The dream haunted her. Several times, she caught herself thinking about it; in the middle of her cooking, her washing. But try as she might, she came no nearer to an understanding of her unease.
Vaguely she discerned that the root of it lay in the increasingly bitter quarrels that had begun. It was then that she had started seeing the dreams.
Kamala dreamt it again that night. She was standing with her daughter before the dark doorway of the house. Rohini slips from her grasp and runs in shouting Baba Baba, where are you! She runs after her. Inside, the walls are weeping and mouldy. She holds her struggling daughter fiercely, almost cruelly, as the windows swing open letting in a blast of wind; she can hear a howling outside, she flails at the window. Three black Ambassadors are crouched before the porch. Another snarls up, horn blaring, tires screeching; followed by another, and still another, until, as far as the eye can see, the ground is flooded by a sea of cars with steaming black bonnets.
Then she woke up.