Miss New India

by Bharati Mukherjee

  Auro slap-slapped noisily into the room in stiff-soled Kohlapuri sandals. He acknowledged Parvati with a shrug and a mumbled, "What's your sister up to now?" on his way to the bar trolley. "What an enchanting vision!" he exclaimed to Anjali. He made a camera with his fingers. "Click! Click! Pensive Woman Awaits Nightfall. Why isn't Rabi here to capture this?" Anjali responded with a half-wattage version of her halogen smile. Auro lifted the lid of the ice bucket. "What'll you have, Pensive Woman?" In his modish turquoise cotton kurta and loose white pajama, his bristly wet hair sleeked back, he looked a relaxed host. "The usual?"

  She winced when she thought back to the squabbles and tears on the rare Sundays that her mother persuaded her father to have "Munitions" Mitter and "Tobacco" Nyogi and their families over for lunch. "A waste of my sweat-of-brow savings," "Railways Bose" ranted. "What favor have they ever done for us?" The only person he tolerated as a regular visitor was Dr. Fit-as-a-Fiddle Dasgupta, who was smart enough to leave after a double peg, which he earned by dispensing medical tips: hartaki-steeped water for constipation, ajwan water for indigestion, folic acid pills for child-bearing daughters. "Yes, please. The Auro Special." The Auro Special was a fizzy sweet-sour nonalcoholic cocktail that had become Anjali's new signature drink, and Swati brought out freshly blended ginger and mint paste, lime juice and chilled syrup when Auro was ready to play bartender.

  "Don't do anything rash, Tara," Parvati begged her sister on the phone, "and promise you'll call me back in a couple of hours?" She flipped her cell phone shut. "Tara's cooking as therapy. She says cooking calms her, and the more elaborate the recipe, the better. She's sick of the same old, same old fight with Bish about where to retire. Bish wants us to look into Bangalore properties. Whitefield, Palm Meadows, for a start."

  "Don't get sucked into Tara's problems," Auro admonished his wife. "Gin and lime? I'm serious, never lend money to relatives, and never, never give marriage advice."

  "It better be a scotch tonight, Auro."

  "That bad?"

  "Bish wants to settle here, but she wants to bring up little Kallie in San Francisco."

  "In other words, your sister would rather live in California than in Bangalore."

  "Once Bish has made up his mind, it seems there's no changing it."

  Auro laughed. "Pull of homeland, et cetera. We know about that, except you and I were on the same page." He fixed Parvati's drink: a halfpeg of single malt.

  "Bish'll keep the San Francisco place for Rabi. That's the only concession he's willing to make. Tara's very upset."

  "Upset as in furious? Or upset as in depressed?"

  Anjali marveled at how openly they were discussing family fights in front of an outsider. Rabi's mother was lucky to have a sister she was so close to. She remembered her last bitter fight with Sonali-di in Patna. She'd been a novice runaway with a heavy suitcase then. She still had that suitcase, and she was still running. Boldly, she asked "Would you be offended if I changed my mind and asked for a glass of the Sula chardonnay instead?"

  "As long as you promise not to get tipsy, my dear," Parvati joked. "Auro, did I tell you Bish is thinking of investing in a winery around here?"

  "If it was anyone but Money-Spinner Bish, I'd say it was a crazy idea."

  MR. GG PARKED his car in the Banerjis' driveway at two minutes before seven. Anjali had surreptitiously clocked him on her hand-me-down Movado. She pretended it was the wine, though it was Mr. GG's entrance that gave her a happy buzz. He was still in the dark suit that he wore to the office, but he had undone the top button of his starched white-stripe-on-white shirt and loosened the knot of his pink silk tie. Instead of a briefcase he carried a cellophane-wrapped gift basket of assorted nuts, candies and dried fruits. He presented it formally to Parvati, who showered him with thank-yous—"Oh, Girish, you didn't have to"—and handed it to the dog walker to unwrap.

  "Mrs. Banerji," Girish Gujral announced, thick hands folded in na-maste, "your home is an oasis for weary wanderers. You see how I'm drawn back again and again."

