Ian McDonald - Cyberabad Days

Very good , Ram Tarun Das whispered. Now, the iron pillar.

They waited for a tour group of Germans to move away from the railed-off enclosure. Jasbir and Shulka stood in the moment of silence gazing at the black pillar.

‘Sixteen hundred years old, but never a speck of rust on it,’ Jasbir said.

Ninety-eight per cent pure iron , Ram Tarun Das prompted. There are things Mittal Steel can learn from the Gupta kings.

‘“He who, having the name of Chandra, carried a beauty of countenance like the full moon, having in faith fixed his mind upon Vishnu, had this lofty standard of the divine Vishnu set up on the hill Vishnupada”.’ Shulka’s frown of concentration as she focused on the inscription around the pillar’s waist was as beautiful to Jasbir as that of any god or Gupta king.

‘You speak Sanskrit?’

‘It’s a sort of personal spiritual development path I’m following.’

You have about thirty seconds before the next tour group arrives , Ram Tarun Das cuts in. Now sir; that line I gave you.

‘They say that if you stand with your back to the pillar and close your arms around it, your wish will be granted.’

The Chinese were coming the Chinese were coming.

‘And if you could do that, what would you wish for?’

Perfect. She was perfect.

‘Dinner?’

She smiled that small and secret smile that set a garden of thorns in Jasbir’s heart and walked away. At the centre of the gatehouse arch she turned and called back,

‘Dinner would be good.’

Then the Chinese with their shopping bags and sun visors and plastic leisure shoes came bustling around the stainless iron pillar of Chandra Gupta.

Jasbir smiles at the sunny memory of Date One. Deependra waggles his fingers under the stream of hot air.

‘I’ve heard about this. It was on a documentary, oh yes. White widows, they call them. They dress up and go to the shaadis and have their r’sum’s all twinkling and perfect but they have no intention of marrying, oh no no no, not a chance. Why should they, when there is a never-ending stream of men to wine them and dine them and take them out to lovely places and buy them lovely presents and shoes and jewels, and even cars? So it said on the documentary. They are just in it for what can get; they are playing games with our hearts. And when they get tired or bored or if the man is making too many demands or his presents aren’t as expensive as they were or they can do better somewhere else, then whoosh! Dumped flat and on to the next one. It’s a game to them.’

‘Deependra,’ says Jasbir. ‘Let it go. Documentaries on the Shaadi Channel are not the kind of model you want for married life. Really.’ Ram Tarun Das would be proud of that one. ‘Now, I have to get back to work.’ Faucets that warn about water crime can also report excessive toilet breaks to line managers. But the doubt-seeds are sown, and Jasbir now remembers the restaurant.

Date Two. Jasbir had practised with the chopsticks for every meal for a week. He swore at rice, he cursed dhal. Sujay effortlessly scooped rice, dhal, everything from bowl to lips in a flurry of stickwork.

‘It’s easy for you, you’ve got that code-wallah Asian culture thing.’

‘Um, we are Asian.’

‘You know what I mean. And I don’t even like Chinese food, it’s so bland.’

The restaurant was expensive, half a week’s wage. He’d make it up on overtime; there were fresh worries in Dams and Watercourses about a drought.

‘Oh,’ Shulka said, the nightglow of Delhi a vast, diffuse halo behind her. She is a goddess, Jasbir thought, a devi of the night city with ten million lights descending from her hair. ‘Chopsticks.’ She picked up the antique porcelain chopsticks, one in each hand like drum sticks. ‘I never know what to do with chopsticks. I’m always afraid of snapping them.’

‘Oh, they’re quite easy once you get the hang of them.’ Jasbir rose from his seat and came round behind Shulka. Leaning over her shoulder he laid one stick along the fold of her thumb, the other between ball of thumb and tip of index finger. Still wearing her lighthoek. It’s the city girl look. Jasbir shivered in anticipation as he slipped the tip of her middle finger between the two chopsticks. ‘Your finger acts like a pivot, see? Keep relaxed, that’s the key. And hold your bowl close to your lips.’ Her fingers were warm, soft, electric with possibility as he moved them. Did he imagine her skin scented with musk?

Now , said Ram Tarun Das from over Shulka’s other shoulder. Now do you see? And by the way, you must tell her that they make the food taste better.

They did make the food taste better. Jasbir found subtleties and piquancies he had not known before. Words flowed easily across the table. Everything Jasbir said seemed to earn her star-light laughter. Though Ram Tarun Das was as ubiquitous and unobtrusive as the waiting staff, they were all his own words and witticisms. See, you can do this , Jasbir said to himself. What women want, it’s no mystery; stop talking about yourself, listen to them, make them laugh.

Over green tea Shulka began talking about that new novel everyone but everyone was reading, the one about the Delhi girl on the husband-hunt and her many suitors, the scandalous one, An Eligible Boy . Everyone but everyone but Jasbir.

Help! he subvocalized into his inner ear.

Scanning it now , Ram Tarun Das said. Do you want a thematic digest, popular opinions or character breakdowns?

Just be there , Jasbir silently whispered, covering the tiny movement of his jaw by setting the tea-pot lid ajar, a sign for a refill.

‘Well, it’s not really a book a man should be seen reading…’

‘But…’

‘But isn’t everyone?’ Ram Tarun Das dropped him the line. ‘I mean, I’m only two thirds of the way in, but… how far are you? Spoiler alert spoiler alert.’ It’s one of Sujay’s Town and Country expressions. Finally he understands what it means. Shulka just smiles and turns her tea-bowl in its little saucer.

‘Say what you were going to say.’

‘I mean, can’t she see that Nishok is the one? The man is clearly, obviously, one thousand per cent doting on her. But then that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?’

‘But Pran, it would always be fire with him. He’s the baddest of badmashes but you’d never be complacent with Pran. She’ll never be able to completely trust him and that’s what makes it exciting. Don’t you think you feel that sometimes it needs that little edge, that little fear that maybe, just maybe you could lose it all to keep it alive?’

Careful, sir , murmured Ram Tarun Das.

‘Yes, but we’ve known ever since the party at the Chatterjis where she pushed Jyoti into the pool in front of the Russian ambassador that she’s been jealous of her sister because she was the one got to marry Mr Panse. It’s the eternal glamour versus security. Passion versus stability. Town versus country.’

‘Ajit?’

‘Convenient plot device. Never a contender. Every woman he dates is just a mirror to his own sweet self.’

Not one sentence, not one word had he read of the hit trash novel of the season. It had flown around his head like clatter-winged pigeons. He’s been too busy being that Eligible Boy.

Shulka held up a piece of sweet, salt, melting fatty duck breast between her porcelain forceps. Juice dripped on to the tablecloth.

‘So, who will Bani marry, then? Guess correctly and you shall have a prize.’

Jasbir heard Ram Tarun Das’s answer begin to form inside his head. No , he gritted on his molars.

‘I think I know.’