His father grew quieter still, then one afternoon simply did not wake. Ramesh washed his hands, closed the shop, and sat with the MP3 player on his lap. The refrain rose: “Poo maname vaa.” It felt less like a plea and more like a benediction. He thought of the uncle who’d mailed the tape, of the woman on the bridge, of the strangers who'd become part of the shop’s morning traffic. Grief, he realized, was not a single sound but a chorus.