by Mahesh Rao
She scrolled to the end of the passage and held down the delete key, watching the blank page attack and devour her writing, word after word, line by line. It would have been easier to send the file to the trash but she wanted to put herself through the painful ritual of renunciation. She needed to bear witness to the sacrifice and experience the poignancy of the moment. On it went. She realized she had written far more than she’d thought. The cursor finally reached the first page. It annihilated her name and the title. There was nothing left. She put the laptop away and emerged onto the landing. Dina was speaking to someone at the front door. Ania wondered whether she should shed a few tears. Strangely, if there had been any sadness, it had passed and she was already beginning to feel a sense of relief.
Dev called up to her from the hallway, and she led him to the patio.
“Did you know? Dimple is getting married,” she said.
“Really? Who to?”
“Do you remember Ankit? From that party ages ago?”
“Of course, she’s marrying him?”
“He’s a wonderful guy. Thoughtful and sweet.”
“That’s great, I’m really happy for her.”
“Yes, me too. The wedding’s quite soon. They can’t bear to wait, I think. I’m sure they’ll be brilliantly happy. I know exactly what I’m going to get them. And Dimple’s going to need a lot of help with the organizing. The poor thing, her mum’s completely useless in these matters.”
They both stayed silent, and then she said, “It’s going to be a wonderful wedding.”
He put his hand on her arm but barely for a second.
It did come to pass as Ania thought it would, in some ways. She would go to the wedding in a few months, bearing a lavish gift, giving Ankit a warm hug, throwing herself into the last drunken dance of the night, trying to hold back the tears as the final photographs were taken, unable to control the sense that something had been sundered, but determined that the friendship would not change, looking out at the silent city streets on her way home, the procession of streetlights bathing the world in amber, the music still echoing in her ears, her feet throbbing where her sandal straps had cut into them.
As she closed her eyes on the sweet melancholy of the night, she would have been horrified to learn that this was the last time she and Dimple would ever speak, and that they would, in fact, never see each other again. There would be good intentions and fond memories but nothing strong enough to overcome the inevitable drift and inertia. There would be no calculation, no subterfuge. It would be nobody’s fault.
“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked Dev.
“I don’t know. Your dad said he’s nearly home, so I thought I’d say hello to him before I go.”
“Okay. By the way, something I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages. I have this memory of lying on the grass, listening to you read to me. Something funny, we were both in stitches. And there were people playing tennis in the background. Did that really happen or did I dream it?”
“I remember that. It was in Landour, years ago. I was reading you the best bits of Cold Comfort Farm. We laughed so hard, we felt feverish and thought we had sunstroke. We went and sat in the pond, which looked beautiful but it was full of slime.”
“Oh my God, yes, we did.”
“What made you think of that?”
“I have no idea. It just sort of drifted into my head.”
She reached out and touched his jacket.
“Look, your button’s really loose. Do it up once more and it’ll fall off,” she said.
He put his fingers on the spot she had just touched, the seam firm against the soft wool. They both looked at the dangling button.
“Do you know where Sigmund is? Did you see him on your way in?” she asked.
“He’s outside the kitchen door. Why?”
“I just need him. I’ll see you if you’re at dinner.”
He watched her leave and then return with Sigmund nosing at her tracks, his face crumpled as though it had known only sorrow and adversity. He followed her up the stairs, and she pulled him gently into her room by the collar. The door shut, and the lock turned with a soft click.
He waited at the foot of the stairs, trying to make his mind up. A few seconds later he was outside her door. And it was a few seconds more before he knocked.
* * *
—
AS SOON AS she opened the door, he stepped in and looked around as though searching for something.
“What have you lost?” she asked.
“Nothing, I just need to talk to you.”
Sigmund lay on the floor and followed him warily with his eyes.
Dev walked to the desk, picked up a couple of books, and then put them down again. Moving to the French doors, he tried the handle, found that they were locked, and moved away again. He looked at a pair of sandals on an ottoman, lifted them up, seemed unsure how to proceed, and then put them down on the floor.
