Paul Theroux - The Elephanta Suite - Three Novellas

“Yes, we’re lucky,” Priyanka said. “I see that life has a meaning. Even my divorce has a meaning. It allowed me to come here.”

More time passed, some weeks perhaps, and one day both women approached Alice while she was sweeping the room.

“We have something for you,” Prithi said.

She took her hands from behind her back and presented Alice with a large cloth pouch, decorated with small round mirrors sewn to it, a piece from Rajasthan, red and orange, glittering on Alice’s lap.

“It’s great,” Alice said.

“Open it.”

Alice untwisted a woven cord that held it shut and saw that it contained a soft brick of rupees, held together with rubber bands. Because they were worn and dirty they seemed somehow tested and proven to be especially valuable.

“I can’t take them.”

“Yes,” Priyanka said. “You must.”

“But you don’t have to keep them,” Prithi said. “You can give them to Swami.”

“Swami doesn’t want money—he says so all the time. ‘Where money is asked for and offered, I have no place.’ I love him for that.”

“It is one of his most spiritual qualities,” Prithi said. “But still, ghee butter costs money. Pulses cost money. That broom.”

Alice was holding the broom in one hand and the chunk of money in the other. She said, “Yes, he can buy some more brooms!”

A day or two later Alice realized what the women had done. They were helping her pay her way, giving her the money as an oblique present so as not to embarrass her. One of the devotees was always passing the hat—actually, it was a brass bowl—and the residents putting money in. Alice usually slipped in a one-hundred-rupee note—about two dollars. This had been noticed.

She had believed that sweeping and washing and tending to the pots of flowers and weaving garlands for Swami were enough. But no—it seemed you had to pay.

This face-saving gesture, done so sweetly, saddened her. She had come to India in a spirit of renunciation, looking to Swami—with the help of Ganesh—as an example. Stella had hindered her in her quest; Alice saw that after Stella had gone off with Zack. But this need for money was a surprise, because she wanted to go on living at the ashram, and clearly she could do that only by getting a job somewhere in Bangalore. Well, wasn’t that why most people came to Bangalore?

“I’m looking for a phone,” Alice said to Priyanka, slightly distracted by the way Priyanka ate—using her fingertips on the cha-patis, but one-handed, eating with the fastidious concentration of a watch repairer.

Priyanka let her fingers hover and dangle while she looked at Alice with amazement, as though she’d asked for a forbidden thing.

“Whatever do you require a phone for?”

“The usual thing,” Alice said.

“Idle phoning is discouraged by Swami.”

“Who said it was idle?”

“Phones are frivolous, Swami says. Ashram is complete and self-sufficient. He is the only link we need.”

“Maybe I want to phone Swami,” Alice said, and she could tell that she was becoming angry in her sarcasm.

“He won’t pick up.”

“I thought you had a cell phone. You mentioned it once.”

Priyanka smiled while she chewed her mouthful, then she dabbed her lips. “I left my mobile with Daddyji. He was flabbergasted.”

“My daddyji doesn’t even know where I am,” Alice said.

“Phoning parents is discouraged by Swami.”

Alice said, “Why am I a little sorry we had this conversation?”

And it occurred to her that had Priyanka known whom and why she was planning to call, she would have been even more scolding and unhelpful.

She put on her walking shoes and sunglasses and went to the main gate—the gatekeeper saluted—and she walked along the busy road on the broken sidewalk, stepping past the fruit vendors, who were crouched on low stools, selling oranges and mangoes. She had not gone thirty yards when she saw three or four storefronts advertising telephone services, International Calls — Best Rates—Fax and Internet Connectivity , with lists of countries and prices per minute.

After the solitude and order of the ashram, the street—and this was right outside, just over the wall—was startling in its dirt and disorder, the hawkers crowded against the wall of the ashram, people seated at small tables selling picture frames and pens and cheap watches and hair ornaments. It was a relief to see someone selling fresh flowers, a pile of marigold blossoms, but the rest of it was a bazaar of cheap merchandise. The shops that lined the road sold rubber tires and shoes and clocks and sacks of beans and rice and spices. At one storefront a man was mending shoes, at another a boy was on his knees, his forearms streaked with grease, laboring to fix a bike. The large number of pedestrians made it hard for Alice to walk, and when she dodged them to buy a bag of roasted chickpeas, cars honked at her. She thought of turning back, yet she had to make the call.

“What country, madam?” the clerk said, showing her an assortment of phone cards.

“India.” Alice handed over the business card. “Right here. Bangalore.”

“Is mobile number, madam. Better you purchase card.”

She bought a three-hundred-rupee card, feeling that she was being cheated—the man claimed he had nothing smaller. Could that be true?

Feeling helpless—Indians fussing around her created that illusion—she waited while the clerk dialed the number.

“Ringing, madam.” He handed Alice the phone. Once, long ago, a phone like this had sat on a small table in Alice’s house: black, solid, heavy, but always a small voice issuing from it.

“This is Shan.”

That’s what it sounded like, an Asiatic name but with the twanging palate of a forced American accent.

Alice was so surprised by the voice she could not respond.

“How can I help you? Is there anyone there? Hullo?”

The voice was extraordinary—nasal, the mouth wide open, the suggestion of a smile in the tone, and though it had an American sound, something unnatural subverted it, so that it was hardly human, a cartoon voice. Alice was reminded of a parrot—a mimicky voice, as if the speaker had no idea what he was saying, just uttering words in a tortured way, swallowing and gargling.

“I think I have the wrong number.”

“Who are you wishing to speak to at this time?”

The singsong was odd too, the whole effect so weirdly comic that Alice did not put the phone down.

“I’m calling Amitabh.”

“This is Amitabh”—still, in an American accent, the name was approximate.

“I thought you were Shan.”

“I’m at work. I’m Shan at work. Who am I speaking to, please?”

“This is Alice—from the train. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“I’m on late shift till three A.M. Can we maybe meet tomorrow?”

The voice was still bizarre. Was it really him? “I guess so. Can you come to Whitefield?”

“Sure thing. Whitefield! Now I remember. You’re the Sai Baba woman from the first AC compartment.”

“That’s me,” but she thought, Sure thing? Then she saw a sign, Vishnu Hotel and Lunch House , and read Amitabh the address. He took it down expertly, then read it back to her.

After she hung up she kept walking, away from the ashram. It was too late to line up for the darshan—she’d be at the end of the line, at the back of the hall, Swami barely visible. She had a better idea. She felt a need to make a superstitious gesture, and so she waved down an auto-rickshaw and gave the driver the address of the elephant’s stable.

She liked the side street, the quiet gloom from overhanging trees, the archway to the courtyard stable, the sight of the elephant’s hindquarters. He was snatching at hay with his trunk and stuffing it into his mouth, but when Alice approached the elephant lurched, his chain clanking, and he swung around and nodded at her.