moment, and then picked it up. 'Good evening, Samir here...oh hello...yes. Yes...yes...I know, I did. Unfortunately, my flight got delayed...oh, you know...I am sure. Oh, yes, of course, I want that, not so tired…ha…I am staying at ITC Grand Maratha...oh you know that?
Fantastic. What time can you make it there...it should take me, uh, thirty minutes? OK...I shall wait for you in the room...is there a telephone number I could call and give you my room number after I check in? …Oh, you'll call me? Fine. See you soon.' He killed the call and smiled. the boot.
The chauffeur from the hotel paged for him as he walked out of the airport.
'Could I smoke in the car?' Samir asked the chauffeur, as the latter put the baggage in
'You're a guest sir, you can do anything.' When had any driver stopped any guest from misusing the car? This was Mumbai; the chauffeurs dare not instruct the rich guests. Guest was God, a guest that was paying was an even bigger God. A guest could smoke, fuck, whatever in the backseat...
Samir lit up and called his wife. 'Hello sweetheart. Just got in…yes, I’m in the car now.'
'Tired?' she asked.
'Oh yes. Listen, I have a breakfast meeting, so will grab a quick bite and turn in early tonight. I was thinking of switching off my phone. Have a good night. Love you.'
Samir checked in at the hotel, took the elevator to the room and waited for the phone call for his scheduled meeting. This appointment, too, was imperative for him. He inspected the minibar. Why did they call it a minibar when it carried enough stock to intoxicate a whole herd of hippos? He smiled and fetched two miniature bottles of Chivas from the bar, upended them into a tumbler, added club soda, and took a large swig.
His phone rang. A smile, inadvertently, passed through his lips when he looked at the screen. Unknown caller.
SIX
1982
Margaret Flynn. Deborah O'Donnell. Viviane Casey. However Irish the names might have sounded, the first names were common in India — a legacy reminiscence of the 200-year British Raj.
Margaret, sitting with the other two in the back of a local cab — a Premier Padmini , which was no better or worse than a Lada; the Jaguars were still a few thousand miles away — unremittingly solaced Viviane, as the latter was still enervated with the questions she had been posed by the officer at the check-in desk at Delhi. Despite attempting to be inconspicuous in her efforts, the middle-aged cab driver, smoking a local foul smelling cigarette, caught the tension in the passenger cabin.
' Problam?' he enquired in Hinglish looking at them in the rear-view mirror. 'Oh no. She's just upset. Nothing to worry about.'
'You from where?'
'Bombay.'
He knew it wasn't true, but he didn't care. 'Colaba, where?' he asked, lighting up another of those stinking cigarettes, which were rolled in a funny leaf, not in paper. The girls recognised what it was and looked at each other in surprise. Smiles broke and the mood changed, albeit temporarily. It was the bidi , a local smoke made popular in Soviet Union by the legendary Bollywood film star of yesteryears, Raj Kapoor, whose films were extremely popular in the Soviet in the Sixties and Seventies. The smokes were cheap — a pack of thirty bidis cost the same as a single Marlboro stick — and were common with the working class. But God, they reeked.
'At Gateway of India.'
It was getting close to 11 a.m. The infamous stop-start Bombay traffic had taken more time than the flight from Delhi to Bombay. Unlike Moscow, the smoke from cars and funny three-wheeled auto-rickshaws was nauseating; the noise and the traffic were dreadful.
Besides, there were aggressive beggars at every traffic light, something that the girls had never experienced in Moscow. Why didn't the government provide for these poor people?
According to the agreed timetable, Mr Patel would be there anytime, if he had checked the landing time of the flight. They had a little over four hours to pass.
Fantastic. What time can you make it there...it should take me, uh, thirty minutes? OK...I shall wait for you in the room...is there a telephone number I could call and give you my room number after I check in? …Oh, you'll call me? Fine. See you soon.' He killed the call and smiled. the boot.
The chauffeur from the hotel paged for him as he walked out of the airport.
'Could I smoke in the car?' Samir asked the chauffeur, as the latter put the baggage in
'You're a guest sir, you can do anything.' When had any driver stopped any guest from misusing the car? This was Mumbai; the chauffeurs dare not instruct the rich guests. Guest was God, a guest that was paying was an even bigger God. A guest could smoke, fuck, whatever in the backseat...
Samir lit up and called his wife. 'Hello sweetheart. Just got in…yes, I’m in the car now.'
'Tired?' she asked.
'Oh yes. Listen, I have a breakfast meeting, so will grab a quick bite and turn in early tonight. I was thinking of switching off my phone. Have a good night. Love you.'
Samir checked in at the hotel, took the elevator to the room and waited for the phone call for his scheduled meeting. This appointment, too, was imperative for him. He inspected the minibar. Why did they call it a minibar when it carried enough stock to intoxicate a whole herd of hippos? He smiled and fetched two miniature bottles of Chivas from the bar, upended them into a tumbler, added club soda, and took a large swig.
His phone rang. A smile, inadvertently, passed through his lips when he looked at the screen. Unknown caller.
SIX
1982
Margaret Flynn. Deborah O'Donnell. Viviane Casey. However Irish the names might have sounded, the first names were common in India — a legacy reminiscence of the 200-year British Raj.
Margaret, sitting with the other two in the back of a local cab — a Premier Padmini , which was no better or worse than a Lada; the Jaguars were still a few thousand miles away — unremittingly solaced Viviane, as the latter was still enervated with the questions she had been posed by the officer at the check-in desk at Delhi. Despite attempting to be inconspicuous in her efforts, the middle-aged cab driver, smoking a local foul smelling cigarette, caught the tension in the passenger cabin.
' Problam?' he enquired in Hinglish looking at them in the rear-view mirror. 'Oh no. She's just upset. Nothing to worry about.'
'You from where?'
'Bombay.'
He knew it wasn't true, but he didn't care. 'Colaba, where?' he asked, lighting up another of those stinking cigarettes, which were rolled in a funny leaf, not in paper. The girls recognised what it was and looked at each other in surprise. Smiles broke and the mood changed, albeit temporarily. It was the bidi , a local smoke made popular in Soviet Union by the legendary Bollywood film star of yesteryears, Raj Kapoor, whose films were extremely popular in the Soviet in the Sixties and Seventies. The smokes were cheap — a pack of thirty bidis cost the same as a single Marlboro stick — and were common with the working class. But God, they reeked.
'At Gateway of India.'
It was getting close to 11 a.m. The infamous stop-start Bombay traffic had taken more time than the flight from Delhi to Bombay. Unlike Moscow, the smoke from cars and funny three-wheeled auto-rickshaws was nauseating; the noise and the traffic were dreadful.
Besides, there were aggressive beggars at every traffic light, something that the girls had never experienced in Moscow. Why didn't the government provide for these poor people?
According to the agreed timetable, Mr Patel would be there anytime, if he had checked the landing time of the flight. They had a little over four hours to pass.
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