“I’m assuming you haven’t come in here to tidy up. That would be totally out of character,” she said.
“Sorry?” he said.
“Oh God, I know what this is about,” she said, collapsing on the bed.
“What?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I can guess. I’ve done something else, right? I’ve made some awful mistake and completely misread something or someone, well, maybe not completely but partially, but it’s got a bit screwed up and you’ve come to tell me. Which, by the way, I do appreciate, although you might be surprised to hear that. But, could this please wait till tomorrow? It’s just that at the moment I’m feeling, well, it doesn’t matter what I’m feeling, but tomorrow, I promise, you can definitely tell me what I’ve done and what’s happened and I promise you I will listen with total concentration and not say anything sarcastic and I’ll try to fix it. Or not. If that would be better. Maybe not fixing would be the thing. We can totally discuss it. But not today, please? It’s just that at the moment, I can’t go through with it. I really can’t. I’m so sorry. But tomorrow, for sure, come here after work? Or I could come to you? Whatever’s easiest. Tomorrow we’ll have that conversation. Would that be okay?”
He walked back to the desk and picked up another book.
“Why aren’t you saying anything? You’re beginning to freak me out. What have I done? Wait, don’t tell me. Oh God, when did everything become so difficult? Is it to do with Mimi Faujdar? Because, I swear, I haven’t seen her for months. Not that I’ve been avoiding her, it’s just that we’ve both been busy. Is it to do with her? Or someone else? No, actually, please don’t tell me. I’ll come over tomorrow. I really will. We’ll talk then. That’ll be okay, won’t it?”
He waved the book at her. She could see now that it was Cold Comfort Farm.
“Is this the same copy that you had in Landour? When I read to you that time on the grass? It looks old enough. Is it?” he asked.
“I think so. I don’t know.”
She propped herself up on her elbows and stared at him.
He walked toward the bed and then stopped. Opening the book, he began to read from somewhere in the middle. His voice filled the room. It was modulated and careful, almost cautious. He did not look up from the page. She tried to remember what had come before this point in the novel. But then gave up.
Sigmund closed his eyes, his breathing sounding deeper.
She looked at Dev as he read, every part of him becoming more distinct. He had achieved a sort of solidity that made everything else seem a little insubstantial and watery. His lips moved with great concentration. The gray flecks in his hair caught the light. His free hand beat some mysterious rhythm against his thigh. She felt ragged with delight.
Like the woman in the Vermeer painting, he too had dropped out of time. But his absorption was different. It was as though he was holding himself in abeyance, preparing for a muc
h greater task ahead.
He turned the page and read on. But he had turned more than one page, and what he read no longer made sense. There was no sign that he had noticed. He seemed suspended in this action, unable to transform its intimacy into anything else. It looked as though he would continue reading to the end of the book. She allowed him to keep going for a few seconds more.
Then she stood up and gently took the book from his hand.
* * *
—
AFTER DINNER WITH Ania and Dev, when he noticed that they were both unusually quiet and absorbed in their own thoughts, Dileep had a meeting with Mr. Nayak. He continued to plead with him to accept the retainer, offering him even more spectacular sums of money. He went from ingratiating to peevish to melancholic. The meeting drew to a close. For an instant, he saw on Mr. Nayak’s face the deadly malice that the man could impel—but it was the briefest of moments and he immediately dispelled it from his mind. It was nothing, a tic, a trick of the light. Dileep would recall the moment only years later, in the dark foyer of the mansion on Prithviraj Road, when his dependence on Mr. Nayak was complete and his ruin was certain and imminent.
That night he went to bed reassured but then heaved and grimaced through one nightmare after another. In the early hours they coalesced into one terrible vision. When he opened his eyes, he was spent, immobilized like a patient after a lengthy bout of fever. The long juddering night had finally come to an end.
