When they arrived home, Arjun ended their mutual brooding with a loud clang of the passenger door and jogged off toward the house. Mr Ahuja let it pass. The car was comfortable, its headlights fixating on the cracks in the driveway, the nocturnal chains of ants heave-hoing over hillocks of moss. Mr Ahuja adjusted his tired eyes to the squat off-white colonial house and his soaked collar to the rapidly-evolving tropical weather in the car. What a screw up. He was a fool to have waited so long to tell Arjun. To have waited till the point where his son had mastered the means, the vocabulary to hurt him back. Waited till the brink of his son's independence, offering this news like a parting shot.