the house, that one of the wheels of Sam's rickshaw deflated into a flat. The tire screamed over the heating tar and Sam tilted to one side along with the rickshaw.
The rickshaw puller jumped down from the cycle and, under the gaze of the wakening sun, pulled the conveyance to an edge of the dusty road.
"What now?" Sam asked tiredly, getting down also to view the damage. They were half a mile from one set of trees, and at least that distance from the shade at the other end, and there was nothing to be done but wait while the flat was repaired. Sam knew where he was headed, to the political agent's home, but for him that was as yet simply a name and a place; he would not know how to find the right house even if he set out along the road. He moved toward the west side of the rickshaw, sat down under the meager shade of its awning, and lit a cigarette. The rickshaw puller removed the vehicle's padded seat and reached in. Sam watched as he took out a tiffin carrier, a threadbare towel, a can of water, a collapsed pillow for afternoon naps, and a cloth pouch in which to keep his earnings. Below these treasures was the access to a wooden plank, which the man prized out, and underneath was a set of tools--an air pump, a large metal bowl, a bottle of filthy water, some lengths of thin rubber, a pair of scissors, and some glue.
The man deftly undid the tire from its rim and pulled out the rubber tube. He filled the tube with air from the pump and Sam could already hear the sibilant hissing of escaping air before the man poured water into a metal bowl and ran the length of the tube through it, piece by piece, until the water bubbled. Then, with his finger over the spot, he let the air out and with a rough stone began to shave at the rubber of the inner tube.
Sam leaned back against his holdall and contemplated his cigarette. It was quiet here this early in the morning, and deserted. The road ran through the middle of this relative wasteland with no trees to shade it, no mile markers to distinguish it, and yet it had to be the main artery that led from the station to the residential area. Sam had slept with his chin ensconced in his palm on the way here, and remembered little of what he had seen when he had been jolted awake every now and then. He threw his cigarette away, and it went spinning into the air and landed in the dirt. At that moment he heard the steady dip-clop of horses' hooves. Sam rose from the side of the rickshaw and came out into the road to look toward the farther bank of trees. Three riders broke from the greenery and came riding down the path. As they neared, Sam could see that the one in front was a woman, an Indian woman, and he experienced a twinge of pleasant surprise. He had not seen too many upper-class Indian women out and about without an escort, or with only two syces as companions. He realized it was a strange observation to make in India of all places, of course , but all of Sam's social encounters so far had been at the regimental messes, or at hotels in Calcutta--in other words, with the British constituents of the British Raj. There were plenty of Indians to be met in the cinema houses or in the bazaars, but they were not the type to be invited into the gymkhana clubs or the hotels, and of the few who could gain entry, Sam had not been introduced to any. He would have talked with Mr. Abdullah on the train, but Mrs. Stanton's onerous presence had dampened those efforts.
The woman had come closer by now. She rode well, her back upright, her gloved hands holding the reins loosely. Sam put a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted to see her better. There was a loveliness about her, an elegance he could not describe even to himself. Her skin was a lush and creamy brown, her shirt collar a lustrous white against her neck; the khaki of her pants and the gleaming roan of her horse's coat married into the background of the desert behind her. Even as she neared, Sam could not see much of her face, for it was
The rickshaw puller jumped down from the cycle and, under the gaze of the wakening sun, pulled the conveyance to an edge of the dusty road.
"What now?" Sam asked tiredly, getting down also to view the damage. They were half a mile from one set of trees, and at least that distance from the shade at the other end, and there was nothing to be done but wait while the flat was repaired. Sam knew where he was headed, to the political agent's home, but for him that was as yet simply a name and a place; he would not know how to find the right house even if he set out along the road. He moved toward the west side of the rickshaw, sat down under the meager shade of its awning, and lit a cigarette. The rickshaw puller removed the vehicle's padded seat and reached in. Sam watched as he took out a tiffin carrier, a threadbare towel, a can of water, a collapsed pillow for afternoon naps, and a cloth pouch in which to keep his earnings. Below these treasures was the access to a wooden plank, which the man prized out, and underneath was a set of tools--an air pump, a large metal bowl, a bottle of filthy water, some lengths of thin rubber, a pair of scissors, and some glue.
The man deftly undid the tire from its rim and pulled out the rubber tube. He filled the tube with air from the pump and Sam could already hear the sibilant hissing of escaping air before the man poured water into a metal bowl and ran the length of the tube through it, piece by piece, until the water bubbled. Then, with his finger over the spot, he let the air out and with a rough stone began to shave at the rubber of the inner tube.
Sam leaned back against his holdall and contemplated his cigarette. It was quiet here this early in the morning, and deserted. The road ran through the middle of this relative wasteland with no trees to shade it, no mile markers to distinguish it, and yet it had to be the main artery that led from the station to the residential area. Sam had slept with his chin ensconced in his palm on the way here, and remembered little of what he had seen when he had been jolted awake every now and then. He threw his cigarette away, and it went spinning into the air and landed in the dirt. At that moment he heard the steady dip-clop of horses' hooves. Sam rose from the side of the rickshaw and came out into the road to look toward the farther bank of trees. Three riders broke from the greenery and came riding down the path. As they neared, Sam could see that the one in front was a woman, an Indian woman, and he experienced a twinge of pleasant surprise. He had not seen too many upper-class Indian women out and about without an escort, or with only two syces as companions. He realized it was a strange observation to make in India of all places, of course , but all of Sam's social encounters so far had been at the regimental messes, or at hotels in Calcutta--in other words, with the British constituents of the British Raj. There were plenty of Indians to be met in the cinema houses or in the bazaars, but they were not the type to be invited into the gymkhana clubs or the hotels, and of the few who could gain entry, Sam had not been introduced to any. He would have talked with Mr. Abdullah on the train, but Mrs. Stanton's onerous presence had dampened those efforts.
The woman had come closer by now. She rode well, her back upright, her gloved hands holding the reins loosely. Sam put a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted to see her better. There was a loveliness about her, an elegance he could not describe even to himself. Her skin was a lush and creamy brown, her shirt collar a lustrous white against her neck; the khaki of her pants and the gleaming roan of her horse's coat married into the background of the desert behind her. Even as she neared, Sam could not see much of her face, for it was
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