Beyonce had now picked up a scent, and nose down, waddled forward, her ears dancing about her.
‘Kris, actually… it’s your sister,’ I began, ‘that I’d like to talk to you about. You know I’m a friend of Aakash’s.’
‘I know,’ he replied.
Then I wasn’t sure what to say.
‘I hear your family’s very upset about their relationship.’
‘Well, thank God my parents don’t know anything about it. But yes, us brothers and sisters are naturally very upset. She’s compromising all our futures over this low-grade person who’s only after our money.’
I began to see now for the first time how Megha and Kris were brother and sister. His entire language, even his facial expressions, changed as he spoke about Aakash. The creative-writing language of the short story fell away. He made grammatical errors in his speech, almost as if a different language was needed for the different values expressed.
‘Do you think that’s what he’s after?’
‘What else? Aatish, have you seen my sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you honestly believe a guy like Aakash would go for her for any other reason except that she’s loaded? Let’s see, she’s a dwarf -’ he tapped his fleshy, nail-bitten digits – ‘she’s healthy as hell, she has a face like a chapati, she’s of a lower caste than him… I can’t think of anything else, except that she’s also very annoying, but probably he isn’t too concerned about that.’
‘What about that she loves him? Maybe that’s what he sees?’
‘Everyone loves Aakash! Find me a person that doesn’t love Aakash. The trainers at Junglee love Aakash, the clients love Aakash, my friend Sparky Punj loves Aakash, you love Aakash, even my fucking chowkidar loves Aakash. So many people love Aakash that I don’t think he even notices until he comes across someone who doesn’t love him.’
His mention of his chowkidar brought to my mind the description of the man from the story. How real he had seemed, with his smooth skin, stained teeth and murky, amber eyes; it was as if I had seen him myself.
‘Yes,’ I said, forcing my mind back to what was being said, ‘but people like that, people who please, can be very insecure.’
‘Aakash is not insecure; he’s ambitious. There’s a difference. He doesn’t doubt himself for a minute; he just sometimes doubts whether the world will deliver.’
I laughed; Kris’s face was still. ‘But don’t you like that? Don’t you think his ambition is an impressive thing?’
‘Not when it’s aimed at my family’s wealth,’ he replied.
‘And what about your sister? What about her happiness?’
‘Aakash will not make her happy, believe me. She’s happy now because she’s getting some Brahmin cock. And we all have this thing, us baniyas, this love of Brahmins. We’re like the untouchables of the upper castes, you see, so nothing excites us more than Brahmin love. But believe me, when Aakash has her in the bag, she won’t be getting Brahmin cock no more.’
I had forgotten Kris was a ‘Western-educated homosexual’; I had forgotten how freely he had learned to speak of these things. And his language, now discussing the subtleties of caste, now of cock, was unpredictable in tone and in content. Its fluctuations, going so easily from mellow to harsh, gave me an intimation of his disturbance.
‘Where’s your sister now?’ I asked, concealing in the airiness of my tone knowledge of her disappearance.
Kris seemed to search my face for any sign of previous knowledge.
Seeming either to make a decision to trust me or just acting out of indifference, he said, ‘She’s getting that gross body of hers…’ He put his large hands, with their fleshy fingertips, to his mouth, making the shape of a nozzle, and emitted a long and graphic sucking noise, like a child blowing into his hands to make a fart sound. Then he laughed garishly and was once again of a piece with his sister.
‘And then?’
‘Marriage, I suppose. She’s holding up the queue, you know. I have two younger sisters, less fat, who are both eager to get married.’
He seemed so pleased with himself that I experienced a feeling of triumph on Aakash’s behalf. I wanted almost to say, ‘Well, you’re too late. He’s already married her and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ My face perhaps gave away some of my distaste, because he became conciliatory. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘don’t think I don’t share your values. I’ve been to college in America too. I’m all for the little guy rising. But you know, don’t mind my saying this, I understand this country a little better than you and Ra and people.’
‘Who is me and Ra and people?’
‘You know, English-speaking people.’
‘You’re English-speaking.’
‘Yes, but only first generation. We’re still very much part of the Hindu way of life; we’re still very traditional. To you, Aakash is someone exotic and fascinating; to me, he’s very close. He knows that he can fool you, but he can’t fool me. He knows that when he does his poor boy from Sectorpur number around you, he’s got you where he wants you. The filmy dialogue, the temple visits, the red teeka on the head, all that works on you, but not on me. I have neither any caste fascination nor any love of Bollywood heroes. And in India, aside from film and religion, what else is there? Aakash knows this and that’s why he hates me. He knows that I know what neither you nor my sister knows.’
His information impressed me. How did he know of the temple visits? Clearly not from Megha. Then another possible route took shape in my mind and gave me a fresh sense of Sanyogita’s unhappiness: she must have spoken to Ra, Ra to Kris. Seeming to enjoy the effect of his knowledge on me, he added, ‘And are you going to this jagran?’
I nodded, wishing to give him no extra pleasure.
‘When is it?’ he blandly asked.
‘In a couple of days.’
‘When exactly?’
‘Saturday.’
‘Hmmm, around the time my sister gets back. She better not try to go.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because we’ll kill her,’ Kris blandly replied.
We had come to the park’s tall iron gates, which were never open.
‘Well, I better be going,’ Kris said, stepping through the green turnstile. A Jorbagh taxi was waiting for him and the uniformed chauffeur had opened the back door for Beyonce, who showed not the slightest willingness to jump in on her own.
‘Kris,’ I asked, as the chauffeur helped Beyonce into the car, ‘how’s the writing going?’
‘Pretty good, buddy. Thanks for asking. Should have a story out soon in a US mag.’
‘The one you read?’
‘No, no, are you crazy? My poor mother’s blood pressure would blow her head off. No, a much gentler story. And you? I hear you’re writing too.’
‘No. Yes. I mean nothing; it’s all gone cold on me. A complete blockage. I’m beginning to feel I have no material.’
‘Sorry to hear it, man. But keep at it. There’s always a breakthrough round the corner.’
With this, he got into the car, Beyonce panting on the seat next to him, and drove away.
20
On the morning of the jagran, Aakash had a different hairstyle. It was no longer ‘messy’, but parted in the middle and combed back in the style of an eighties hero. He had a little orange mark at the centre of his forehead from the inaugural puja that morning. We finished early at Junglee and he asked if I would drop him off at the
