Excerpt from Ghachar Ghochar by Vivek Shanbhag, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I remember clearly what we spoke about the last time we met. She told me about a woman who had been turned out of her house in the middle of the night by her mother-in-law. While the woman shivered outside, her husband and his parents and sister all slept warm in their blankets. She'd sat there, hearing her husband's snores through the window. At dawn she hid her shame from the milkman by pretending she was waiting for the milk. Chitra's voice grew in shrillness as she described the woman's plight. "I'll make sure that husband and mother-in-law see the inside of a jail," she swore. "I must discuss the case with our lawyer before he leaves for home," she said and got up. She touched me lightly on the shoulder, said, "Bye dear" as she always did, and left. It's all hazy now when I try to remember if I knew then that it was over. I do recall that I sat there quietly for a while after she left. I didn't show up at our usual time the next day. Or ever after. Chitra may have asked Vincent about me; I don't know. She probably realized I was avoiding her and never tried to get in touch.

As I sit here in Coffee House today, my mind is more disturbed than usual. If I can recognize it, so can Vincent. He knows I'm eager to talk to him, and he comes to my table of his own accord. I tell him: "Another lemon soda, please." He goes away after giving me a look that seems to say, "Is that really all?" In front of me, the girl finishes her gin and tonic with a couple of gulps and stuffs her books into her bag.

My mobile phone rings, startling me. Must be from home. It's been thirty hours since I left, and I'm worried about what news the call might bring. I look at the phone—an unknown number. I answer with some dread. It's someone asking if I want insurance. "No," I say curtly, and put the phone back in my pocket.

Vincent brings over a tray with a glass containing a mixture of lemon juice and salt, a bottle of soda, a tiny bowl with slices of lemon, and a long spoon. He places the tray's contents on the table with great deliberation. He produces an opener from somewhere in his cummerbund and pries open the bottle cap. As he pours, the foam comes gushing up in the glass. Vincent waits longer than necessary between pours of the soda, as if buying me time. I can pretend all I want, but how can I possibly hide from this all-knowing man the fact that I'm desperate to unburden myself?

From Ghachar Ghoch: A Novel by Vivek Shanbhag and translated by Srinath Perur, published by Penguin Books. Copyright © 2013 by Vivek Shanbhag; English language translation copyright © 2017 by Srinath Perur.