Politics has been obsessing a lot of people lately, and Ursula K. Le Guin is far from immune to bouts of political anger. In an e-mail to me last winter, she wrote that she felt "eaten up" with frustration at the ongoing occupation of an eastern Oregon wildlife refuge by an armed band of antigovernment agitators led by the brothers Ammon and Ryan Bundy. She was distressed by the damage they had done to scientific programs and to historical artifacts belonging to the local Paiute tribe, and critical of the F.B.I. for being so slow to remove these "hairy gunslinging fake cowboys" from public property. She had been mildly cheered up, she added, by following a Twitter feed with the hashtag #BundyEroticFanFic. The high desert of eastern Oregon is one of Le Guin's places. She often goes there in the summer with her husband, Charles, a professor emeritus of history at Portland State University, to a ranch on the stony ridge of Steens Mountain, overlooking the refuge. She has led writing workshops at the Malheur Field Station, a group of weather-beaten buildings used mainly by biologists and birders, and published a book of poems and sketches of the area, with photographs by Roger Dorband, called "Out Here." She likes the awareness the desert gives her of distance, emptiness, and geological time. In a poem, "A Meditation in the Desert," she imagines a stone being "full / of slower, longer thoughts than mind can have." She has roots in eastern Oregon that go back to the early days of white settlement. Not long ago, she told me excitedly that she'd rediscovered records in the attic of her grandmother's childhood: "My great-grandfather, with my grandmother age eleven, moved from California to Oregon in 1873. . . . They drove three hundred and fifty head of cattle up through Nevada and built a stone house on the back side of Steens Mountain. I don't think he made a claim; there was nowhere to make it. He was one of the very first ranchers in what is still very desolate country."
In the winter of 2012, I travelled from New Delhi, where I grew up, to Calcutta to visit my cousin Moni. My father accompanied me as a guide and companion, but he was a sullen and brooding presence, lost in a private anguish. He is the youngest of five brothers, and Moni is his firstborn nephew--the eldest brother's son. Since 2004, Moni, now fifty-two, has been confined to an institution for the mentally ill (a "lunatic home," as my father calls it), with a diagnosis of schizophrenia. He is kept awash in antipsychotics and sedatives, and an attendant watches, bathes, and feeds him through the day. My father has never accepted Moni's diagnosis. Over the years, he has waged a lonely campaign against the psychiatrists charged with his nephew's care, hoping to convince them that their diagnosis was a colossal error, or that Moni's broken psyche would somehow mend itself. He has visited the institution in Calcutta twice--once without warning, hoping to see a transformed Moni, living a secretly normal life behind the barred gates. But there was more than just avuncular love at stake for him in these visits. Moni is not the only member of the family with mental illness. Two of my father's four brothers suffered from various unravellings of the mind. Madness has been among the Mukherjees for generations, and at least part of my father's reluctance to accept Moni's diagnosis lies in a grim suspicion that something of the illness may be buried, like toxic waste, in himself. Rajesh, my father's third-born brother, had once been the most promising of the Mukherjee boys--the nimblest, the most charismatic, the most admired. But in the summer of 1946, at the age of twenty-two, he began to behave oddly, as if a wire had been tripped in his brain. The most obvious change in his personality was a volatility: good news triggered uncontained outbursts of joy; bad news plunged him into inconsolable desolation. By that winter, the sine curve of Rajesh's psyche had tightened in its frequency and gained in its amplitude.