by Paul Theroux
In that confident mood after the dinner at the Imperial he shook hands with the businessmen. He could look them in the eye and tell them that he was enjoying himself in India and mean it.
"You are welcome, sir," one of them said.
"I'm learning so much," Dwight said. "And I feel I have a lot to offer, too."
After the men thanked him and left, Shah said, "Shall we walk?"
"I was going to get a taxi."
"Taj Hotel is just that side."
But Dwight had not planned to go to his hotel. He was headed to Chowpatty, to see Indru as usual. All through dinner he had imagined her waiting for him, lying in the charpoy, watching the little TV set he'd bought for her, Padmini squatting nearby, their faces bluish in the light from the screen.
"Good idea," Dwight said. "Let's walk."
The walk was a delay, but he felt close to Shah—the man was his guide, his partner, his benefactor, his friend. Yet he could not imagine disclosing to Shah the facts of the other life he was leading. No one must know what he seldom thought of himself: it was better that his secret remain almost a secret to himself, at least something unpacked and unexamined.
How did you go about examining it, anyway? Words weren't enough. That had been the trouble with his brief marriage, with life in general: no matter how much you told you were only hinting at the truth. There was always too much to tell in the allotted time. He thought he'd known Maureen before they were married. What a doll, he'd thought. She'd been like a party guest who'd shown up in his life, anxious to please, eager to be a friend, grateful to find a kindred spirit, someone to talk to, and so she'd been quick to agree, appreciative of his attention, polite, undemanding, good company. Dwight had been relieved, thinking, We've got so much in common.
Eight months of courtship convinced him they were a perfect match. He was unhesitating in proposing to her. Then came the planning for the wedding, and a different Maureen appeared, a fretful and uncertain woman, prone to fits of anger, moody, argumentative. Or was it him? Perhaps it wasn't the details of the arrangements but the fact of the wedding looming in the months ahead.
"I don't suppose your parents could get involved?" he asked. "We're too old for that!"
He was forty, she was thirty-eight; they felt conspicuous in their ages. Dwight said, "It'll be fine."
"No, no! You always say that!"
He thought "You always" was a dangerous way to start a sentence.
"The lettering is all wrong. It has to be raised. The ribbon is a cheesy look. Don't you see?"
Early days—they were discussing the invitation. She had revealed herself to be a perfectionist. But perfection is unattainable; the trait makes you unhappy. Never mind the invitation. He worried about his own imperfections.
"We have to get it right" was her cry. "It'll do" was his. Dwight was satisfied with the passable, which infuriated her. The church service, the bridesmaids' dresses, the flowers, the reception, the music, the guest list—it all became so contentious that by the time it was over and they were married, and they knew each other's personalities so much better, they were convinced they'd made a mistake.
No, that wasn't true. He could not say at what point the marriage had begun to fail. It was only his cynical liking for ironic symmetry that made him think that it had started to falter as soon as they said "I do." But whatever he might say about it was no more than a fragment. There was too much to tell; you didn't know someone until you were living under the same roof, sharing space in the same room, in the same bed, naked, for a long time. Then you knew, not from anything that was said, but by the way someone smelled and breathed and murmured, by rubbing against the other person, and being rubbed.
That was how he had gotten to know Indru, and that first girl Sumitra, and now Padmini. He had not possessed them, he had helped them through a crisis—and a crisis was a daily event in India. Explain this to Shah? Impossible.
They were still walking. Shah had never suggested a walk before, never offered his companionship that way. And what made it odder was that they were in a district of new nightclubs and bars. They were passing the awnings, the lurid lights at the windows, the music blaring through the curtains at the door. They glimpsed people dancing, smelled incense, saw the grubby red carpet at each entrance, unrolled as a welcome. Out front, the bold young men who worked at these places, seeing two men in business suits, stepped forward.
"Mister—very nice club. Good premises." And lunging at Dwight because he was still walking: "Sir, nice girls. As you wish. Pop music. Drinks. Eatables."
Though Dwight had slightly slackened his gait, Shah kept walking at the same speed.
"For some people, that is reality," Shah said.
Another awning, more young men, a pretty girl in a red sari standing just inside the door. Club Durga. An image of the blackish-faced goddess with her necklace of skulls he'd remembered from Sumitra's room, as Sumitra danced beneath it.
"Kali," Shah said. "Durga, the inaccessible."
Dwight said, "I just remembered that I got an e-mail today from my firm. They're talking about my flying back to chair a seminar on doing business in India."
"How did you respond?"
"I said, 'If I come to the meeting, I'll have to stop doing business in India. I'll lose some deals.'"
"I can keep the parties cooling their heels," Shah said. And then, "This was never here before."
He meant the lane off the main road, which was brightly lit, thick with clubs, loud music, taxis dropping off well-dressed men. Dwight knew: bar girls, rotten whiskey, pimps. He passed this way often; it was one of his shortcuts.
"You know what is the meaning of 'phenomenal distinction'?" Shah asked.
"Something like differentiating between the look of things."
"Not just look. Also sound, odor, flavor, touch," Shah said. He waved his hand in the direction of the nightclubs. "Better to leave behind all phenomenal distinctions. Like those."
