Aravind Adiga - Between the Assassinations

The intimates knew that the Raos had selected them for their distinction-for their delicacy. They realized that they bore a responsibility upon entering that cozy little garret. Certain topics were taboo. Within the wide circumference of acceptable conversation-world news, philosophy, bank politics, the relentless expansion of Kittur, the rainfall this year-the intimates had learned to meander freely. Forest breezes came in from the balcony, and a transistor radio precariously balanced on the edge of the parapet emitted a steady patter of the BBC’s evening news service.

A late arrival-Mrs. Karwar, who taught Victorian literature at the university-threw the house into chaos. Her vivacious five-year-old, Lalitha, charged up the stairs shrieking.

“Look here, Kamini,” Mr. Rao shouted at the kitchen. “Mrs. Karwar has smuggled your secret lover into the house!”

Kamini rushed out of the kitchen. Fair skinned and shapely, she was almost a beauty. (Her forehead was protuberant, and her hair thinnish at the front.) She was famous for her “Chinese” eyes: narrow slits that were half closed beneath the curve of heavy eyelids, like prematurely opened lotus buds. Her hair-she was known to be a “modern” woman-was cut short in the Western style. Ladies admired her hips, which, never having been widened by childbirth, still sported a girlish slimness.

She rushed up to Lalitha. She hoisted the little girl into the air, kissing her several times.

“Look, let’s wait till my husband’s back is turned, and then we’ll get on my moped and drive away, huh? We can leave that evil man behind us and drive away to my sister’s house in Bombay, okay?”

Giridhar Rao put his hands to his waist and glared at the giggling girl.

“Are you planning on stealing my wife? Are you really her secret lover?”

“Hey, keep listening to your BBC,” Kamini retorted, leading Lalitha by the hand into the kitchen.

The intimates acknowledged their keen delight in this pantomime. The Raos certainly did not lack the skill to keep a child happy.

The voices of the BBC continued from the radio outside-a gravy of words that the intimates dipped into when their conversation ran dry. Mr. Anantha Murthy broke one long pause by declaring that the situation in Afghanistan was getting out of hand. One of these mornings the Soviets would come streaming over Kashmir with their red flags. Then the country would regret having missed its chance to ally itself with America back in 1948.

“Don’t you feel this way, Mr. Rao?”

Their host had never anything more to express than a friendly grin. Mr. Murthy did not mind. He acknowledged that Mr. Rao was not a “man of many words”-but he was a “deep” fellow all the same. If you ever wanted to check little details of world history-like, for instance, who was the American president who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima; not Roosevelt, but the little man with the round glasses-then you turned to Giridhar Rao. He knew everything; he said nothing. That kind of fellow.

“How is it you remain so calm, Mr. Rao, despite all this chaos and killing that the BBC is always telling you about? What is your secret?” Mrs. Shirthadi asked him, as she often did.

The bank manager smiled. “When I need peace of mind, madam, I just go to my private beach.”

“Are you a secret millionaire?” Mrs. Shirthadi demanded. “What’s this private beach you keep talking about?”

“Oh, nothing, really.” He gestured toward the distance. “Just a little lake with some gravel around it. It’s a very soothing place.”

“And why haven’t we all been invited there?” demanded Mr. Murthy.

The guests sat up. A triumphant Mrs. Rao entered the drawing room bearing a plastic tray whose multiple compartments brimmed with the evening’s first offerings: dried walnuts (which looked like little shrunken brains), juicy figs, sultana raisins, chopped almonds, slices of desiccated pineapple…

Before the guests had recovered, the next assault followed:

“Dinner is ready!”

They went into the dining room-the only other room in the house (it led into a little alcove-kitchen). An enormous bed, plump with cushions, lay in the middle of the dining room. There was no pretending not to see the conjugal site. It lay there, brazenly open to view. A small table was pulled up right next to it, and three of the guests hesitantly took their seats there. Their embarrassment disappeared almost immediately. The informality of their hosts, the voluptuous softness of the bedding beneath them-these things soothed their nerves. Then dinner rolled out of Kamini’s little kitchen. Course after course of fine tomato saaru, idli, and dosas flowed out of that factory of gustatory treats.

“This kind of cooking would amaze people even in Bombay,” proposed Mr. Anantha Murthy, when Kamini’s pièce de résistance-fluffy North Indian rotis, lined inside with chili powder-arrived on the table. Kamini beamed and protested: he was all wrong, she had so many inadequacies as a cook and a housewife!

When the guests rose, they realized that their buttocks had left wide, warm, and deep markings on the bed, like an ele phant’s footprints in clay. Giridhar Rao brushed aside their apologies:

“Our guests are like gods to us; they can do no wrong. That’s the philosophy in this house.”

They stood in line outside the washroom, where water flowed from a green rubber pipe twisted into a loop around the tap. Then back to the drawing room for the highlight of the evening-almond kheer.

Kamini brought out the dessert in breathtakingly large tumblers. The shake-served warm or cold, according to each guest’s pleasure-was so full of almonds that the guests protested that they had to chew the drink! When they looked into their tumblers, they held their breath in wonder: shiny flecks, strands of real saffron, floated between the pieces of almond.

They left the apartment silently, heeding Mr. Rao’s request not to disturb the sleeping Sharadha Bhatt. (The old lady turned restlessly on her wooden bed as they departed; in the background the religious music droned on.)

“Do come next week!” Mr. Rao said from the terrace. “It’s the week of the Satyanarayana Pooja! I’ll make sure Kamini does a better job with the cooking next week, unlike tonight’s disaster!” He turned into the house and raised his voice: “Did you hear that, Kamini? The food had better be good next time, or you’re divorced.”

There was a laugh, and a high-pitched scream from inside: “You’ll be the one to get divorced, unless you shut up!”

Once at a safe distance, the intimates burst into chatter.

What a pair! The man and woman such complete opposites! He was “bland,” she was “spicy.” He was “conservative,” she was “modern.” She was “quick,” he was “deep.”

Still picking their way along the muddy road, they began to discuss the forbidden topic with all the excitement and eagerness of people who were discussing it for the first time.

“It’s obvious,” said one of the women, Mrs. Aithal or Mrs. Shirthadi. “Kamini is the one ‘at fault.’ She wouldn’t have the operation. No wonder her life is racked by guilt. Don’t you see how she throws herself on any available child in a storm of frustrated maternity, showering them with kisses and blandishments and caramel chocolates? What does that signify, if not guilt?”

“And why did she refuse the operation?” demanded Mr. Anantha Murthy.

Obstinacy. The women were sure of it. Kamini simply refused to acknowledge that the fault was hers. Some of Kamini’s stubbornness, to be sure, came from her privileged background. She was the youngest of four sisters, all fair as buttermilk, the darling children of a famous eye surgeon in Shimoga. How she must have been spoiled as a child! The other sisters had married well-a lawyer, an architect, and a surgeon, and they all lived in Bombay. Giridhar Rao was the poorest of the brothers-in-law. You could be sure that Kamini was not the kind of woman to let him forget this. Haven’t you seen how defiantly she rides about town on her Hero Honda moped, as if she were the lord of their household?