Waking, looking up at the ceiling, I thought just for a second that I had fallen asleep on the pavement below the gallery of our Bombay chambers. Then I realized my loss. I couldn't tell how much time had passed or whether it was night or day. The only clue was that newspapers now lay outside some doors. It disturbed me to think that while I had been sleeping, alone and defenceless, I had been observed by a stranger and perhaps by more than one stranger.
I tried the apartment door and found I had locked myself out. I didn't want to disturb my employer. I thought I would get out into the open, go for a walk. I remembered where the elevator was. I got in and pressed the button. The elevator dropped fast and silently and it was like being in the aeroplane again. When the elevator stopped and the blue metal door slid open I saw plain concrete corridors and blank walls. The noise of machinery was very loud. I knew I was in the basement and the main floor was not far above me. But I no longer wanted to try; I gave up ideas of the open air. I thought I would just go back up to the apartment. But I hadn't noted the number and didn't even know what floor we were on. My courage flowed out of me. I sat on the floor of the elevator and felt the tears come to my eyes. Almost without noise the elevator door closed, and I found I was being taken up silently at great speed.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. It was my employer, his hair uncombed, yesterday's dirty shirt partly unbuttoned. He looked frightened. 'Santosh, where have you been at this hour of morning? Without your shoes.'
I could have embraced him. He hurried me back past the newspapers to our apartment and I took the bedding inside. The wide window showed the early morning sky, the big city; we were high up, way above the trees.
1 said, 'I couldn't find my room.'
'Government sanctioned,' my employer said. 'Are you sure you've looked?'
We looked together. One little corridor led past the bathroom to his bedroom; another, shorter corridor led to the big room and the kitchen. There was nothing else.
'Government sanctioned,' my employer said, moving about the kitchen and opening cupboard doors. 'Separate entrance, shelving. I have the correspondence.' He opened another door and looked inside. 'Santosh, do you think it is possible that this is what Government meant?'
The cupboard he had opened was as high as the rest of the apartment and as wide as the kitchen, about six feet. It was about three feet deep. It had two doors. One door opened into the kitchen; another door, directly opposite, opened into the corridor.
'Separate entrance,' my employer said. 'Shelving, electric light, power point, fitted carpet.'
'This must be my room, sahib.'
'Santosh, some enemy in Government has done this to me.'
'Oh no, sahib. You mustn't say that. Besides, it is very big. I will be able to make myself very comfortable. It is much bigger than my little cubby-hole in the chambers. And it has a nice flat ceiling. I wouldn't hit my head.'
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ONE OUT OF MANY / 273 1
'You don't understand, Santosh. Bombay is Bombay. Here if we start living in cupboards we give the wrong impression. They will think we all live in cupboards in Bombay.'
'O sahib, but they can just look at me and see I am dirt.'
'You are very good, Santosh. But these people are malicious. Still, if you are happy, then I am happy.' 'I am very happy, sahib.' An d after all the upset, I was. It was nice to crawl in that evening, spread
my bedding and feel protected and hidden. I slept very well.
In the morning my employer said, 'We must talk about money, Santosh. Your salary is one hundred rupees a month. But Washington isn't Bombay. Everything is a little bit more expensive here, and I am going to give you a Dearness Allowance. As from today you are getting one hundred and fifty rupees.'
'Sahib.'
'And I'm giving you a fortnight's pay in advance. In foreign exchange. Seventy-five rupees. Te n cents to the rupee, seven hundred and fifty cents. Seven fifty U.S. Here, Santosh. This afternoon you go out and have a little walk and enjoy. But be careful. We are not among friends, remember.'
So at last, rested, with money in my pocket, I went out in the open. And of
course the city wasn't a quarter as frightening as I had thought. Th e buildings
weren't particularly big, not all the streets were busy, and there were many
lovely trees. A lot of the hubshi were about, very wild-looking some of them,
with dark glasses and their hair frizzed out, but it seemed that if you didn't
trouble them they didn't attack you.
I was looking for a cafe or a tea-stall where perhaps domestics congregated. But I saw no domestics, and I was chased away from the place I did eventually go into. Th e girl said, after I had been waiting some time, 'Can't you read? We don't serve hippies or bare feet here.'
O father! I had come out without my shoes. But what a country, I thought, walking briskly away, where people are never allowed to dress normally but must forever wear their very best! Wh y must they wear out shoes and fine clothes for no purpose? Wha t occasion are they honouring? Wha t waste, what presumption! Wh o do they think is noticing them all the time?
And even while these thoughts were in my head I found I had come to a
roundabout with trees and a fountain where?and it was like a fulfilment in
a dream, not easy to believe?there were many people who looked like my own
