It’s already the tenth of March, but there’s no stopping the snow pouring down from the Brooklyn sky. Thirteen of the fifteen winters we’ve spent in this country were in the South, where proximity to the Tropic of Cancer makes the climate milder—the winters, only slightly harsh. Like the winters in Delhi. What’s more? It’s over by the end of January. So, we aren’t quite accustomed to so much snow, or blizzards. I feel that snow, like the rain, is best enjoyed from behind a windowpane. It’s when you step outside that the cold really hits you. Last winter, I escaped to Australia alone on a seven-week lecture tour. It was an opportunity to sightsee around southeastern Australia while also dodging the sting of northern American winters. I’ve always been rather sensitive to cold. My wife, Kamalika, on the other hand, can’t stand the heat. In Houston, the temperatures would sometimes rise to tropical levels. On top of that, there were the hurricanes rushing in from the Gulf of Mexico—all fangs and claws bared. So, the weather seemed rather agreeable when we moved to New York from Houston, if only at first. My friend Jyoti is a long-time resident here, a busy doctor at the Bronx Hospital. He assured us that the weather would be pleasant from the middle of the Spring semester through to its end. At that time of the year, it’s lovely to drive down the wide, treelined boulevards to the north and south of the city.

So, did Brooklyn’s personality change this year? To me, she seems like a beguiling Jewish woman, veiled in mystery! Not only is it cold outside but there’s also some scattered wind. The strangest thing is that sometimes from the cold, there emerges a warm, golden day, like grilled shrimp straight from the oven. Then the overcoats, mitts and scarves are off. A vacation mindset seeps into me even though there’s none. I want to say to them, ‘No school or work today. Come, let’s drive up the highway towards Buffalo—our route peppered with scenic urban sprawls and watercolor villages. After a few happy, restful hours in a motel, in the morning we’ll grab some fat hamburgers from a fast food joint and, later, after a three- or four-course Persian dinner, return to our cubbyhole.’ But such fancies can’t even be uttered here, except on weekends. That kind of talk is unintelligible on this continent. But I’ve no taste for fun on a specific schedule. Obligatory relaxation isn’t relaxation at all!

Northern winters are like the dahi vadas my kshetri friend Burman’s wife makes—moist and heavy, filled with tart and spicy juice. Maybe it’s the tanginess in the weather that made me argue vehemently with Alexander the other day. I even ignored the warning signs in his wife Maryanne’s eyes. Alexander, Maryanne says, believes that Indians, particularly Bengalis, have a fiery temper. Indians that he can even distinguish between people from West Bengal and Bangladesh, between Gujarati- and Marathi speakers. He really should’ve studied anthropology. Actually, Alexander likes Bengalis and regularly praises the work of a former colleague, Anupam Dey Sarkar. Apparently, he’s never seen such a fine mix of intellect and imagination. But if he sees any signs of temper, he shuts down—somewhere deep within him, the doors close.

Maryanne, somehow, is partial towards me. She stands guard at those doors that are about to shut. I’ve never asked her why, but I think that she’s worried about her marriage. This chubby, silver-haired, middle-aged woman with a girlish face is Alexander Rutledge’s high school sweetheart. She didn’t get a chance to continue her education beyond high school, while Alexander went on to earn a fistful of prestigious degrees and is now the chairman of the Biochemistry Department at the New York Medical Center. Maryanne’s early life was spent working to support her husband’s higher education and raising their children. Her four children are all grownup, and it upsets her that she doesn’t get to see any of them even at Christmas. Unlike the youthful fifty-seven-year-old Alexander, Maryanne, also fifty-seven, is practically a geriatric. I often see Alexander act quite the Romeo around young female students and then, on his wedding anniversary, buy a diamond ring for his wife. A skilled player, he nimbly juggles both sides. Meanwhile, Maryanne often confides in me.

There’s a saying in Bangla that sums up Maryanne’s situation—‘Smiles and tears in equal parts, / So Ramsharma forecasts.’ She seems to have used up her quota of love in high school and now, her life is rather humdrum. It’s quite possible that to her I’m a symbol of steadfastness in men. Earlier, she would cross-examine me regularly, ‘You mean to tell me that there’s nothing between you and Sharon Gillery? That’s a lie! Perhaps you like women only from your part of the world. What about that doctor’s wife?’ And when she noticed my amused laughter, her face would fall. If all husbands had the same wandering eyes as Alexander, it might have been some consolation. Anyway, she’s keen on preserving my relationship with Alexander and expertly monitors my informal interactions with him. Let her. She may have her reasons. But I trespass deliberately into forbidden territory. What can Alexander do to me? Even after warning signals flicker in Maryanne’s eyes, I continue to debate him. And, in keeping with some fraternal code, Alexander also holds up his end. But should he turn frosty during our discussions, I make no promises to tone down my heated outbursts. In the end, no matter what, there will emerge from Maryanne’s pantry, a good whiskey on the rocks which will wash everything clean.

(Excerpted from Bani Basu's The Continents Between, translated from Bengali by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard; with permission from Penguin Random House India)