He managed to roll over onto his side and peered at the strange angles of the room. An empty carton of ice cream lay on the floor, trailing a dribble of congealed gloop. He remembered taking the carton from the fridge but did not remember bringing it upstairs and certainly did not remember eating all its contents. He forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Leaning over, he stuck two fingers down into the extremity of his throat. His retching sounded bestial and repulsive, even to him.
When he had finished, he staggered back and stopped at the door to his dressing room. On the table inside, there lay a slim black box. After three fittings, the shirt had finally arrived. He took the lid off the box and lifted the shirt out, holding it like an infant. He had spent many minutes deciding on every detail from the point collar and the soft front placket to the two-button cuff. The twill weave was of an oyster white. On the reverse side of the cuffs, faint silver lines streaked across the fabric like a spring shower, a detail that only his housekeeper and dry cleaner would ever see, but its existence gave him a great sense of gratification. The mother-of-pearl buttons glinted with a hint of lilac in the dim light. He ran his hand across the cool front of the shirt, before putting it back into its nest of tissue. He had reclaimed the day.
He opened the balcony door, and the curtain puffed with a little sigh. The sun dappled the tiles and had begun to warm the wooden balustrade. He put his hand on the back of one of the chairs, leaning on it with all his weight. The gardeners had already started sweeping leaves off the lawn, gathering them into neat piles. He heard the front door close and looked down on the driveway. Dev was leaving the house and walking toward his car. He must have spent the night. But it was too early in the morning for Dileep to puzzle out the reason. That would have to wait for later. The security guard closed the gate after Dev’s car had left and returned to his booth to note down the time of departure.
Dileep began to feel much better. He thought of the plans he had made with Ania for the afternoon: they would watch a sentimental Hollywood film from the ’30s or ’40s in the screening room. He pretended to favor them more than he actually did, knowing how much Ania liked to curl up beside him, making arch comments, while he shushed her in mock annoyance. He played the part of an old romantic, and she seemed to be declaring that she did not believe in love, would never believe in it. These moments always appeared to foretell a happy and permanent companionship.
* * *
—
ON THE OTHER side of the house, Ania too had come out on her balcony. The tiles were cold against her bare feet, but a tender pulse warmed her. There was a delicacy about the morning: in the meek sunlight that touched the tops of the trees, in the hesitation of the birdsong, in the way she still wore the weight of Dev’s arm across her stomach. He had left early but promised to be back in a few hours. His jacket still hung on the chair in her bedroom. They would spend the afternoon together, maybe even the evening.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the balustrade.
Stepping lightly across the dew-tipped grass was the pool boy, swinging a key on a cord, unable to stave off his morning yawns. He walked down the steps to the pool area and unlocked the cabana where the equipment was stored. At the edge of the pool he trailed the long-handled skimmer through the water in an elegant arc. He shook the collected leaves and twigs into a bucket and dipped the skimmer into the water again. A dark, speckled form floated past, and he scooped up the dead frog. He liked to stand as close to the edge as possible, toes curled against the pool’s lip, leaning forward at a sharp angle, a tautness in his calf muscles, perfectly poised, reaching out as far as he could, the right kind of pull in his shoulders, almost like a dancer frozen for a brief instant. His sense of balance was superb, and he had never fallen in. He pulled a last frangipani petal toward him and looked at the water with evident satisfaction. It was a clear, placid blue.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
All my thanks to: Faiza S. Khan, Guy English, Madhu Jain, Georgina de Rochemont, Asad Lalljee, Felly Gomes, Aparna Jain, Mimi Wadia, Anushree Kaushal, Cibani Premkumar, Ranjana Sengupta, David Forrer, Helen Richard, Tara Singh Carlson, Juliet Mahony, Felicity Rubinstein, Sarah Lutyens, Rajni George, and Somak Ghoshal.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mahesh Rao is the author of the award-winning novel The Smoke Is Rising and a book of short stories One Point Two Billion, both published in the UK to wonderful reviews. He was born and brought up in Nairobi, has worked in the UK as a lawyer, researcher and bookseller, and currently lives most of the year in India. Polite Society is his American debut.
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