Miss New India

almost chirpy.

The policewoman shoved her toward the two men, relinquishing her authority to the detective. She peered at the men as though viewing them through dirty glass.

'Miss Bose!' Mr. GG held both his arms out. He would catch her if she fainted, as she had that first time in Barista. 'It's all right now. It's over.'

But she didn't lean into him. In a low, dry whisper, she said, 'Just let me die.'

'I have less gloomy plans for your future,' Mr. GG bantered, 'the most immediate plan being to get you out of the police thana.' He patted his briefcase. 'Release papers in triplicate.'

The detective smiled at Mr. GG. 'Gujral-sahib has rendered at length satisfactory explanations,' he announced, without looking at her. 'Why you are not informing authorities from beginning of your connections and whatnot?'

'Just let me die,' she cried.

'I suggest instead that we attend to necessary business at hand.' Mr. GG snapped his briefcase open and held it up to her. Her Gucci pocketbook and Movado watch lay on top of a stack of folders, manila envelopes, and forms stamped with official seals.

'Please to verify contents of lady's handbag,' the detective urged her. And when she did not do so, he plucked the item from the upheld briefcase and dumped its contents on the visitors' bench. A Shantiniketan leather wallet stamped with a red-and-black paisley pattern; a key ring with a heavy metal key for the padlock on her bedroom door, a small flat key for the safety-deposit drawer in Husseina's almirah, and a smaller, flimsier one for the tiny wooden chest in which she hid what was left of Mr. Champion's cash; a cotton coin-purse; a CCI trainee badge; two Lakme lipsticks and a tube of 'whitening and brightening' face lotion; a comb; a purse-size pack of paper tissues; two ballpoint pens; four safety pins; a strip of aspirin tablets; a couple of green cardamom pods. 'Please to report items missing, if any.' He flashed a toothy, superior smile to indicate he was daring her to.

Mr. GG scooped the items back into her pocketbook. He snapped the briefcase shut. 'We'll just take our leave straightway, sir,' he said to the detective, who was still smiling. 'No need to waste more of your urgent time chasing this red herring. Thank you very, very much, sir.' He hustled Anjali toward the exit, promising to replace any item pilfered or lost.

Her cell phone was missing. Getting a replacement wasn't the same. A replacement will be a copy. All the names on speed dial will be copies. I am just a copy. In that hellhole I wanted to talk to Baba. I wanted to hear Ma's and Mr. Champion's voices.

In the parking lot, Mr. GG announced, 'I have a surprise for you.'

'No more surprises.'

'Okay, I won't spoil the surprise.' He gripped her right elbow and guided her toward his car. 'You know, until this morning, I never noticed how green your eyes are.'

'I hate my eyes.'

'That's why Husseina targeted you! She must have taken your picture, then she learned your birthday, but it's your light eyes that did you in.'

My sister. My generous benefactor. The mysteries of Hyderabad. The mysteries of Bangalore, the mysteries of everywhere and everyone. You think you're moving forward, you think you're beginning to figure things out, and it's all a trap. My parents were right: everyone is corrupt. There are conspiracies everywhere. But she said only, 'I hate everything about me.'

'You'll get over it. Time heals all wounds.'

'The things that happened, happened to me, don't you understand? My father came to my cell with a bed sheet around his neck, my dead father who killed himself because I ran away to Bangalore. I'm in hell.'

He jerked her by the elbow to stop her. 'Maybe I don't understand. Maybe I can't. But understand this: You're lucky I have connections with the police. You're lucky I'm not off in Mexico right now. Shit happens, but you are very, very lucky, period. You have friends you don't even know, but you can't just float around Bangalore like a kite- someone will cut the string.'

Her kite string had already been slashed. She had no phone and no one to call. Not that she cared. What friends? There was no longer a Bagehot House room to go back to. 'Where are you taking me?'

'Patience,' he counseled. 'You'll find out.'

She steeled herself for the next favor Mr. GG was about to bestow. He would insist she move in with him in the flat overlooking Cubbon Park. In the police thana, she had been called a prostitute. What choice did a woman like her, homeless, jobless, skill-less, have? The police were right: she was a prostitute. What other name is there for a young woman without a job or means of support? 'All right,' she said. 'I'm very lucky I know you.'

They neared Mr. GG's car. She made out a shape in the back seat. 'Don't get ahead of yourself, Miss Bose. You haven't heard me invite you, have you?' He unlocked the trunk of his Daewoo. 'Don't take me for granted.'

'I'm hallucinating!' she gasped. Her red Samsonite was in the trunk.

The back-seat passenger scrambled out of the car. 'Hey! Whazzup?' He grinned. Tall and skinny, his hair grown out and standing on end. He moved the red Samsonite suitcase to make room for the briefcase. Then he gave her a bear hug.

Mr. GG banged the trunk shut. 'Let's just say you've completed a reality TV episode.'

'And survived the final round,' the passenger joked. 'Girish activated his local network and the vast Peter Champion network. You can't imagine how many thousands of activists are working night and day for you! Parvati-Auntie's sorry she couldn't come to the thana herself, but her driver's wife's in surgery, so she's keeping vigil in the hospital. Anyway, she said to tell you her home is your home.'

'But I've let her down.'

'She's an incurable do-gooder. A one-time call agent might not interest her, but an unjustly accused prisoner is right up her alley. But as aunties go, she rocks.'

Anjali rested her head on the skinny chest of the young photographer she had met-it seemed incarnations ago-and succumbed to tears of shame.

Part Four

1

Aurobindo and Parvati Banerji's three-story home in Dollar Colony-so named for the area's preponderance of foreign-returned executives and entrepreneurs-had four master-bedroom suites of equal size, each with its sitting area, dressing room, spa bath with separate shower, and small private porch. Two of the four suites were located on the ground floor, one occupied by Auro and Parvati, the other kept in move-in condition for long visits by Auro's elderly parents. 'It was in-laws on the ground floor with us, or install an elevator,' Parvati liked to joke, 'and this was the cheaper solution.' An efficient live-in staff of six ran the house and adjacent grounds.

The public rooms-formal drawing room, dining room, an office for Auro, a puja room, and a granite-lavished kitchen-were also on the main floor. The other two suites, fully furnished, were on the upper floor and separated by a second sitting room. They were intended for the Banerji sons, Dinesh, a senior at Harvard, and Bhupesh, a junior at MIT, and their future wives and children. That still left two small rooms with a shared bathroom and shower stall on the third floor for summer visits by Dinesh's and Bhupesh's college friends.

Anjali had been given Dinesh's suite. Cricket bats and field hockey sticks were bracketed to the walls. One wall was devoted to cricket posters and shelves for Dinesh's debate and tennis trophies. He was a well-rounded boy, the ideal of upper-class parents. Even in his absence the boy exerted a force she found shaming. He would bring a perfect bride back to this perfect house, and he would have a perfect American degree and a guaranteed lifetime of higher and higher achievement.

She lifted a field hockey stick. Memories of da Gama's girls' field hockey team. Such simple times. Worries that