A Son of the Circus

more Promila startled Farrokh by drumming her fingers on the spine of his tightly held book.

“Is the whole family here?” Promila asked. She made “the whole family” sound like a grotesque element, like an entire population that was out of control.

“Yes,” Dr. Daruwalla answered.

“And that beautiful boy is here, too, I hope—I want Rahul to see him!” Promila said.

“He must be eighteen—no, nineteen,” Rahul said dreamily.

“Yes, nineteen,” the doctor said stiffly.

“Don’t anyone point him out to me,” Rahul said. “I want to see if I can pick him out of the crowd.” Upon this remark, Rahul turned from the hammock and moved away across the beach. Dr. Daruwalla thought that the angle of Rahul’s departure was deliberate—to give the doctor, from his hammock, the best possible view of Rahul’s womanly hips. Rahul’s buttocks were also shown to good advantage in a snug sarong, and the tight-fitting halter top was similarly enhancing to Rahul’s breasts. Still, Farrokh critically observed, the hands were too large, the shoulders too broad, the upper arms too muscular… the feet were too long, the ankles too sturdy. Rahul was neither perfect nor complete.

“Isn’t she delicious?” Promila whispered in the doctor’s ear. She leaned over him in the hammock and Farrokh felt the heavy silver pendant, the main piece of her necklace, thump against his chest. So Rahul was already a full-fledged “she” in Promila’s mind.

“She seems so… womanly,” Dr. Daruwalla said to the proud aunt.

“She is womanly!” replied Promila Rai.

“Well… yes,” the doctor said. He felt trapped in the hammock, with Promila suspended above him like some bird of prey—some poultry of prey. Promila’s scent was permeating—a blend of sandalwood and embalming fluid, something oniony but also like moss. Dr. Daruwalla made an effort not to gag. He felt Promila pulling the novel by James Salter away from him, but he grasped the book in both hands.

“If this is such a wonderful book,” she said doubtingly, “I hope you’ll lend it to me.”

“I think Meher’s reading it next,” he said, but he didn’t mean Meher, his mother; he’d meant to say Julia, his wife.

“Is Meher here, too?” Promila asked quickly.

“No—I meant Julia,” Farrokh said sheepishly. By Promila’s sneer, he could tell she was judging him, as if his sexual life were so dull that he’d confused his mother with his wife—and before he was 40! Farrokh felt ashamed, but he was also angry. What had initially upset him about A Sport and a Pastime was now enthralling to him; he felt highly stimulated, but not in that guilty way of pornography. This was something so refined and erotic, he wanted to share it with Julia. Quite simply, and wonderfully, the novel had made him feel young again.

Dr. Daruwalla saw Rahul and Promila as sexually aberrant beings. They’d ruined his mood; they’d overshadowed something that was sexy and sincerely written, because they were so unnatural—so perverse. Farrokh supposed he should go warn Julia that Promila Rai and her nephew-with-breasts were on the prowl. The Daruwallas might have to give their underage daughters some explanation about what wasn’t quite right with Rahul. Farrokh decided he would tell John D., in any case. The doctor hadn’t liked how Rahul had been so eager to pick John D. “out of the crowd.”

Promila had doubtless impressed her nephew-with-breasts with her own opinion—that John D. was entirely too beautiful to be the child of Danny Mills. Dr. Daruwalla thought that Rahul had gone looking for John D. because the would-be transsexual hoped to glimpse something of Neville Eden in the doctor’s dear boy!

Promila had turned away from his hammock, as if she were scanning the beach for the “delicious” Rahul; Dr. Daruwalla took this occasion to stare at the back of her neck. He regretted it, for staring back at him among the discolored wrinkles was a tumorous growth with melanoid characteristics; the doctor couldn’t bring himself to advise Promila that she should have a doctor look at this. It wasn’t a job for an orthopedist, anyway, and Farrokh remembered how unkindly Promila had responded to Lowji’s dismissal of Rahul’s hairlessness. Thinking of Rahul, Dr. Daruwalla wondered if his father’s diagnosis might have been hasty; possibly the hairlessness had been an early signal that something sexual needed rectifying in Rahul.

