One Amazing Thing by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

the damage, queasiness and guilt churning inside him, and as he did so, like echoes, he heard two other cries.
    One of them rose from Mrs. Pritchett, somewhere on the floor behind him. The other came from Lily, who was somehow in front of him. She launched herself at him, spitting expletives. Disgraceful, the language a young person used these days. Before he could turn away, her nails raked his cheek, leaving a line of burning. Heclapped his hand over it. Would it leave a scar? He had always been so careful with his face. It was the one thing that he had going for him, that had brought him this far. His life was unraveling. His god, his career, his reputation, his looks—they were all deserting him. He pushed Lily from him. She landed on the floor with a thump and a gasp, and then someone else was on him, pummeling furiously. Had everyone gone crazy? Through the rain of fists he saw Tariq’s face, so distorted with rage that Mangalam almost didn’t recognize him.
    “Hitting her after she risked her life!” Tariq panted between blows. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
    Mangalam wanted to point out that he had just been standing there. Lily was the one who ran up and attacked him. Did a man have no right to self-defense just because he was a man? He wanted to remind Tariq that he, too, had been part of the rescue team that had dug Tariq out. He, too, had—in his own small way—risked his life. But the moment was not suited to logical parley. He punched Tariq back, partly to protect himself and partly because it felt so good to finally do something. Hands were on them both, trying unsuccessfully to pull them apart. The alcohol gave him an exhilarating agility. He skipped from foot to foot and jabbed at Tariq’s face. But then his body betrayed him. He stumbled. Tariq wrestled him to the floor and grabbed his throat.
    “Don’t—ever—hit—her—again!” Tariq gasped.
    Bright swatches of color pulsed in and out of Mangalam’s vision. He thought he saw Malathi beating her fists on Tariq’s back, yanking Tariq’s hair, trying to get him off Mangalam. Would the world never cease to surprise him? He heard someone—it was the girl with the broken arm—crying, “Stop! What’s wrong with you? God! You’ve all turned into savages!” Somewhere in the back, the grandmother was keening. He didn’t understand the Chinese words, buthe knew it was a chant for the dead. Where was the soldier? What was the soldier’s name? The pressure on his throat made him forget. If Mangalam could only have called his name, the soldier would come. The ancient words fell, covering him, soft (he thought) as snow. When he’d been given this chance to start over in America, he had hoped to see snow, to lift his face to the swirl of flakes as he’d observed people doing in foreign movies. He had been disappointed to learn that snow almost never fell in this part of the country. That was his last thought before the colors pulsing in his eyes were suddenly switched off.

6
    U ma lay on a row of three chairs, using her backpack as a pillow. A sharp edge from inside the pack poked her neck; she suspected it to be her Chaucer. The pain was on its way back—she could feel its early forays in her bones. She shivered. The heating system had been broken for—was it thirty-six hours now? The room had grown very cold, and it didn’t help that water had seeped into her shoes.
    She longed to remember something beautiful and warm, and what came to her was a summer walk she had taken in the hills with Ramon. But before she could recollect anything more than a sloping trail of slippery orange gravel and a wicker basket filled with picnic supplies, a commotion rose in the room.
    She heard voices raised in protest and the unmistakable sound of a slap. Had they gone mad? Didn’t they remember their precarious situation? Lily ran past her. In the shaky ray of the flashlight, which Cameron had turned toward the quarrel, she saw Mangalam fling the teenager to