Did Shah suspect something? Dwight said, "But that's the way things are."
"You mean reality?"
"More or less."
"No, that is only appearance."
And Dwight thought: In the idlest conversation in India, wading through platitudes, deep water was never far off. He said, "You are making the usual big distinction between appearance and reality."
Shah wagged his head, but it didn't mean yes. He started to speak but had to pause, because the music was deafening. When they had passed that noisy doorway, he resumed, saying, "Both appearance and reality are merely names."
"That's a quibble," Dwight said. "Of course they're names."
"But reality is many-sided," Shah said.
Dwight slowed his pace again, and made a face, and said, "Never heard that one before."
"Is Jain, also Buddhist concept." He looked for a reaction on Dwight's face before adding, "I am eclectic in spiritual matters. My Mahavira was a contemporary of Buddha. Both preached about karma. You know karma."
"Karma is a kind of luck, eh?"
"Not luck. Karma is deeds. Karma is particles that can build up by wrong action. Especially passion."
The mention of passion would have made Dwight suspicious, even defensive, except that Indians were always mentioning it. Meat was a cause of it, and so was alcohol and loose women.
"You're saying karma is matter?"
"Indeed so. It is almost visible. Better not to allow the mind to dwell on worldly thoughts. The world gives false messages, distracts with sounds, odors, flavors. Touching, too, can be harmful, a way of acquiring karmans."
What was he driving at, and why now? Dwight put it down to this sleazy neighborhood of clubs and bars and obvious lowlife. He said, "Just—do what then?"
"Develop a clear pure mind by not accepting appearances of things. And observe the Three Jewels." He used his fingers, flipping one upright and then the others. "Right belief. Right knowledge. Right conduct."
"That's deep," Dwight said. "I should tell the partners."
"It would do them much good."
"I mean, we could include it in that seminar they want to give about doing business in India."
Shah nodded, but his nod seemed to mean "maybe." He said, "Seminar is a practical matter. I have myself created a packet of materials for helping to understand business practices here."
"A business manual?"
"Let us say guidelines."
They were still walking. The Taj was ahead, its distinctive entrance, the palms, the perimeter walls that were meant to keep panhandlers away, the big bearded Sikh in his topheavy turban, his gold braid and frock coat, saluting a departing guest.
"Ever been to the States?"
"Not yet."
"You know what I think?" Dwight said. "You should go to the States, not me. You can run the seminar. They're holding it at a great hotel in Boston. Wonderful food and hospitality. The weather's perfect at this time of year. They'll look after you. And it's money. The people who attend are all potential clients."
"I cannot," Shah said, but what made it unconvincing was his smile, the activity behind his eyes: he was reflecting with pleasure on going to the States. Dwight had seen that look on the faces of other Indians, a glow of anticipation at the very mention of America.
"You're perfect. You've got all the papers lined up."
"Packet of materials," Shah said.
"The guidelines! This is a big deal for the firm. They see it as a way of attracting clients, easing them into thinking about outsourcing. We're not giving away any secrets, just intending to convince them that we know what we're talking about."
"The attendees?"
"Yeah. Show them our track record. Sign them up."
Though he did not say anything just then, Shah had become animated, his face twitching with interest as he'd listened. Dwight could tell when Shah was thinking: his thought process was observable as a subtle throbbing of veins beneath his features.
"How will you manage here?"
"'I'll be fine. You've been a great teacher. You've given me lots of wisdom. 'Don't accept the appearances of things.' That's great."
"It is from Diamond Sutra," Shah said.
The word "diamond" caught his attention, and he squinted at Shah.
"The idea of fundamental reality is merely name only. Material world is not material. Money is not money. World is not world."
"Right," Dwight said uncertainly.
"Words cannot express truth," Shah said. "That which words express is not truth."
"You just lost me." But he thought, Yes, words were not enough.
Now they were at the driveway of the hotel, well lighted, the tall sturdy Sikh doorman opening the door of an expensive car to allow a little man in a dark suit to step out.
"Come to dinner at my home," Shah said. "It will be a humble meal, but your presence will do us a great honor."
5
Instead of going up to the Elephanta Suite, Dwight lingered in the lobby, and when he was certain that Shah was on his way home, he signaled for the Sikh to hail him a taxi, and he went to Chow-patty—not the lane, but nearby. He didn't want anyone to know the address, not even a taxi driver.
Inside, the stairwell reeked of urine and garbage. A rat on the stairs was not startled by his stamping but only crouched and became compact, twitching its whiskers in a way that reminded Dwight of Shah's active thinking. It was a familiar rat—you got to recognize them, Dwight thought; the stinks, too. Or was it all false? Appearances were meaningless, phenomenal distinctions were misleading, and this great smelly cloud of shit was just an illusion.
Indru's outer door was made of rusted iron grating like the slammer on a prison cell, for security and for the air, though the air was sour even here on the third-floor landing.
She had heard him. She approached the door holding a circular brass tray with a flame burning in a dish of oil. And while Pad-mini unlocked the steel door and swung it open and made a namaste with her clasped hands, Indru passed the flame under Dwight's chin and applied a dot of paste to his forehead.
