Hori. No, it's Henry. His great-grandmother had named him after a 'distant' relative she 'allegedly' had an affair with.
She had told her daughter-in-law, Henry's grandmother, on a slow, hazy night sitting by the window of their two-storey, five-room hovel next to the pond. The local boys were smoking their charas right below the window, sitting on their haunches by the water, puffing and passing. The smoke drifted up, mixed with the smell of putrefying water hyacinths and fried fish.
That shit got great-grandmother high enough to start talking in slow mumbles about her life 'on that side of the border.' Henry's grandmother would sit on the floor, mending a shirt or five, listening to her mother-in-law talk about gold, silk, and tussling with her third-cousin twice- removed from her father's side, behind the outhouse, a month after her marriage.
Sometimes she would say that it happened 50 years ago, sometimes she would say 20. On some other days, especially in winter, mixed with a little bit of brandy, she would say that it happened last month.