more while you
had the chance.’
With this, he was gone.
* * *
The nineties, which with the coming of Coca-Cola, Ruffles potato crisps and MTV brought more hope than the high principles of the years before had ever done, made a new man of
Amit Sethia. In this spring of liberalization, when most men his age were consolidating their gains, the possibilities that opened up returned him to the full bloom and vitality of his youth. He
bought new cars, Brioni suits, he travelled abroad every month, he switched his drink from Black Label to Dom Pérignon, he fell in love again. He thought of the years that lay on the other
side of the change as wasted years; he summed up Sumitra in his heart as ‘pre-liberalization’, dooming her to the deadest of dead pasts. And though she remained in his home for many
years, he had begun to see other women, particularly a young lawyer. But, at dinner on her barsati only a few weeks after they met, Amit Sethia was reminded that the past was not yet behind
him.
It was May. They ate outside on one of the last nights when it was possible to do so. Udaya had lit the terrace with glass fanooses; they had, between the two of them, drunk the champagne Amit
had brought as well as most of a bottle of what Pappu, the bootlegger, his cellars now brimming with new varieties, described as ‘polee fussee’.
‘Use mine,’ Udaya had said, when Amit asked for the bathroom. ‘Rehan is sleeping in the other room.’
He had gone in good spirits, but returned with a contemptuous smile.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I see that you’re one of those.’
‘One of whom?’ Udaya asked in confusion.
‘One of those who run behind every third-rate little shit of a prince.’
‘Excuse me,’ Udaya said, hardly able to gauge his meaning past the violence of his language. Seeing her face fall, Amit controlled himself, and began speaking in more measured tones.
‘I see you’ve put up a picture of Maggu Mahapatra and that gandu prince, what’s his name, Tuttu . . .’
‘Retaspur,’ Udaya asserted firmly, ‘both old friends. And one now dead, so please go easy on him.’
‘Good, good that he’s dead. What else do you expect when you drink all day, and get it in the ass from truck drivers and servants at night. Yellow fingers, the lot of them, all
yellow fingers.’
‘What’s wrong with you, Amit?’ Udaya said, flaring up. ‘I said that he was a friend and he’s dead. What is this venom?’
‘Venom!’ Amit exploded. ‘Calling me venomous? And praising those shits, those third-rate good-for-nothings. Friends! They’re nobody’s friends; they just collect
courtiers. That’s what you were: a courtier, a little hanger-on. And me, I suppose I’m nothing to you. I don’t see my picture anywhere in your house.’
‘Is mine in yours?’ Udaya asked, frigid with anger, smiling slightly.
Amit Sethia lost all composure. His eyes bulged, his lips ran dry, and the voice that broke from his throat was as loud and coarse a thing as Udaya had ever heard. ‘You’re just a
little climber! Why don’t you go and suck Maggu Mahapatra . . .’
In all fairness to Amit Sethia, he had not meant for the words to come out that way. His idiomatic English was not entirely under his control, and he had, in all probability, meant something
more along the lines of ‘suck up to’ rather than what he actually said. But, under the circumstances, it was impossible for Udaya to say anything other than what she did say, in an icy
threatening whisper: ‘Get out!’
Amit Sethia rose and swept his spectacles off the table, glancing for a moment at what must have seemed like an apparition in the doorway of the barsati. When he had gone, Rehan, in his white
night suit, approached his mother cautiously. ‘Who was that man, Ma,’ Rehan asked with trepidation, ‘was he the same one who came that day on Dussehra? Who is he?’
For a moment she didn’t answer. Then clutching the little hand that rested
had the chance.’
With this, he was gone.
* * *
The nineties, which with the coming of Coca-Cola, Ruffles potato crisps and MTV brought more hope than the high principles of the years before had ever done, made a new man of
Amit Sethia. In this spring of liberalization, when most men his age were consolidating their gains, the possibilities that opened up returned him to the full bloom and vitality of his youth. He
bought new cars, Brioni suits, he travelled abroad every month, he switched his drink from Black Label to Dom Pérignon, he fell in love again. He thought of the years that lay on the other
side of the change as wasted years; he summed up Sumitra in his heart as ‘pre-liberalization’, dooming her to the deadest of dead pasts. And though she remained in his home for many
years, he had begun to see other women, particularly a young lawyer. But, at dinner on her barsati only a few weeks after they met, Amit Sethia was reminded that the past was not yet behind
him.
It was May. They ate outside on one of the last nights when it was possible to do so. Udaya had lit the terrace with glass fanooses; they had, between the two of them, drunk the champagne Amit
had brought as well as most of a bottle of what Pappu, the bootlegger, his cellars now brimming with new varieties, described as ‘polee fussee’.
‘Use mine,’ Udaya had said, when Amit asked for the bathroom. ‘Rehan is sleeping in the other room.’
He had gone in good spirits, but returned with a contemptuous smile.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I see that you’re one of those.’
‘One of whom?’ Udaya asked in confusion.
‘One of those who run behind every third-rate little shit of a prince.’
‘Excuse me,’ Udaya said, hardly able to gauge his meaning past the violence of his language. Seeing her face fall, Amit controlled himself, and began speaking in more measured tones.
‘I see you’ve put up a picture of Maggu Mahapatra and that gandu prince, what’s his name, Tuttu . . .’
‘Retaspur,’ Udaya asserted firmly, ‘both old friends. And one now dead, so please go easy on him.’
‘Good, good that he’s dead. What else do you expect when you drink all day, and get it in the ass from truck drivers and servants at night. Yellow fingers, the lot of them, all
yellow fingers.’
‘What’s wrong with you, Amit?’ Udaya said, flaring up. ‘I said that he was a friend and he’s dead. What is this venom?’
‘Venom!’ Amit exploded. ‘Calling me venomous? And praising those shits, those third-rate good-for-nothings. Friends! They’re nobody’s friends; they just collect
courtiers. That’s what you were: a courtier, a little hanger-on. And me, I suppose I’m nothing to you. I don’t see my picture anywhere in your house.’
‘Is mine in yours?’ Udaya asked, frigid with anger, smiling slightly.
Amit Sethia lost all composure. His eyes bulged, his lips ran dry, and the voice that broke from his throat was as loud and coarse a thing as Udaya had ever heard. ‘You’re just a
little climber! Why don’t you go and suck Maggu Mahapatra . . .’
In all fairness to Amit Sethia, he had not meant for the words to come out that way. His idiomatic English was not entirely under his control, and he had, in all probability, meant something
more along the lines of ‘suck up to’ rather than what he actually said. But, under the circumstances, it was impossible for Udaya to say anything other than what she did say, in an icy
threatening whisper: ‘Get out!’
Amit Sethia rose and swept his spectacles off the table, glancing for a moment at what must have seemed like an apparition in the doorway of the barsati. When he had gone, Rehan, in his white
night suit, approached his mother cautiously. ‘Who was that man, Ma,’ Rehan asked with trepidation, ‘was he the same one who came that day on Dussehra? Who is he?’
For a moment she didn’t answer. Then clutching the little hand that rested
Similar Books
