wider streets that led through the city.
It had taken them twenty minutes to reach the six-story Vina Yak apartment building, located in what Attar was proud to point out as the better part of the city. The mounds of trash were less frequent here and streets were devoid of the squatters’ shanties and half-naked beggar children that infiltrated other neighborhoods, but the same covered sewer ran down both sides of the street, the slabs of cut stone offering little protection from the wafting smells. Single-family bungalows of concrete and brick ducked from view behind chest-high walls while boxy two-story apartment blocks crowded near the intersections. Clustered at the end of the street with other recent additions, the Vina Yak apartment building towered over its neighbors.
Characterless architecture and shoddy construction methods allowed the building to look both almost completed and ready to be condemned at the same time. The natural tones of the gray concrete bled through the cheap white paint, and reinforcing rods poked straight out at irregular intervals, rust-colored streaks washing down the walls. In the windows of the rented apartments, drying laundry hung limp out of half-open windows and rows of potted plants served as a warning track on the rail-less balconies. Through open windows he could see Ikea-style entertainment centers and from one he could hear the roar of an F-16 fighter as it gunned down PlayStation bogies in surround sound.
In the lobby, carts loaded with ceramic tiles and bags of cement gave the impression that the construction crew had just stepped out for lunch. The peeling paint, the busted window frames and the elevator door that refused to close as they rode up six flights suggested a much longer break.
When they entered the apartment there was little doubt about Attar’s background in computers. A jury-rigged workbench ran the length of one of the living room’s long walls, and a dozen computer towers in various states of repair sat cracked open among miles of cables and reams of schematics and photocopied instruction manuals. On the glass-topped coffee table Jason spotted a pair of laptop computers, while on the dining room table twin monitors ran tranquil images of a cyber fish tank, complete with a screen-sucking plecostomus. Two small boys peeked through a crack in the bedroom door, giggling every time they were spotted. A slight woman in a blue shalwar kamiz came out from the kitchen long enough to be introduced as Attar’s wife, Pravi, before disappearing back through the swinging door, only to return moments later with tin plates laden with spicy foods. As soon as they finished eating, Attar had them back in the car and heading out on his scenic ride to Jaipur’s main tourist attraction.
“I guess the jetlag has caught up with your wife,” Attar said, pointing at his rearview mirror as the car swerved along the hillside road. Curled up on the back seat, Rachel wore her hat down over her eyes, her head resting on the soft spot that six yards of silk made in his backpack.
Jason was tempted to tell him that they weren’t married, that they weren’t a couple, and that he didn’t even know her last name was Moore until Attar had told him at the train station. But through lunch Rachel had explained to their hosts how she and Jason had met at her cousin’s wedding, how they dated for a year while she finished her degree, explained all about the big wedding and how they bought the farmhouse where Jason had grown up, and why they decided to travel to India before settling down to start a family in Corning. And, when Attar mentioned family members in nearby Binghamton, Rachel took down their names, promising to look them up.
Jason had been amazed at the effortless way she rambled on, sounding as if she were recalling vivid memories instead of making it up as she went, creating in the process a fictitious life that was far more interesting than his reality. He laughed along with
It had taken them twenty minutes to reach the six-story Vina Yak apartment building, located in what Attar was proud to point out as the better part of the city. The mounds of trash were less frequent here and streets were devoid of the squatters’ shanties and half-naked beggar children that infiltrated other neighborhoods, but the same covered sewer ran down both sides of the street, the slabs of cut stone offering little protection from the wafting smells. Single-family bungalows of concrete and brick ducked from view behind chest-high walls while boxy two-story apartment blocks crowded near the intersections. Clustered at the end of the street with other recent additions, the Vina Yak apartment building towered over its neighbors.
Characterless architecture and shoddy construction methods allowed the building to look both almost completed and ready to be condemned at the same time. The natural tones of the gray concrete bled through the cheap white paint, and reinforcing rods poked straight out at irregular intervals, rust-colored streaks washing down the walls. In the windows of the rented apartments, drying laundry hung limp out of half-open windows and rows of potted plants served as a warning track on the rail-less balconies. Through open windows he could see Ikea-style entertainment centers and from one he could hear the roar of an F-16 fighter as it gunned down PlayStation bogies in surround sound.
In the lobby, carts loaded with ceramic tiles and bags of cement gave the impression that the construction crew had just stepped out for lunch. The peeling paint, the busted window frames and the elevator door that refused to close as they rode up six flights suggested a much longer break.
When they entered the apartment there was little doubt about Attar’s background in computers. A jury-rigged workbench ran the length of one of the living room’s long walls, and a dozen computer towers in various states of repair sat cracked open among miles of cables and reams of schematics and photocopied instruction manuals. On the glass-topped coffee table Jason spotted a pair of laptop computers, while on the dining room table twin monitors ran tranquil images of a cyber fish tank, complete with a screen-sucking plecostomus. Two small boys peeked through a crack in the bedroom door, giggling every time they were spotted. A slight woman in a blue shalwar kamiz came out from the kitchen long enough to be introduced as Attar’s wife, Pravi, before disappearing back through the swinging door, only to return moments later with tin plates laden with spicy foods. As soon as they finished eating, Attar had them back in the car and heading out on his scenic ride to Jaipur’s main tourist attraction.
“I guess the jetlag has caught up with your wife,” Attar said, pointing at his rearview mirror as the car swerved along the hillside road. Curled up on the back seat, Rachel wore her hat down over her eyes, her head resting on the soft spot that six yards of silk made in his backpack.
Jason was tempted to tell him that they weren’t married, that they weren’t a couple, and that he didn’t even know her last name was Moore until Attar had told him at the train station. But through lunch Rachel had explained to their hosts how she and Jason had met at her cousin’s wedding, how they dated for a year while she finished her degree, explained all about the big wedding and how they bought the farmhouse where Jason had grown up, and why they decided to travel to India before settling down to start a family in Corning. And, when Attar mentioned family members in nearby Binghamton, Rachel took down their names, promising to look them up.
Jason had been amazed at the effortless way she rambled on, sounding as if she were recalling vivid memories instead of making it up as she went, creating in the process a fictitious life that was far more interesting than his reality. He laughed along with
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