"You are welcome," Indru said.
He kicked off his shoes and followed her to the second room. It was open to the alley, the TV sets of the neighbors, the smell of spices and boiled vegetables, the whine of traffic, horns beeping, distant music that always seemed to evoke for Dwight an atmosphere of strangulation.
"Don't put the light on," he said. "Just keep that candle."
"Deepak," Indru said. "Is how we make pure the air. Shall I wash feet?"
"That would be very nice."
Somehow Padmini had heard. She brought a basin of warm water and a cloth and set it down before him. Still watching, she backed away as Indru began gently to massage his bare feet in the water.
"Have you eat?"
But he didn't hear. He was watching her head, her hair, her swinging braid that slipped against his legs like a long tassel as she knelt before him. She was so intent on her task, canted forward, narrow shoulders working, that he could look down to the small of her back, her white dress tightened against her buttocks.
"That's fine."
"Not quite finish."
"Stop," he said. His throat constricted, his face went hot. "Close the door, please."
The way she got to her feet in pretty little stages, first lifting her head to face him, tossing her braid aside, then raising herself by digging her fingers into his knees for balance, almost undid him. Then she was peeling off his shirt as he approached the charpoy. He watched her shimmy out of her dress, using her shoulders. When her dress dropped to her ankles she stepped out of it, kicking the door closed with one foot.
"I know what you want," she said as he took her head, cupping her ears, and moved it like a melon on his lap.
He lay there in the half-dark, the wick of the oil lamp flickering in its dish on the floor by the washbasin, and he thought of how different his life was now. And what about Indru? She seemed happy. He had come home to her; she had been waiting for him. She was grateful—he could sense it from the warmth of her mouth, her eager lips.
He had done her more than a good turn; he had rescued her—rescued Padmini too, and if that young man did not happen to be her brother but another lover, he was helping that fellow as well. But who in the other world would understand? It was impossible to explain. That which words express is not truth—right! He would be seen as a sensualist, an exploiter, another opportunist in India. No, he was a benefactor.
In his rapture, with Indru's palms flattened against his thighs, his sighing with pleasure, he was sentimental and told himself that there was no other place he wished to be.
Warmed by this thought, luxuriating in where he lay, he raised his eyes and saw past Indru's head, past her braid coiled on the dampness of her bare back, to the door of the room, the shadow of Padmini in profile against the vertical bar of light where the door was ajar. One bright eye shone in the light of the oil lamp. He said nothing—could she see his face?—and it was a long time before the door silently shut, squeezing the light, and by then Indru was too frenzied to notice.
Afterward, he drew her into his arms and thought, Yes, their benefactor.
"That is my father," Shah was saying, holding a framed photograph.
The old man in the silver frame was bearded, very thin, gripping a walking stick, carrying a cloth bundle.
"All his worldly possessions."
The ascetic and rather starved face contrasted sharply with the elegant frame, the polished side table on which it rested with other silver-framed pictures—more of the old man—the cut-glass lamp, the linen tablecloth, the candlesticks.
And Dwight sat at a table that had been set with delicate porcelain plates thin as eggshells, linen napkins, gold-trimmed salvers, crystal goblets. But there were yellow lentils in the plates, beans in the salvers, water in the goblets.
"Please take some more dhal," Mrs. Shah said. "It's a family recipe. Tarka dhal—very creamy, you see."
She was a lovely woman, younger than
her husband, with a smooth serious face and a slightly strained manner, a kind of concern that Dwight understood as the effort of being hospitable to a big American stranger who had a reputation for bluntness. Shah must have warned her, but Shah was much more confident these days.
"And this," she said, serving him with silver pincers what looked like a flattened muffin, "this is my mother's uttapam."
"Delicious," Dwight said. "I'm not eating meat ever again."
"Thank you," Mrs. Shah said. She rang a bell and a young woman entered with a bowl of rice. As the woman stood next to Dwight, serving him, he had one thought in his mind. These days, when he met a woman in India, he thought, Would I? To this one, he nodded and smiled, thinking, Yes, I would.
"My father was a businessman," Shah said, glancing at the framed photograph as he spoke. "He started as an accountant, then created a firm and eventually had a huge business—bought his building, branched out into real estate and investment. He did very well. My brother and I had a privileged upbringing. But as he got older he prepared himself, and at last he embarked on his journey."
"Where did he go?"
"Not where, but how, is the question. He walked, he slept on the ground. He begged for alms, holding bowl. He wished to become a saint. It was his aim."
"Renounced everything?"
"Completely," Shah said. "Not so, my dear?"
Mrs. Shah tipped her head in regret.
"Obeying the mahavratas," Shah said. "The big vows. No injury. No lying. No stealing. Chastity. Lacking all possessions. Meditation and praying only. And walking to the shrines, day and night, begging for food."
Now Dwight looked at the picture of the wealthy investor, who out of piety had reinvented himself as a beggar. Dwight said, "It's quite a trajectory."
"Jain trajectory—Buddhist too," Shah said. "My brother and I looked after my mother. And my turn will come." He suddenly became self-conscious and smiled at his wife. "Then my son will look after my wife. It is our way."
