It had been three months since the last time I heard Om Sagda’s screams. I marked those empty days on the calendar.

He struts in front of us, clutching his bible under one arm and beating the air with his other hand. He tells us not to be weary, that in due season we will reap the rewards of our faith. Amid the gathering, three people pump their fists in the air. Yes, lord! Tell them, sir! …

1. It’s midnight. I’m sitting on the veranda drinking cardamom coffee, trying hard not to call Chris. “Don’t call him and accuse him,” my therapist says. “That will only make things worse.” She suggests filling my mouth with water and keeping it there. “Bite your tongue if you feel you might say something that will …