“If this story was a stack of photographs – the old kind, rounded at the corners and kept in albums under the glass and lace doilies of center tables in parlors across the country – it would start with Vivek’s father, Chika. The first print would be of him riding a bus to the village to visit his mother; it would show him dangling an arm out of the window, feeling the air push against his face and the breeze entering his smile.”
