Pokrewne

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Chelsea Handler Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang (epub
Brit Brinson [Dia of the Dead Dia of the Dead (epub)
Cody Goodfellow [Radiant Dawn Radiant Dawn (epub)
Cate Tiernan [Immortal Belove Immortal Beloved (epub)
C J Busby [Deep Amber 01] Deep Amber (retail) (epub)
Carl Ashmore [Time Hunters 01 The Time Hunters (epub)
Drew Hayes [Super Powereds 02 Super Powereds Year 2 (epub) i
Beth Harbison [Shoe Addict 02 Secrets of a Shoe Addict (epub)
Cara Lynn Shultz [Dark World The Dark World (retail) (epub)
Blue Eyed Devil Robert B. Parker

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.It was a peculiar perfume, something I had never come across.There was raat-ki-raani in it and a touch of summer earth after rain.But there was something else as well, something rare and dense, something that might have been known only to Scheherzade and the seraglios of the Moghul.It was fine, exotic stuff meant to lift one’s spirits.Why, then, did it make me sad?I looked at myself in the mirror: lean, crow-footed, greying.I could not, then, see the hunger but there was the boredom and the fed-up-ness, endless depths of it.That evening was a failure, an unmistakable defeat.Survival of the fittest made no sense to her as it had ceased to make sense to my father.I awoke in the middle of the night, depressed, the taste of tranquillisers in my mouth.My first thought was of Anuradha.I thought of her as she had been in the dargah, sitting close to me, her hand on my arm.And I also thought of the moves I still had to make to capture Aftab’s business.Visit us in Benaras, Aftab had said.I knew I would have to.My business with him was not yet over.3How far I have travelled from that morning I took over my first plant.We went to the Elephanta Caves that morning, my father and I.In the evening we walked this beach.To my left, diagonally across the window, I can see the mound, where honeymooning couples pose for photographs, and where my father had stood that evening struggling with words.Was it the visit to Elephanta that had turned him on? Or, was it a deeper turbulence?‘Let us keep the launch to ourselves,’ he had said.It was a mild morning.Tourists crowded the Gateway, taking pictures.As we sped through the Colaba harbour he pointed out the different ships.There was Vikrant, the aircraft carrier, with no sign of the aircraft.Sailors, polishing the cannon of a frigate, waved to us as we went past.My father waved back.We made a detour because he wanted to look at the reactor at Trombay.As we approached the great phallic dome we fell silent.Crossing the pier at Elephanta my father said to K who also accompanied us, ‘The first time I came here was when I learnt Som’s mother had cancer.’ K looked guilty as though he had personally been responsible for my mother’s death.I thought of them, my parents, one tall the other short, getting off the boat in silence.How did they cross the pier? In silence? Small talk? Laughter? Did they hold hands? It meant the same thing: that time was running out.I must have been fourteen at the time.Men came from the city, from the factories, even from distant towns, professional cheer-uppers.My father did not prohibit them.He sat quietly, patiently, a lock of grey hair on his forehead, listening to their drivel, his mind in fever.Only K knew of its total confusion.It was to him that my father made those absurd suggestions.Lung transplant was one of them, using his own lung.Exasperated, one day K had shouted back at him, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.Throw out all those gods and goddesses and she might have a chance.’On the island of Elephanta we sat on a bench in a grove of tamarind.My father plucked a fern and chewed upon it and watched a trio of ratings walk by, in step, in spite of themselves.Waving the fern he said.‘Of late, you know, I have been wondering about causes.Causes of things, things that happen to men, to objects.’ His comment was addressed to neither of us in particular.He did not continue.We moved on to the great cave, cooler and darker than the groves of tamarind.We stared at the Trimurti: heavy lipped Brahma; Rudra with snakes and a third eye; Vishnu almost effeminate.Probably, the same troubadour in different garbs, sent to foul up men’s understanding.Coming out, on the edge of a cliff, we met the ratings again.My father fell into conversation with them.They were dark, full of laughter, respectful.They came from the Vikrant where they worked on the planes.‘You fly them?’ my father said excitedly.They were embarrassed.They were mechanics as anyone, except my father, could see.‘Never mind,’ he said.‘You will fly them one day.’ He explained to them the history of the caves and the geology of the island on which we stood.He pointed out to them the Buddhist burial mounds.He was a master of such things.On parting, smiling shyly, the ratings gave him a picture of Christ.It changed colour when he shifted it in his hands.4I have had a tiff with Mr.Thapar and another with Geeta.They cannot understand why I hate her so but, then, nor do they know how desperately I had once loved her and, in the terrible loneliness of my heart still do.They know I had something to do with her and they think they know all.But what do they know of thoughts and sensations that no words can capture, that would burn the very paper they are written on? What do they know of the Anuradha that I knew, or of Gargi, or of Lal Haveli, that sepulchral, sensual den of Aftab’s amidst the labyrinths of Benaras.Even my dreams are not free of them.Strange murky shapes fl oat through their tangled web.Animals and wheels of fire and brilliant suns blazing away in dark starless skies.I see myself grotesque, naked, my face distorted as if in a funny mirror.Anuradha, my poor Anuradha, walking shoeless across a burning desert.Gargi sitting in the middle of nowhere reading a book, throwing a cowrie shell, and saying to me: ‘She is your shakti.’At times, my mother takes Gargi’s place.‘Don’t,’ she cries, ‘don’t,’ as my arm sweeps across a tableful of gods [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]