Miss New India

imitation of being a proper, upstanding girl from a very good family.'

'And am I special enough to be a Bagehot Girl, Mr. GG?'

'I detect possibilities.'

'You have software for that too? Detecting possibilities?'

'You have a certain style. Even without software I predict that you'll do fine. You'll get a job, no problem.'

'Why do you say that? You don't know a thing about me. Maybe I'm a total fraud. Maybe I'm a dolt and I'll flub my interviews.' Of course, she was fishing for compliments-you're fresh air, you're radiant, and your English is perfect.

'Your English is decent and you've got a pulse. In Bangalore that means you'll find a job. And if you feel your highest calling is to know the difference between NH and NC or MS and MD or maybe even AK and AR, you'll do fine.'

She had no idea. Strange monsters dwelt in the linguistic interstices of the English language. All things were possible. Morays could paint French cathedrals, but at least she already knew the difference between medical doctors and multiple sclerosis, thank you very much.

And then for some reason, perhaps to clear the air of her misrepre-sentations, she confessed, 'Back at that Barista, everyone was friendly, but I didn't understand a word of what they were saying.'

'It's just Bangalore babble,' he said. 'It's not meant to mean anything. Just that they're here and have jobs and with it comes the freedom to talk nonsense. They're like locusts-in six weeks they'll be moving on. Chennai and Hyderabad beckon.'

'Will I be moving on?'

'I don't think so. I think you'll stick in Bangalore. I hope so, at least.'

Chennai or Hyderabad would be unacceptable. She saw herself as a high-quality individual, destined for the best job in the top place, and according to what she'd heard and what she could see, that was Bangalore. If she needed a job, why not start at the top? Why not use her only 'contact,' as the business world put it? She pulled out some old questions from Peter Champion's class. 'What is your corporate culture, Mr. GG? Are you hiring?'

'My 'corporate culture'?' He seemed amused. 'I've never been asked a question like that. Offhand I'd say it's making the most money with the fewest people in the shortest time. And yes, absolutely, we're hiring. If you have an architect's or engineer's license from an IIT or an overseas equivalent.'

'Now you're being mean. You must be needing someone to answer your telephones. I have a high school- leaving cert and two years of college, B. Comm. with English proficiency, first class.'

'Very nice,' he said. 'Now let me tell you something. Three years ago they called us a 'scrappy little startup.' Now we're 'worldwide leaders of a new industry.' You're just like Bangalore, Miss Bose. Today you're a scrappy, starving little startup. So what's your corporate culture? What's your plan? If you play it right, in three or four years you'll have your own corner office. And by the way, we don't use telephones.'

They were finally in a proper residential suburb. Many of the houses were old Anglo-Indian-style one-story bungalows, crumbling and partly demolished, hidden behind towering trees and overgrown vegetation. They had names, and she read some of them aloud: THE HEATHER, SNOW-DROP LODGE, PRIMROSE PALACE, and HYACINTH GLORY. Names right out of British poetry, she remarked. His explanation was that the original builders and later occupiers had refused to believe-or perhaps had known only too well-that they would never see England again. The street names had undergone orthographic decolonization: CHARLESS WRIHGT ROAD and KENT TOWN, or KENTT or KHENNTAON; words changed their spellings block by block.

She'd been noticing the impatient march of gleaming new mansions, built on tiny plots, and three- and four- story luxury apartment buildings with doctors' clinics and fabric shops on the ground floor, wedging their way between the remaining bungalows. Every old mansion that died had given birth to half a dozen offspring.

Every block seemed to contain a small church, an old house converted to that purpose, with a signboard announcing its name and denomination and times of services. Farther on, an immense white mosque occupied an entire block. On the streets around the mosque, on the back seats of scooters and motorcycles, clinging to their husbands and holding their children, were Muslim women clad head to toe in black and looking at the world through thin eye slits. Where had all the Hindus gone?

'This little area is called Bagehot camp,' Mr. GG announced. 'We're coming up on Bagehot Alley and Kew Gardens Road.' The street sign read BHAJOT.

