penthouse suites even sported a few intricately chiseled gopurams, rising above doorways in the Vijaynagar style. The idea of the sari-clad Statue of Liberty replica was to beckon to the West, Patel said, rather than look towards it, India being the new beacon of achievement, of opportunity.
Unfortunately, the opening did not go smoothly. Critics ripped into the fusion of architectural and décor styles (“a schizophrenic monstrosity,” “Shah Jehan goes to the circus,” “more gaudiness and less taste than at a Gujarati wedding”), the computers for the much-hyped laser tribute to desi IT advances kept catching on fire (literally bursting into flame), and a near-riot broke out at the “Stomach of India” restaurant when Jain tourists found a chicken bone in their vegetable biryani. To top it off, Patel had apparently gone bankrupt during construction—rumor had it that the Indica had been bought up and completed by the Chinese.
None of this turned out to matter. The hotel proved such a success that already, an annex was being built in the lot behind. A busy stream of people headed to the pool through the glass doors of the atrium today. Uma strode boldly along, taking Anoop on her arm as well, but the guard challenged Karun and me to produce our guest cards, and we all ended up in the Sensex Bar, drinking coffee.
Although the quotes scrolling along the walls in keeping with the stock market theme were distracting, the tinkle of teacups and pastry tongs helped soothe out the memory of the frenetic throngs on the beach. Anoop droned on about how marvelously his own investments were faring on the Sensex index, giving us a lowdown on the profile of each company he’d picked. How different Karun was from my brother-in-law, I thought—Karun didn’t say much, but I couldn’t bring to mind anyone else in whose presence silence could be so comforting. Afterwards, we stopped to admire the floor-to-ceiling Hussain mural in the lobby, commemorating the Indian invention of the decimal system. An enormous polished metal torus created by a sculptor named Anish Kapoor (who Uma informed us was Indian-born and very famous abroad) floated over us, casting shadows on the floor and walls that looked like skewed zeroes. The chairs, with wide circular rims in keeping with the theme, were also designed by the same sculptor—they reminded me more of wombs than zeroes, and were very uncomfortable (though I didn’t say anything). Uma wanted to check out the Indus Valley theme at 3000 B.C . , the disco downstairs, but I imagined standing around in the deafening music, holding five-hundred-rupee lemonades in faux Bronze Age mugs, and declined.
“You could have been brother and sister, the way you two behaved,” Uma said later. “Even two rocks in a museum would generate more sparks. What have you been doing all these evenings after swimming—sitting and staring dumbly like statues at each other?”
“His tongue doesn’t have to fly a mile a minute for me to like him. It’s reassuring to know we enjoy each other’s company enough that we don’t need to stuff each second with inanities.”
“Has he even tried to kiss you yet?”
“We’ve held hands. That’s enough for me.”
“Real hand-holding, or the brother-and-sister variety?”
I didn’t answer. How to make Uma understand the bond I’d discovered with Karun? The matching of our temperaments, the similarity of our history? It was precisely his tentativeness that I found so attractive, the fact that he was as insecure, as uninitiated in romance as I.
“I thought as much,” Uma said, shaking her head. “All this time you’ve spent together, and— nothing? There’s something not quite right.”
“It’s supposed to be the fashion now, I realize, but not everyone can be as brazen as you with Anoop when you were first dating.”
“Well, maybe you should tell that to Mummy. That you’re even more old-fashioned than she is. Do you know she’s been making
Unfortunately, the opening did not go smoothly. Critics ripped into the fusion of architectural and décor styles (“a schizophrenic monstrosity,” “Shah Jehan goes to the circus,” “more gaudiness and less taste than at a Gujarati wedding”), the computers for the much-hyped laser tribute to desi IT advances kept catching on fire (literally bursting into flame), and a near-riot broke out at the “Stomach of India” restaurant when Jain tourists found a chicken bone in their vegetable biryani. To top it off, Patel had apparently gone bankrupt during construction—rumor had it that the Indica had been bought up and completed by the Chinese.
None of this turned out to matter. The hotel proved such a success that already, an annex was being built in the lot behind. A busy stream of people headed to the pool through the glass doors of the atrium today. Uma strode boldly along, taking Anoop on her arm as well, but the guard challenged Karun and me to produce our guest cards, and we all ended up in the Sensex Bar, drinking coffee.
Although the quotes scrolling along the walls in keeping with the stock market theme were distracting, the tinkle of teacups and pastry tongs helped soothe out the memory of the frenetic throngs on the beach. Anoop droned on about how marvelously his own investments were faring on the Sensex index, giving us a lowdown on the profile of each company he’d picked. How different Karun was from my brother-in-law, I thought—Karun didn’t say much, but I couldn’t bring to mind anyone else in whose presence silence could be so comforting. Afterwards, we stopped to admire the floor-to-ceiling Hussain mural in the lobby, commemorating the Indian invention of the decimal system. An enormous polished metal torus created by a sculptor named Anish Kapoor (who Uma informed us was Indian-born and very famous abroad) floated over us, casting shadows on the floor and walls that looked like skewed zeroes. The chairs, with wide circular rims in keeping with the theme, were also designed by the same sculptor—they reminded me more of wombs than zeroes, and were very uncomfortable (though I didn’t say anything). Uma wanted to check out the Indus Valley theme at 3000 B.C . , the disco downstairs, but I imagined standing around in the deafening music, holding five-hundred-rupee lemonades in faux Bronze Age mugs, and declined.
“You could have been brother and sister, the way you two behaved,” Uma said later. “Even two rocks in a museum would generate more sparks. What have you been doing all these evenings after swimming—sitting and staring dumbly like statues at each other?”
“His tongue doesn’t have to fly a mile a minute for me to like him. It’s reassuring to know we enjoy each other’s company enough that we don’t need to stuff each second with inanities.”
“Has he even tried to kiss you yet?”
“We’ve held hands. That’s enough for me.”
“Real hand-holding, or the brother-and-sister variety?”
I didn’t answer. How to make Uma understand the bond I’d discovered with Karun? The matching of our temperaments, the similarity of our history? It was precisely his tentativeness that I found so attractive, the fact that he was as insecure, as uninitiated in romance as I.
“I thought as much,” Uma said, shaking her head. “All this time you’ve spent together, and— nothing? There’s something not quite right.”
“It’s supposed to be the fashion now, I realize, but not everyone can be as brazen as you with Anoop when you were first dating.”
“Well, maybe you should tell that to Mummy. That you’re even more old-fashioned than she is. Do you know she’s been making
Similar Books
