Paul Theroux - The Elephanta Suite - Three Novellas

“Good idea,” Dwight said. “Let’s walk.”

The walk was a delay, but he felt close to Shah—the man was his guide, his partner, his benefactor, his friend. Yet he could not imagine disclosing to Shah the facts of the other life he was leading. No one must know what he seldom thought of himself: it was better that his secret remain almost a secret to himself, at least something unpacked and unexamined.

How did you go about examining it, anyway? Words weren’t enough. That had been the trouble with his brief marriage, with life in general: no matter how much you told you were only hinting at the truth. There was always too much to tell in the allotted time. He thought he’d known Maureen before they were married. What a doll, he’d thought. She’d been like a party guest who’d shown up in his life, anxious to please, eager to be a friend, grateful to find a kindred spirit, someone to talk to, and so she’d been quick to agree, appreciative of his attention, polite, undemanding, good company. Dwight had been relieved, thinking, We’ve got so much in common.

Eight months of courtship convinced him they were a perfect match. He was unhesitating in proposing to her. Then came the planning for the wedding, and a different Maureen appeared, a fretful and uncertain woman, prone to fits of anger, moody, argumentative. Or was it him? Perhaps it wasn’t the details of the arrangements but the fact of the wedding looming in the months ahead.

“I don’t suppose your parents could get involved?” he asked.

“We’re too old for that!”

He was forty, she was thirty-eight; they felt conspicuous in their ages. Dwight said, “It’ll be fine.”

“No, no! You always say that!”

He thought “You always” was a dangerous way to start a sentence.

“The lettering is all wrong. It has to be raised. The ribbon is a cheesy look. Don’t you see?”

Early days—they were discussing the invitation. She had revealed herself to be a perfectionist. But perfection is unattainable; the trait makes you unhappy. Never mind the invitation. He worried about his own imperfections.

“We have to get it right” was her cry. “It’ll do” was his. Dwight was satisfied with the passable, which infuriated her. The church service, the bridesmaids’ dresses, the flowers, the reception, the music, the guest list—it all became so contentious that by the time it was over and they were married, and they knew each other’s personalities so much better, they were convinced they’d made a mistake.

No, that wasn’t true. He could not say at what point the marriage had begun to fail. It was only his cynical liking for ironic symmetry that made him think that it had started to falter as soon as they said “I do.” But whatever he might say about it was no more than a fragment. There was too much to tell; you didn’t know someone until you were living under the same roof, sharing space in the same room, in the same bed, naked, for a long time. Then you knew, not from anything that was said, but by the way someone smelled and breathed and murmured, by rubbing against the other person, and being rubbed.

That was how he had gotten to know Indru, and that first girl Sumitra, and now Padmini. He had not possessed them, he had helped them through a crisis—and a crisis was a daily event in India. Explain this to Shah? Impossible.

They were still walking. Shah had never suggested a walk before, never offered his companionship that way. And what made it odder was that they were in a district of new nightclubs and bars. They were passing the awnings, the lurid lights at the windows, the music blaring through the curtains at the door. They glimpsed people dancing, smelled incense, saw the grubby red carpet at each entrance, unrolled as a welcome. Out front, the bold young men who worked at these places, seeing two men in business suits, stepped forward.

“Mister—very nice club. Good premises.” And lunging at Dwight because he was still walking: “Sir, nice girls. As you wish. Pop music. Drinks. Eatables.”

Though Dwight had slightly slackened his gait, Shah kept walking at the same speed.

“For some people, that is reality,” Shah said.

Another awning, more young men, a pretty girl in a red sari standing just inside the door. Club Durga. An image of the blackish-faced goddess with her necklace of skulls he’d remembered from Sumitra’s room, as Sumitra danced beneath it.

“Kali,” Shah said. “Durga, the inaccessible.”

Dwight said, “I just remembered that I got an e-mail today from my firm. They’re talking about my flying back to chair a seminar on doing business in India.”

“How did you respond?”

“I said, ‘If I come to the meeting, I’ll have to stop doing business in India. I’ll lose some deals.’”

“I can keep the parties cooling their heels,” Shah said. And then, “This was never here before.”

He meant the lane off the main road, which was brightly lit, thick with clubs, loud music, taxis dropping off well-dressed men. Dwight knew: bar girls, rotten whiskey, pimps. He passed this way often; it was one of his shortcuts.

“You know what is the meaning of ‘phenomenal distinction’?” Shah asked.

“Something like differentiating between the look of things.”

“Not just look. Also sound, odor, flavor, touch,” Shah said. He waved his hand in the direction of the nightclubs. “Better to leave behind all phenomenal distinctions. Like those.”

Did Shah suspect something? Dwight said, “But that’s the way things are.”

“You mean reality?”

“More or less.”

“No, that is only appearance.”

And Dwight thought: In the idlest conversation in India, wading through platitudes, deep water was never far off. He said, “You are making the usual big distinction between appearance and reality.”

Shah wagged his head, but it didn’t mean yes. He started to speak but had to pause, because the music was deafening. When they had passed that noisy doorway, he resumed, saying, “Both appearance and reality are merely names.”

“That’s a quibble,” Dwight said. “Of course they’re names.”

“But reality is many-sided,” Shah said.

Dwight slowed his pace again, and made a face, and said, “Never heard that one before.”

“Is Jain, also Buddhist concept.” He looked for a reaction on Dwight’s face before adding, “I am eclectic in spiritual matters. My Mahavira was a contemporary of Buddha. Both preached about karma. You know karma.”

“Karma is a kind of luck, eh?”

“Not luck. Karma is deeds. Karma is particles that can build up by wrong action. Especially passion.”

The mention of passion would have made Dwight suspicious, even defensive, except that Indians were always mentioning it. Meat was a cause of it, and so was alcohol and loose women.

“You’re saying karma is matter?”

“Indeed so. It is almost visible. Better not to allow the mind to dwell on worldly thoughts. The world gives false messages, distracts with sounds, odors, flavors. Touching, too, can be harmful, a way of acquiring karmans.”

What was he driving at, and why now? Dwight put it down to this sleazy neighborhood of clubs and bars and obvious lowlife. He said, “Just—do what then?”

“Develop a clear pure mind by not accepting appearances of things. And observe the Three Jewels.” He used his fingers, flipping one upright and then the others. “Right belief. Right knowledge. Right conduct.”

“That’s deep,” Dwight said. “I should tell the partners.”

“It would do them much good.”

“I mean, we could include it in that seminar they want to give about doing business in India.”

Shah nodded, but his nod seemed to mean “maybe.” He said, “Seminar is a practical matter. I have myself created a packet of materials for helping to understand business practices here.”