He struggled to recall the unanswered question concerning Dr. Tata. He remembered that day when Promila and Rahul had delivered the old fool to the Daruwalla estate: there’d been some speculation regarding what either Promila or Rahul would have been seeing Dr. Tata for. It was unlikely that DR TATA’S BEST, MOST FAMOUS CLINIC FOR GYNECOLOGICAL & MATERNITY NEEDS could have been treating Promila, who would never have risked her precious parts to a physician reputed to be worse than ordinary. It was Lowji who’d suggested that it might have been Rahul who was Dr. Tata’s patient. “Something to do with the hairlessness business,” the senior Daruwalla had said, hadn’t he?

Now old Dr. Tata was dead. In keeping with the more low-key times, his son, who was also an obstetrician and gynecologist, had deleted the “best, most famous” from the clinic’s name—although, as a physician, the son was reputed to be as far below ordinary as his father; within the Bombay medical community he was consistently referred to as “Tata Two.” Nevertheless, maybe Tata Two had kept his father’s records. Farrokh thought it might be interesting to know more about Rahul’s hairlessness.

It amused Dr. Daruwalla to imagine that Promila and Rahul had been so single-minded about getting Rahul a sex change that they might have assumed a gynecological surgeon was the correct doctor to ask. You don’t ask the physician who’s familiar with the parts you want, but rather the doctor who knows and understands the parts you have! A urological surgeon would be required. Dr. Daruwalla presumed there would have to be a psychiatric evaluation, too; surely no responsible physician would perform a complete sex-change operation on demand.

Then Farrokh remembered that sex-change operations were illegal in India, although this hardly prevented the hijras from castrating themselves; emasculation appeared to be the caste duty of the hijras. Apparently, Rahul suffered from no such burden of “duty”; Rahul’s choice seemed to be motivated by something else—not to be the isolated third gender of a eunuch-transvestite, but to be “complete.” An actual woman—this was what Rahul wanted to be, Dr. Daruwalla imagined.

“I suppose it was young Sidhwa who recommended the Hotel Bardez to you,” Promila coolly said to the doctor, which forced Dr. Daruwalla to remember the unlikely source of his information. Sidhwa was a young man whose tastes struck Farrokh as entirely too trendy, but in the case of the Hotel Bardez, Sidhwa had spoken with unbridled enthusiasm—and at length.

“Yes, it was Sidhwa,” the doctor replied. “I suppose he told you, too.”

Promila Rai peered down at Dr. Daruwalla in his hammock. There was in her expression a condescension of a cold, reptilian nature; there wasn’t even a flicker of pity in her gaze, but only that which passes for eagerness in a lizard’s eyes as it singles out a fly.

“I told him,” Promila told Farrokh. “The Bardez is my hotel. I’ve been coming here for years.”

Oh, what a choice I’ve made! thought Dr. Daruwalla. But Promila was through with him, at least for the moment. She simply wandered away, not standing on a single ceremony that could even faintly be associated with common politeness, although she’d certainly been exposed to good manners and she could apply such etiquette in excess whenever she chose.

So that was the bad news that he had for Julia, Farrokh thought: two detestable Duckworthians had arrived at the Hotel Bardez, which turned out to be one of their personal favorites. But the good news was A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter, for Farrokh was 39 and it had been a long time since a book had so possessed his mind and body.

Dr. Daruwalla desired his wife—as suddenly, as disturbingly, as unashamedly as he’d ever desired her—and he marveled at the power of Mr. Salter’s prose to do that: both to be aesthetically pleasing and to give him far more than a simple hard-on. The novel seemed like a heroic act of seduction; it had enlivened all of the doctor’s senses.

He felt how the beach sand was cooling; at midday it had so burned underfoot that he could cross it only with his sandals on, but now he comfortably walked barefoot in the sand—it seemed an ideal temperature. He vowed to get up very early one morning so that he could also experience the sand at its coldest, but he would forget his vow. Nevertheless, these were the stirrings within him of a second honeymoon, for sure. I shall write a letter to Mr. James Salter, he resolved. The rest of his life, Dr. Daruwalla would regret his neglecting to write that