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Authors: Aatish Taseer
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approached. Nixu, on seeing him, sang, ‘There was a rich Maharaja of Magador . . .’
Bapa heard and came over. Making a little napkin dance by its corners, he sang in a strong tenor, ‘Who had ten thousand camels and maybe more.’
Nixu snatched the napkin, and flourishing it over his head, went on with abandon, ‘He had rubies and pearls and the loveliest girls.’
Then they slipped their arms into Mahijit’s.
‘But he didn’t know how to do . . . ?’
Mahijit, who’d clearly been through this many times before, looked straight at Toby, and muttered deadpan into his moustache, ‘The rumba.’
At which, Bapa and Nixu laughed and laughed, till they had tears in their eyes.
Mishi had seen Toby come in. They had stopped just short of meeting each other’s gaze. Or had they? It was hard to tell. There were such treacherous currents swirling around them that evening. Gayatri, for one, she could see, would sooner die than let him come over to her. She was, at that very moment, probably saying: ‘Oh, some little air hostess, I don’t know. Vapid as hell. I don’t know why Bapa invites this lot . . . The B-team, if you ask me.’
And how could she, Mishi, just go over? Her boldness from earlier that day had deserted her.
She sat with Isha and Chamunda, whose large solemn eyes grew wider and wider, as her boyfriend, the green-eyed Ismail, gave a long praising account of the Emergency, interspersed with the filthiest language:
‘This madarchodh country, you think it can be ruled by anyone not willing to, bhenchodh, give it to them in the gandh? For centuries they’ve, bhenchodh, been getting it up the you-know-what, had people rogering the hell out of them. Country with her damn legs open. Lying back, and enjoying herself. You think they understand any other language here? Let me tell you: they don’t. And, let me tell you also, it was not her idea; it was his. It was her son, my friend, who finally decided that, bhenchodh, enough is goddam enough. Have to take this place into hand. Give this swine JP any more rope, and he’ll, bhenchodh, hang the lot of us with it. Democracy-shamocracy, it’s a damn good thing this has happened. The guy’s a visionary. He’ll whip this namby-pamby country into shape, you watch. Give him five years. Bloody place will be looking like Singapore.’
Chamunda had her bare feet on a stool, and though she remained perfectly still through this torrent, her dark toes, with their rings of faded gold, occasionally twitched, as if out of nervousness. She was beautiful, but her self-confidence had been damaged in a bad marriage. It had left her the kind of woman who either sought out men like Ismail, who were rough and abusive and treated her a little badly, or settled for men so tame and domesticated that she soon tired of them and was forced to have affairs on top of her affairs, forced to find new lovers to compensate for the inadequacies of her existing lovers.
Mishi, until now, had shown an exaggerated interest in the conversation. She laughed at key moments, energetically asked questions: the kind of thing we do, when our night has a secret purpose and we don’t want to be found out. But, as the evening wore on, and dinner was served, and the lights guttered with a fluctuation, and an even layer of noise and laughter began to settle over the room, a mild depression took hold of her. She began to doubt anything would happen. She began to feel she had misjudged the situation. To be sure, she had felt his eyes on her through the lecture; and, later, when she had come up to him, she was certain she had seen something dazzled and grateful in his expression. He was speechless, and she was the cause, she knew. But had it been only temporary? Had he arrived at Bapa’s, seen his friends, and changed his mind? Perhaps he was already committed, attached, and his reaction had been that of a helpless man. There had been no time to speak to Viski about it. But, surely, if this man was
Bapa heard and came over. Making a little napkin dance by its corners, he sang in a strong tenor, ‘Who had ten thousand camels and maybe more.’
Nixu snatched the napkin, and flourishing it over his head, went on with abandon, ‘He had rubies and pearls and the loveliest girls.’
Then they slipped their arms into Mahijit’s.
‘But he didn’t know how to do . . . ?’
Mahijit, who’d clearly been through this many times before, looked straight at Toby, and muttered deadpan into his moustache, ‘The rumba.’
At which, Bapa and Nixu laughed and laughed, till they had tears in their eyes.
Mishi had seen Toby come in. They had stopped just short of meeting each other’s gaze. Or had they? It was hard to tell. There were such treacherous currents swirling around them that evening. Gayatri, for one, she could see, would sooner die than let him come over to her. She was, at that very moment, probably saying: ‘Oh, some little air hostess, I don’t know. Vapid as hell. I don’t know why Bapa invites this lot . . . The B-team, if you ask me.’
And how could she, Mishi, just go over? Her boldness from earlier that day had deserted her.
She sat with Isha and Chamunda, whose large solemn eyes grew wider and wider, as her boyfriend, the green-eyed Ismail, gave a long praising account of the Emergency, interspersed with the filthiest language:
‘This madarchodh country, you think it can be ruled by anyone not willing to, bhenchodh, give it to them in the gandh? For centuries they’ve, bhenchodh, been getting it up the you-know-what, had people rogering the hell out of them. Country with her damn legs open. Lying back, and enjoying herself. You think they understand any other language here? Let me tell you: they don’t. And, let me tell you also, it was not her idea; it was his. It was her son, my friend, who finally decided that, bhenchodh, enough is goddam enough. Have to take this place into hand. Give this swine JP any more rope, and he’ll, bhenchodh, hang the lot of us with it. Democracy-shamocracy, it’s a damn good thing this has happened. The guy’s a visionary. He’ll whip this namby-pamby country into shape, you watch. Give him five years. Bloody place will be looking like Singapore.’
Chamunda had her bare feet on a stool, and though she remained perfectly still through this torrent, her dark toes, with their rings of faded gold, occasionally twitched, as if out of nervousness. She was beautiful, but her self-confidence had been damaged in a bad marriage. It had left her the kind of woman who either sought out men like Ismail, who were rough and abusive and treated her a little badly, or settled for men so tame and domesticated that she soon tired of them and was forced to have affairs on top of her affairs, forced to find new lovers to compensate for the inadequacies of her existing lovers.
Mishi, until now, had shown an exaggerated interest in the conversation. She laughed at key moments, energetically asked questions: the kind of thing we do, when our night has a secret purpose and we don’t want to be found out. But, as the evening wore on, and dinner was served, and the lights guttered with a fluctuation, and an even layer of noise and laughter began to settle over the room, a mild depression took hold of her. She began to doubt anything would happen. She began to feel she had misjudged the situation. To be sure, she had felt his eyes on her through the lecture; and, later, when she had come up to him, she was certain she had seen something dazzled and grateful in his expression. He was speechless, and she was the cause, she knew. But had it been only temporary? Had he arrived at Bapa’s, seen his friends, and changed his mind? Perhaps he was already committed, attached, and his reaction had been that of a helpless man. There had been no time to speak to Viski about it. But, surely, if this man was
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