'And there…' He paused for effect. 'There in all its glory stands-well, leans-Bagehot House. Every architect in Bangalore has dreamed of getting his hands on that property. There's even a book about it.'

Of course, had Angie Bose been intellectually curious (or had Peter Champion bragged even a little about his accomplishments in those months before she'd left), or had she even thought to ask GG, 'Oh, who wrote that book on Bagehot House?'-and if the answer had come back, 'Some American guy, Champion's his name, if that means anything,' Angie's resulting gasp might have forced GG to slam on the brakes. Had she known to drop the name of her benefactor, GG might have corrected his tone of mild condescension and begun treating her as a fellow sophisticate. He might have asked, 'You know Peter Champion, that gypsy-scholar who wrote Classic Indian Architecture: Public and Private?' Or 'Peter Champion? Don't tell me he's still alive!' But of course she was not intellectually curious, at least not about the realm of books.

In a neighborhood of old mansions, Bagehot House was the largest. It was dark and sprawling, its grounds untended. The outer wall, topped with glass shards, had lost most of its stucco; the old bricks were crumbling, and parts of the wall were worn down to shoulder level. Even from the car she could see holes in the roofs of the larger outbuildings. Other houses at least maintained a pretense of serviceability, with uniformed chowkidars seated outside the gates and pots of flowers lining the driveway. Bagehot House looked abandoned.

'Well, you wanted Bagehot House, and now you've got it.' He pulled to a stop around the corner and across the street, facing what had once been the front gates and lawn. 'The old biddy is sure to be inside, but it'll take a while for her to hobble to the door. Every developer in Bangalore is praying for her to pop off.'

Anjali visualized the developers as vultures circling a dying cow.

No room for sentimentality in this city, she realized.

The house was daunting enough, but she wondered what she owed Mr. GG or what he might try to extract from her. He was the first real man, the first settled, unattached professional man she'd ever met. He'd traveled, been married, and he'd taken an interest in her. In just one morning, three hours into her new life, she'd been lifted from Gauripur into a new city, into a new century and a new currency, where crores were the new lakhs, lakhs the new rupees. She would have gone anywhere with Mr. GG, done anything he asked. Next to Mr. GG, Peter Champion seemed flimsy and Rabi Chatterjee a mere child. All that remained was making a first move, a sign of interest or intent, and she didn't know if she should make it, or even if he would recognize it. And so she just waited.

'You're wondering what comes next, isn't it, Miss Bose?'

He could read her mind. 'I am a little frightened,' she admitted. 'I haven't slept in a bed or eaten a meal since I left.' Oops, that was getting too close to the truth. And I haven't bathed and my clothes are filthy and I can still smell the privies and see women and girls climbing into trucks while drivers lifted their lungis… Mr. GG's concerned face drew a little closer, and he took out a handkerchief and daubed her eyes.

'If things get really bad, you can always go back to Kolkata.'

How to tell him she'd been to Kolkata three times in her life, and she couldn't even go back to Bihar? Banned from Bihar: that had to be the pits. Bangalore was it, the beginning and the end. What was it that Rabi Chatterjee had told her? She repeated it. 'It's all a matter of light and angles, isn't that so?' she said.

That seemed to stun him. 'I suppose you could say so.' He studied her face; she flashed him a full-wattage smile. He relaxed.

'A girl like you won't be lonely for long.'

A girl like me? What did it mean, and who or what, exactly, am I like? Why does he hope I'll stay? And so she voiced the question. 'A girl like me, Mr. GG?' He seemed to know her better, or thought he did, than she knew herself. He did reach out for her hand and gave it a squeeze and she drew closer, expecting at least to give or to receive a hug or maybe a kiss, but Mr. GG was the perfect gentleman, which left her even more confused.

'What I meant is a girl like you is full of surprises. Next time we meet, I might not even recognize you. But I'm sure we'll meet again,' he said.

She replied, 'I'd like that.'