't like talking on the phone." Yes, if that's what you want. Where are you?" London. Where are you?" Manchester. Shall I come down to London?" Since I've called you, I should come to you. I have next weekend free."I wondered afresh what her motives were, but remembering her, could not refuse. In any case I was now even more curious. We made arrangements for her to let me know when her train would arrive and I would meet her at Piccadilly Station.So on the following Friday, 27th April, I went for my run early, and early-afternoon I.
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