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We shared a studio that was too small for one, let alone two plus too many cameras. We were so different that our attachment was a mystery to both of us: I loved studying, he had hardly finished high school; I was all about manners and rules, he recognized none; I worried about everything, he never did. I landed, terrified and drenched in mosquito repellent, in the fog of Delhi’s February nights. Once I cried a whole night about not being able to afford anything better than a filthy guesthouse. As someone who counted on her family for anything, it was impossible to even imagine how hard that must have been, so it filled my heart with joy hearing him call my mother “mamma.” A year after my first visit, I moved to Delhi. We had to leave our apartment, and our landlady insisted we owed her several months of rent. That he had not only lied to me, but to my family, caused me unbearable pain. My belligerent grandma had been through a lot — her father dying as a kid, the war as a teenager, her husband leaving her a widow in her early thirties, an earthquake destroying her home and her town in her late forties — far too much to concede to a romantic heartbreak.