  Anjali, trusting instinct, decoded his flowery compliment to the hostess as his confession of lovesickness for the houseguest. She had dared hope for only a hint of his feelings and was rewarded with a declaration. She, not the house, was his oasis. Pleased, she arranged her legs on the chaise as she'd seen models do on the virtual deck chairs on virtual beaches on Mr. GG's Vistronics website. And sure enough, instead of joining Auro at the bar trolley, Mr. GG settled into the chair nearest her. "Miss Bose, you should always wear a tiger lily in your hair," he said, raising his highball glass.

  "Then you'll have to make a habit of sending them, Mr. Gujral," she responded.

  Why did clueless Auro have to pull up an ottoman close to Mr. GG's chair just then and bombard Mr. GG with prophecies of a Kali Yuga—scale financial meltdown? In this "epoch of cosmic slump" India must "decouple" its economy from that of Western nations. "We Indians hitched our bullock cart to the U.S. wagon, and now we're up to our knees in horseshit and bullock dung." Citing statistics about investment flight, capital lost, and plummeting rates of corporate expansion, he worked himself into cathartic wrath. Mr. GG refuted each of Auro's arguments and dazzled Anjali with his optimistic theory that a belt-tightening time in the United States equaled an outsourcing boom time in India. Debt collection was the newest growth area for call centers. He was part of a consortium scouting belly-up overseas businesses. "Best of all," he rhapsodized, "this is our chance to leapfrog and win the creativity race. We Indians are genius inventors, not just cut-rate mistris!"

  Anjali had to concede that the tight-fitting vest, the saucy capri pants, and the bright blossom behind the ear were no competition for Auro's incitement to debate India's financial future. Auro was for decoupling; Mr. GG ardently against it; Anjali resentful of it for having turned Mr. GG from swain to debate champion. Parvati took her husband's side. "How can you be so smug, Girish? Nobody's recession-proof in this skittish economy." Student enrollment was down at CCI, and a competitor had already folded. She pummeled Mr. GG with more anecdotal proof. Two of Dr. Ghosh's nephews had been let go from their software programming jobs in Gurgaon. Dr. (Mrs.) Ghosh's beauty-and-brains niece-in-law ("top of her IIT class") had expected to pick and choose from fat-salaried job offers even before graduating, but months after finishing school she was still temping. Mr. and Mrs. Pandit, with the unmarried, aging twin daughters on the next block in Dollar Colony, had scratched all bridegroom candidates with IIT degrees from their list.

  Anjali sulked. "Coupling" or "decoupling" made sense to her only in the context of her personal life. She didn't feel connected to global issues. She boycotted the conversation swirling around her.

  Mr. GG surprised her with a question. "May I invite Miss Bose for a dekko of Bagehot House, what's left of it anyway?" He seemed to be asking for Auro's and Parvati's permission to ask her out for an evening ride. The casual seducer of Cubbon Park had evolved into a respectable, permission-seeking suitor.

  Trust your impulses. "I'd love to," Anjali quickly answered.

  Parvati hesitated. "Do you feel ready to see it? You don't think it's too soon, Anjali?"

  "Well, she'll have to find out for herself, won't she?" Auro scolded Parvati. "And under what more reassuring circumstances than with Girish?"

  Mr. GG rose from his chair. "If you are ready..."

  Anjali couldn't get to the front door fast enough. "Tell me, Girish." Auro persisted in continuing the conversation. "The slump must be affecting your redevelopment plans for the Bagehot property? Be honest, bank loans must have become more iffy, even for a consortium of hotshots."

  Mr. GG guided Anjali out the front door. "My dear Banerji, I'm constitutionally incapable of anxiety. It's off to Mexico and Hawaii early next week for me, Mrs. Banerji, but if there's any way I can be of service to CCI before or after the trip, please text me."

  Anjali walked ahead of him to his Daewoo to cut short the lengthy goodbyes required by Indian etiquette.

  THEY DROV
E TO Bagehot House in silence. The rusty entrance gate was missing, probably carried off by scrap-metal scavengers. Heavy wrecking equipment was parked in the torn-up driveway. Two watchmen smoked near a small mound of excavated earth.

  "Thank you for what you did." The night in the holding cell in the police station felt more immediate than the weeks as a Bagehot Girl with prospects. Gratitude was a higher form of love than lust. "I can't imagine what would have happened to me if you..."

