Leena Sanzgiri

By the time I met Mr. Negandhi, the family home had been crumbling for years. My parents and I were seated in his office as his assistant pulled out enormous files. Mr. Negandhi was in his eighties and had been representing the Sanzgiris for two generations. We were finalizing the sale of Shiv Kunj, meaning the House of Shiva. Once a luxurious Mumbai bungalow, it was now only regularly inhabited by ageing servants, monsoon rats, and the ghosts of the Sanzgiris who died there prematurely.

Mr. Negandhi looked about as decrepit as the house had become, but he was still a sharp lawyer. I’d heard lore of his wit and sarcasm.Upon introduction, he immediately asked me, “Are you married?”

“No,” I replied, irritated.

He snorted. “This one won’t get married. There’s always a Sanzgiri woman who doesn’t.”

My mother gave a defensive retort I can’t recall; my father, oblivious, remained absorbed in paperwork; and my mind drifted to the woman who had recently lived out Negandhi’s prophecy. Nayana.