Aravind Adiga - Between the Assassinations

“How absurd,” she said one evening, coming to the back door with her hair wet and falling down her shoulders, rubbing it vigorously with a white towel, “that in this country with so much rain, we still have water shortages. When will India ever change?”

He smiled, averting his eyes from her figure and her wet hair.

“George, your pay will be increased,” she said, and went back inside, closing the door firmly.

There was more good news for him too, a few evenings later. He saw the old cook leaving, a bag under her arm. She looked at him with baleful eyes as their paths crossed, and hissed:

“I know what you’re trying to do to her! I told her you’ll destroy her name and reputation! But she’s fallen under your spell.”

A week after Maria joined the household of 10A, Mrs. Gomes came to George as he was tinkering with the engine of the car.

“Your sister’s shrimp curry is excellent.”

“Everyone in our family is hardworking, madam,” he said, and got so excited he jerked up his head, whacking it against the hood. It stung, but Mrs. Gomes had begun to laugh-that sharp, high-pitched animal laugh of hers-and he tried to laugh along with her while rubbing the red bump on his skull.

Maria was a small, frightened girl who came with two bags, no English, and no knowledge of life beyond her village. Mrs. Gomes had taken a liking to her, and allowed her to sleep in the kitchen.

“What do they talk about, inside the house, Madam and that foreign woman?” George asked her, when Maria came to his one-room quarters with his evening meal.

“I don’t know,” she said, ladling out his fish curry.

“Why don’t you know?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” she said, her voice small, scared, as always, of her brother.

“Well, pay attention! Don’t just sit there like a doll, saying ‘Yes, madam’ and ‘No, madam’! Take some initiative! Keep your eyes open!”

On Sundays, he took Maria along to Mass at the cathedral; construction stopped in the morning, to let people in, but as they emerged, they could see the contractors getting ready to resume work in the evening.

“Why doesn’t Madam come to Mass? Isn’t she a Christian too?” Maria asked as they were leaving church.

He took a deep breath. “The rich do as they want. It’s not for us to question them.”

He noticed Mrs. Gomes talking to Maria; with her open, generous nature, which did not distinguish between rich and poor, she was becoming more than just a mistress to Maria, but a good friend. It was exactly as he had hoped.

In the evenings he missed his drink, but he filled the time by walking about, or by listening to a radio and letting his mind drift. He thought, Maria can get married next year. She had a status now as a cook in a rich woman’s house. Boys would line up for her back home in the village.

After that, he figured, it would be time for his own marriage, which he had put off so long, out of a combination of bitterness, poverty, and shame. Yes, time for marriage, and children. Yet regret still gnawed at him, created by his contact with this rich woman, that he could have done so much more with his life.

“You’re a lucky man, George,” Mrs. Gomes said one evening, watching him rub the car with a wet cloth. “You have a wonderful sister.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“Why don’t you take Maria around the city? She hasn’t seen anything in Kittur, has she?”

He decided that this was a clear opportunity to show some initiative. “Why don’t we all three go together, madam?”

The three of them drove down for a drive to the beach. Mrs. Gomes and Maria went for a walk along the sand. He watched from a distance. When they returned, he was waiting with a paper cone filled with roasted groundnuts for Maria.

“Don’t I get some too?” Mrs. Gomes demanded, and he hurried to pour some nuts out, and she took them from his hands, and that was how he touched her for the first time.

It was raining again in Valencia, and he knew he had been at the house almost a year. One day, the new mosquito man came to the backyard. Mrs. Gomes watched as George directed the fellow around the gutters and canals in the back, to make sure not a spot was missed.

That evening, she called him to the house and said, “George, you should do it yourself. Please spray the gutter yourself, like last year.”

Her voice became sweet, and though it was the same voice she used to make him move mountains for her, this time he stiffened. He was offended that she would still ask him to perform such a task.

“Why not?” She raised her voice angrily. She shrieked, “You work for me! You do what I say!”

The two of them stared at each other, and then, grumbling and cursing her, he left the house. He wandered aimlessly for some time, then decided to visit the cathedral again, to see how the old fellows were doing.

Nothing much had changed in the field by the cathedral. The construction had been held up, he was told, because of the rector’s death. It would start again soon.

His other friends were missing-they had left the work and returned to the village-but Guru was there.

“Now that you’re here, why don’t we…” Guru made the gesture of a bottle being emptied down a throat.

They went to an arrack shop, and there was some fine drinking, just like in old times.

“So how are things with you and your princess?” Guru asked.

“Oh, these rich people are all the same,” George said bitterly. “We’re just trash to them. A rich woman can never see a poor man as a man. Just as a servant.”

He remembered his carefree days, before he was tied down to a house and to Madam-and he became resentful at having lost his freedom. He left early, shortly before midnight, saying that he had something to take care of at the house. On the way back, he staggered drunkenly, singing a Konkani song; but another pulse had started to throb beneath the lighthearted film number.

As he drew near the gate, his voice dropped down and died out, and he realized he was walking with exaggerated stealth. He wondered why, and felt frightened of himself.

He opened the latch of the gate soundlessly, and walked toward the back door of the house. He had been holding the key in his hand for some time; bending down to the lock and squinting at the keyhole, he inserted it. Opening the door carefully and quietly, he walked into the house. The heavy washing machine lay in the dark, like a night watchman. In the distance wisps of cool air escaped from a crack in the closed door of her bedroom.

George breathed slowly. His one thought, as he staggered forward, was that he must avoid walking into the washing machine.

“Oh, God,” he said suddenly. He realized that he had banged his knee into the washing machine and the damn machine was reverberating.

“Oh, God,” he said again, with the dim, desperate consciousness that he had spoken too loudly.

There was a movement; her door opened, and a woman with long loose hair emerged.

A cool air-conditioned breeze thrilled his entire body. The woman pulled the edge of a sari over her shoulder.

“George?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

He said nothing. The answer to the question was at once vague and full of substance, half obscure but all too present, just as she herself was. He almost knew what he wanted to say; she said nothing. She had not screamed or raised the alarm. Perhaps she wanted it too. He felt that it was now only a matter of saying it, or even of moving. Just do something. It will happen.

“Get out,” she said.

He had waited too long.

“Madam, I-”

“Get out.”

It was too late now; he turned around and walked quickly.

The moment the back door closed on him, he felt foolish. He thumped it with his fist so hard that it hurt. “Madam, let me explain!” He pounded the door harder and harder. She had misunderstood him-completely misunderstood!