  He wasn't listening. He undid his seat belt with an angry snap. "I can't believe what I'm seeing." He strode out of the car without closing the door. "They're tearing this down without a permit."

  Anjali let herself out but kept her distance from him. Mr. GG was staring past the bulldozers at the side of Mad Minnie's house, with its broken windows and fluttering curtains, its missing front door and torn, trampled-on banquet-night tablecloths on the floor of its foyer. The house, though structurally intact, seemed to have rolled over, like an ocean liner on its side. He might have been crying. It seemed possible; he was folding his handkerchief. "This is ... tragic." He still hadn't faced her, so he might have been consoling Bagehot ghosts.

  In profile, Mr. GG's jaw, flecked with gray, was just a little slack. Still, he was a handsome man, handsomer in profile than straight on. She thought, I'm standing here next to a man I've slept with. I'm standing here where I was handcuffed and dragged into a paddy wagon like a dangerous criminal, and I'm not talking about it. I'm acting as though were two normal people on a romantic date on a starry evening in Bangalore.

  Some of Asoke's squatters must have stayed on in the partially cleared jungle. Anjali heard low whistling and then a pariah dog's howl of pain. Mr. GG shuddered. "Fearful symmetry," he muttered.

  To lighten his mood, she made a callow effort at flirting. "I so envy you, Girish. You get to go to fun places like Mexico and call it work." She stroked the tiger lily in her hair. A petal felt wilted.

  "I shan't always have a get-out-of-jail-free card, Anjali."

  "What makes you think I'll need another one?" She liked the perky sound of her own voice.

  "Come with me to Mexico."

  What is he saying? I owe him more than I've given?

  "And maybe on to Haiti. Depends on the deal coming through."

  I'm just another business deal? Is that how life is?

  "Can't promise Haiti."

  "Pick up and go? Just like that?" Like rich-kid Rabi? Like terrorist Husseina?

  "Give yourself a vacation. You deserve it."

  "Vacation from what? Evil forces? Minnie's dead." She got carried away by self-pity. "So's my family. Dead. You are looking at a penniless orphan, a parasite, a charity project." The horror was that she wasn't lying, just exaggerating. "I don't need a vacation, I need a job."

  "If you want a job, I can set up an interview with the head of human resources at RecoverySys. He was an MBA classmate. We'll get you in on the ground floor of the debt-collection industry." Mr. GG faced her squarely. "Now, what's your passport situation? Don't have one, no problem. I can expedite your getting one."

  "In other words, you want me to know you are a big shot?"

  "No. In other words, I want you with me in Mexico."

  She could have screamed. Yes, I'm flattered, I'm grateful. Drive me to- night to Cubbon Park. Have your peon pick up my stuff from Parvati's tomorrow. She would spell her first name as Anjolie on her first-ever passport. She said, "Mr. Gujral, I shall consider your offer and make my counteroffer when you get back from your trip."

  Mr. GG grinned. "You were born to be a debt collector, Miss Bose."

  All the way back to Dollar Colony, he gushed about the sad, stark majesty of Mayan ruins. She imagined herself scrambling up the stony sides of an alien people's monuments. Every death made possible a new beginning. And then she thought, with a suddenness and finality that shocked her, I don't want a passport. My new beginning is here, but different from Baba's and Ma's generation. They had to fight the British; their big fight was to establish an independent India and create a nonaligned world. Theirs was a struggle—lost, in Baba's case—against communalism and caste-ism and poverty and superstition and too much religion. They were lucky. Their fights weren't easy, but simpler and clearer than mine with Mr. GG. Poverty terrified Baba. But I'm terrified, tempted, and corrupted by the infusion of vast sums of new capital. Light and angles, that was it. Truth revealed in an imaginary viewfinder. She stepped out of her Photoshopped Bangalore. Aloud, she said, "I get no kick from Champagne. Spend too much time away from India, and it drives you crazy."

  In the Banerjis' driveway, she opened the passenger-side door to let herself out. GG grasped her arm and held her back. "I don't want you to go. Let's get you a passport. Visas are no problem. I have contacts. Don't just walk away from me."

  She wondered what the night watchman and the dog sitter were making of the scene. The dogs would be curled up in bed with Auro and Parvati. "And what would you expect of me in Mexico?" she asked, swinging her sandaled feet out of the car. Porch light glinted off the silver anklets.

