Paul Theroux - The Elephanta Suite - Three Novellas

“A business manual?”

“Let us say guidelines.”

They were still walking. The Taj was ahead, its distinctive entrance, the palms, the perimeter walls that were meant to keep panhandlers away, the big bearded Sikh in his topheavy turban, his gold braid and frock coat, saluting a departing guest.

“Ever been to the States?”

“Not yet.”

“You know what I think?” Dwight said. “You should go to the States, not me. You can run the seminar. They’re holding it at a great hotel in Boston. Wonderful food and hospitality. The weather’s perfect at this time of year. They’ll look after you. And it’s money. The people who attend are all potential clients.”

“I cannot,” Shah said, but what made it unconvincing was his smile, the activity behind his eyes: he was reflecting with pleasure on going to the States. Dwight had seen that look on the faces of other Indians, a glow of anticipation at the very mention of America.

“You’re perfect. You’ve got all the papers lined up.”

“Packet of materials,” Shah said.

“The guidelines! This is a big deal for the firm. They see it as a way of attracting clients, easing them into thinking about outsourcing. We’re not giving away any secrets, just intending to convince them that we know what we’re talking about.”

“The attendees?”

“Yeah. Show them our track record. Sign them up.”

Though he did not say anything just then, Shah had become animated, his face twitching with interest as he’d listened. Dwight could tell when Shah was thinking: his thought process was observable as a subtle throbbing of veins beneath his features.

“How will you manage here?”

“I’ll be fine. You’ve been a great teacher. You’ve given me lots of wisdom. ‘Don’t accept the appearances of things.’ That’s great.”

“It is from Diamond Sutra,” Shah said.

The word “diamond” caught his attention, and he squinted at Shah.

“The idea of fundamental reality is merely name only. Material world is not material. Money is not money. World is not world.”

“Right,” Dwight said uncertainly.

“Words cannot express truth,” Shah said. “That which words express is not truth.”

“You just lost me.” But he thought, Yes, words were not enough.

Now they were at the driveway of the hotel, well lighted, the tall sturdy Sikh doorman opening the door of an expensive car to allow a little man in a dark suit to step out.

“Come to dinner at my home,” Shah said. “It will be a humble meal, but your presence will do us a great honor.”

Instead of going up to the Elephanta Suite, Dwight lingered in the lobby, and when he was certain that Shah was on his way home, he signaled for the Sikh to hail him a taxi, and he went to Chowpatty—not the lane, but nearby. He didn’t want anyone to know the address, not even a taxi driver.

Inside, the stairwell reeked of urine and garbage. A rat on the stairs was not startled by his stamping but only crouched and became compact, twitching its whiskers in a way that reminded Dwight of Shah’s active thinking. It was a familiar rat—you got to recognize them, Dwight thought; the stinks, too. Or was it all false? Appearances were meaningless, phenomenal distinctions were misleading, and this great smelly cloud of shit was just an illusion.

Indru’s outer door was made of rusted iron grating like the slammer on a prison cell, for security and for the air, though the air was sour even here on the third-floor landing.

She had heard him. She approached the door holding a circular brass tray with a flame burning in a dish of oil. And while Padmini unlocked the steel door and swung it open and made a namaste with her clasped hands, Indru passed the flame under Dwight’s chin and applied a dot of paste to his forehead.

“You are welcome,” Indru said.

He kicked off his shoes and followed her to the second room. It was open to the alley, the TV sets of the neighbors, the smell of spices and boiled vegetables, the whine of traffic, horns beeping, distant music that always seemed to evoke for Dwight an atmosphere of strangulation.

“Don’t put the light on,” he said. “Just keep that candle.”

“Deepak,” Indru said. “Is how we make pure the air. Shall I wash feet?”

“That would be very nice.”

Somehow Padmini had heard. She brought a basin of warm water and a cloth and set it down before him. Still watching, she backed away as Indru began gently to massage his bare feet in the water.

“Have you eat?”

But he didn’t hear. He was watching her head, her hair, her swinging braid that slipped against his legs like a long tassel as she knelt before him. She was so intent on her task, canted forward, narrow shoulders working, that he could look down to the small of her back, her white dress tightened against her buttocks.

“That’s fine.”

“Not quite finish.”

“Stop,” he said. His throat constricted, his face went hot. “Close the door, please.”

The way she got to her feet in pretty little stages, first lifting her head to face him, tossing her braid aside, then raising herself by digging her fingers into his knees for balance, almost undid him. Then she was peeling off his shirt as he approached the charpoy. He watched her shimmy out of her dress, using her shoulders. When her dress dropped to her ankles she stepped out of it, kicking the door closed with one foot.

“I know what you want,” she said as he took her head, cupping her ears, and moved it like a melon on his lap.

He lay there in the half-dark, the wick of the oil lamp flickering in its dish on the floor by the washbasin, and he thought of how different his life was now. And what about Indru? She seemed happy. He had come home to her; she had been waiting for him. She was grateful—he could sense it from the warmth of her mouth, her eager lips.

He had done her more than a good turn; he had rescued her—rescued Padmini too, and if that young man did not happen to be her brother but another lover, he was helping that fellow as well. But who in the other world would understand? It was impossible to explain. That which words express is not truth— right! He would be seen as a sensualist, an exploiter, another opportunist in India. No, he was a benefactor.

In his rapture, with Indru’s palms flattened against his thighs, his sighing with pleasure, he was sentimental and told himself that there was no other place he wished to be.

Warmed by this thought, luxuriating in where he lay, he raised his eyes and saw past Indru’s head, past her braid coiled on the dampness of her bare back, to the door of the room, the shadow of Padmini in profile against the vertical bar of light where the door was ajar. One bright eye shone in the light of the oil lamp. He said nothing—could she see his face?—and it was a long time before the door silently shut, squeezing the light, and by then Indru was too frenzied to notice.

Afterward, he drew her into his arms and thought, Yes, their benefactor.

“That is my father,” Shah was saying, holding a framed photograph.

The old man in the silver frame was bearded, very thin, gripping a walking stick, carrying a cloth bundle.

“All his worldly possessions.”

The ascetic and rather starved face contrasted sharply with the elegant frame, the polished side table on which it rested with other silver-framed pictures—more of the old man—the cut-glass lamp, the linen tablecloth, the candlesticks.

And Dwight sat at a table that had been set with delicate porcelain plates thin as eggshells, linen napkins, gold-trimmed salvers, crystal goblets. But there were yellow lentils in the plates, beans in the salvers, water in the goblets.