The True Margaret
The New Yorker|August 14, 2023
Meera was recalling the tragedy of her first marriage. Married off to an Indian doctor in 1959, she had moved to London only to discover that her new husband, Ravi, already had a wife in the city.
Karan Mahajan
The True Margaret

Ravi didn't wait long to tell her. It was the night that Meera and he arrived in London, haggard from their two-day honeymoon in Jaipur, where an overenthusiastic bearer woke them every morning at six with bed-tea. Then, on a connecting flight from Cairo, they had dozed, their heads forming a tent against the propeller roar, and now, in Earl's Court, the street below empty save for murmuring students and a chestnut seller with a scratchy voice, they stayed awake into the night. Ravi showed her around the sparse, drafty top-floor flat and plugged in the three-bar fire. Then he began speaking to her in a businesslike way, a tone she'd never detected before in his arsenal of charm.

"I suppose, dear, we might as well discuss the issue at hand," he said. Casually he brought up the fact that he was already married to a woman in England, Margaret, a nurse. "I can only be half a husband," he declared. "I owe a responsibility to this woman. You see, when I was lonely and sad in this new country, she was of great ... assistance... to me, and I am like a father to her two children. No, let me finish. You see, there was no circumstance in which I could inform my family in Amritsar about her. People there don't understand these distances-the new world you and I inhabit." Ravi was a tall man with aristocratically weatherbeaten skin. He stooped more and more as he spoke, clutching the daggers of hair at the back of his neck, one eye twitching a little, the whites embroidered with rivulets of red, even as his voice remained deliberate. "You must realize, Meera, it was a very difficult circumstance for me. When a man is cast away from home, he needs an anchor to keep his ship in port."

Meera stood on her toes. Swaddled in several hand-knit pullovers, she reached up and touched his face.

Ravi looked as if he were going to sneeze but then relaxed.

Bu hikaye The New Yorker dergisinin August 14, 2023 sayısından alınmıştır.

Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.

Bu hikaye The New Yorker dergisinin August 14, 2023 sayısından alınmıştır.

Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.

THE NEW YORKER DERGISINDEN DAHA FAZLA HIKAYETümünü görüntüle
YULE RULES
The New Yorker

YULE RULES

“Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point.”

time-read
6 dak  |
November 18, 2024
COLLISION COURSE
The New Yorker

COLLISION COURSE

In Devika Rege’ first novel, India enters a troubling new era.

time-read
8 dak  |
November 18, 2024
NEW CHAPTER
The New Yorker

NEW CHAPTER

Is the twentieth-century novel a genre unto itself?

time-read
10+ dak  |
November 18, 2024
STUCK ON YOU
The New Yorker

STUCK ON YOU

Pain and pleasure at a tattoo convention.

time-read
10+ dak  |
November 18, 2024
HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG
The New Yorker

HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG

Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.

time-read
10+ dak  |
November 18, 2024
REPRISE
The New Yorker

REPRISE

Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.

time-read
10 dak  |
November 18, 2024
WHAT'S YOUR PARENTING-FAILURE STYLE?
The New Yorker

WHAT'S YOUR PARENTING-FAILURE STYLE?

Whether you’re horrifying your teen with nauseating sex-ed analogies or watching TikToks while your toddler eats a bagel from the subway floor, face it: you’re flailing in the vast chasm of your child’s relentless needs.

time-read
2 dak  |
November 18, 2024
COLOR INSTINCT
The New Yorker

COLOR INSTINCT

Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.

time-read
10+ dak  |
November 18, 2024
THE FAMILY PLAN
The New Yorker

THE FAMILY PLAN

The pro-life movement’ new playbook.

time-read
10+ dak  |
November 18, 2024
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
The New Yorker

President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.

On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.

time-read
8 dak  |
November 11, 2024