  "Be my—"

  Then Mr. GG stopped himself. His face was so pleading, so pained, she almost got back inside. "No," he said, "that came out wrong. Be whatever you want to be. If you don't want Mexico, fine. There's Indonesia. There's America. There's the world ... I want you with me."

  What a sad, pathetic thing it is, a man's cry for what? Favors? Companionship? His private little prostitute?

  She felt a surge of power. Glad she had the night watchman and the dog walker as witnesses, she kissed Mr. GG on the mouth. "You'll be back," she whispered, stepping out of the Daewoo. She was careful not to slam the door.

  8

  Sometime late that night, in the hours when Anjali never slept, she was startled by a sudden, piercing whine. One of the advantages of Dollar Colony was the silence of the dark hours: no cars, no rickshaw horns, no bicycle bells, no cowherd flicking a stick on buffalo flanks. She ran to her window, the one that looked out over the narrow lane, but saw no one. Then she realized the watchman wasn't at his post. He must have gone to the servants' bathroom behind the main house. And the dog walker? Of course: he was with Swati. He'd left the house unguarded.

  And then she identified the source of the whine. By moonlight and dim streetlamp she could make out the shape of Ahilya lying on her back, her legs straight up. Anjali had never seen a dog in such a posture, and as she watched—and watched—Ahilya didn't move.

  A white van prowled the lane at bicycle speed, then parked, blocking the driveway. Two men in dark, hooded sweatshirts descended from the van and silently opened the heavy iron gate just wide enough to squeeze through. In Dollar Colony, no commercial vans circulated at night. No one was on foot at two A.M.

  Ahilya was dead.

  Anjali's instinct was to lock herself in the bedroom. How could two men break into the house? There were many windows on the ground floor, the living room was a wall of windows looking out to the garden, but shattering them would make a noise. Parvati trusted her dogs to sound the alarm, but one of them was already dead, and Malhar, despite his bulk, teeth, muzzle, and perpetual growling, was innately timid.

  She knew it was up to her to take the initiative. Auro and Parvati were asleep in their ground-floor suite. Even if burglars had driven a truck into the living room and begun demolishing the walls with hammers, Auro's snoring would muffle the noise. Anjali and Rabi shared the second floor, separated by a second living room, but she couldn't bring herself to open his door and enter, as he so jauntily did with hers. And what good would he be in a crisis? He'd want to take a picture. She opened her own door and listened with a kind of attention she'd never exercised, because the last thing in the world she expected was a stranger in the house.

  And another thing: she knew, almost immediately, that she was to blame. If she had disappeared from everyone's life after the hours in jail, they'd all be safe. If she hadn't come to Bangalore, none of this would have happened. She had brou
ght destruction on her own home, and on Minnie and Husseina and even poor Ahilya, and now the same thing was about to happen to Parvati and Auro.

  It was Tookie, of course, and her new friends, and her Rajoo. Bang-a-Buck had got to her.

  Anjali could hear the distant, muffled sounds of movement. She could picture the two men somehow cracking open the rear door, or cutting the window and not letting it fall to the floor to waken the house. She could imagine them now in the kitchen, perhaps with flashlights, then moving into the living room and clearing the tables of anything valuable ... but when she ran a mental inventory of the downstairs tabletops, there were no valuables worth the effort of breaking in. They weren't like Minnie's tables, laden with "priceless" silver trays, "irreplaceable plates," heavy sterling silver that had once graced the mouth of a king, and thinner-than-thin "historical" crystal goblets and champagne flutes.

  And then it came to her: the only valuables were the paintings, by the Bangla women artists. She had no sense of their value, but she remembered what Parvati's friends had said: the paintings were nice, of course, but such brilliant investments.

  In the end it was an easy decision. I owe my life to Parvati, and my life is worthless anyway. Anjali lifted Dinesh's hockey stick from its place on the wall. It floated like a feather in her hands. The stairs were just outside her bedroom door, and as she slowly descended, barefoot, the noises, even the male voices, grew more distinct. They were in the downstairs living room. Why didn't Auro wake up? But of course, he snored too loudly. Some nights, she could hear him all the way upstairs.