asked.
Beth shrugged. 'Let it be,' she said.
Diamond Dust
A Tragedy
'T HAT dog will kill me, kill me one day!' Mrs Das moaned, her hand pressed to her large, soft, deep bosom when Diamond leapt at the chop she had cooked and set on the table for Mr Das; or when Diamond dashed past her, bumping against her knees and making her collapse against the door when she was going to receive a parcel from the postman who stood there, shaking, as he fended off the black lightning hurled at him. 'Diamond! Why did you call him Diamond? He is Satan, a shaitan, a devil. Call him Devil instead,' Mrs Das cried as she washed and bandaged the ankle of a grandchild who had only run after a ball and had that shaitan snap his teeth over his small foot.
But to Mr Das he was Diamond, and had been Diamond ever since he had bought him, as a puppy of an indecipherable breed, blunt-faced, with his wet nose gleaming and paws flailing for action. Mr Das could not explain how he had come upon that name. Feebly, he would laugh when questioned by friends he met in the park at five o'clock in the morning when he took Diamond for a walk before leaving for the office, and say, 'Yes, yes, black diamond, you see, black diamond.' But when C. P. Biswas, baring his terribly stained yellow teeth in an unpleasant laugh, said, 'Ah, coal—then call him that, my dear fellow, coal, koyla—and we would all understand.'
Never. Never would Mr Das do such a thing to his Diamond. If his family and friends only knew what names he thought up for the puppy, for the dog, in secret, in private—he did not exactly blush but he did laugh to himself, a little sheepishly. And yet his eyes shone when he saw how Diamond's coat gleamed as he streaked across the park after a chipmunk, or when he greeted the dog on his return from work before greeting Mrs Das, his grandchildren, or anyone at all, with the joyful cry, 'Diamond, my friend!'
Mrs Das had had a premonition—had she not known Mr Das since she had been a fourteen-year-old bride, he a nineteen-year-old bridegroom?—when she saw him bring that puppy home, cuddling it in his old brown jumper, lowering his voice to a whisper and his step to a tiptoe, as if afraid of alarming the sleeping creature. 'Get some warm milk—don't heat it too much—just warm it a little—and get some cotton wool.' She had stared at him. 'Not even about our own children, not even your first-born son, or your grandchildren, have you made so, much of as of that dog,' she had told him then.
She repeated it, not once, or twice, or thrice, but at regular intervals throughout that shining stretch of Mr Das's life when Diamond evolved from a round, glossy cocoon into a trembling, faltering fat puppy that bent its weak legs and left puddles all over Mrs Das's clean, fresh floors, and then into an awkwardly—so lovably awkwardly—lumbering young dog that Mr Das led around on a leash across the dusty maidan of Bharti Nagar, delighting in the children who came up to admire the creature but politely fearful of those who begged, 'Uncle, let me hold him! Let me take him for a walk, Uncle!' Only in the Lodi Gardens did he dare slip Diamond off his leash for the joy of seeing him race across that lawn after chipmunks that scurried up trees, furiously chattering and whisking their tails in indignation while Diamond sat at the foot of the tree, whining, his eyes lustrous with desire. 'Diamond, Diamond,' Mr Das would call, and lumbering up to him, would fondle his head, his ears and murmur words of love to entice him away from the scolding creatures in the leaves.
But there were times when Mr Das went beyond that, times that his friends and colleagues whom he met daily on their morning walks were astounded, if not scandalised, to witness, so much so that they could hardly speak of it to each other. Mr Das had so clearly taken leave of his senses, and it made them worry: how could a reputable government servant, a colleague, fall so low? They had caught him, as
Beth shrugged. 'Let it be,' she said.
Diamond Dust
A Tragedy
'T HAT dog will kill me, kill me one day!' Mrs Das moaned, her hand pressed to her large, soft, deep bosom when Diamond leapt at the chop she had cooked and set on the table for Mr Das; or when Diamond dashed past her, bumping against her knees and making her collapse against the door when she was going to receive a parcel from the postman who stood there, shaking, as he fended off the black lightning hurled at him. 'Diamond! Why did you call him Diamond? He is Satan, a shaitan, a devil. Call him Devil instead,' Mrs Das cried as she washed and bandaged the ankle of a grandchild who had only run after a ball and had that shaitan snap his teeth over his small foot.
But to Mr Das he was Diamond, and had been Diamond ever since he had bought him, as a puppy of an indecipherable breed, blunt-faced, with his wet nose gleaming and paws flailing for action. Mr Das could not explain how he had come upon that name. Feebly, he would laugh when questioned by friends he met in the park at five o'clock in the morning when he took Diamond for a walk before leaving for the office, and say, 'Yes, yes, black diamond, you see, black diamond.' But when C. P. Biswas, baring his terribly stained yellow teeth in an unpleasant laugh, said, 'Ah, coal—then call him that, my dear fellow, coal, koyla—and we would all understand.'
Never. Never would Mr Das do such a thing to his Diamond. If his family and friends only knew what names he thought up for the puppy, for the dog, in secret, in private—he did not exactly blush but he did laugh to himself, a little sheepishly. And yet his eyes shone when he saw how Diamond's coat gleamed as he streaked across the park after a chipmunk, or when he greeted the dog on his return from work before greeting Mrs Das, his grandchildren, or anyone at all, with the joyful cry, 'Diamond, my friend!'
Mrs Das had had a premonition—had she not known Mr Das since she had been a fourteen-year-old bride, he a nineteen-year-old bridegroom?—when she saw him bring that puppy home, cuddling it in his old brown jumper, lowering his voice to a whisper and his step to a tiptoe, as if afraid of alarming the sleeping creature. 'Get some warm milk—don't heat it too much—just warm it a little—and get some cotton wool.' She had stared at him. 'Not even about our own children, not even your first-born son, or your grandchildren, have you made so, much of as of that dog,' she had told him then.
She repeated it, not once, or twice, or thrice, but at regular intervals throughout that shining stretch of Mr Das's life when Diamond evolved from a round, glossy cocoon into a trembling, faltering fat puppy that bent its weak legs and left puddles all over Mrs Das's clean, fresh floors, and then into an awkwardly—so lovably awkwardly—lumbering young dog that Mr Das led around on a leash across the dusty maidan of Bharti Nagar, delighting in the children who came up to admire the creature but politely fearful of those who begged, 'Uncle, let me hold him! Let me take him for a walk, Uncle!' Only in the Lodi Gardens did he dare slip Diamond off his leash for the joy of seeing him race across that lawn after chipmunks that scurried up trees, furiously chattering and whisking their tails in indignation while Diamond sat at the foot of the tree, whining, his eyes lustrous with desire. 'Diamond, Diamond,' Mr Das would call, and lumbering up to him, would fondle his head, his ears and murmur words of love to entice him away from the scolding creatures in the leaves.
But there were times when Mr Das went beyond that, times that his friends and colleagues whom he met daily on their morning walks were astounded, if not scandalised, to witness, so much so that they could hardly speak of it to each other. Mr Das had so clearly taken leave of his senses, and it made them worry: how could a reputable government servant, a colleague, fall so low? They had caught him, as
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