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But then his father looked at him, sitting in his pajama kurta working away at his teeth with his toothpick, and he knew that his father thought it was the sureness that comes from putting yourself in a small place. And the son wouldn’t be able to contain his anger: Jealous, jealous, even of your own son, he would think, jealousy, third-world chip on the shoulder -
Once, his father came to the States, and he had not been impressed, even by the size of the house:
"What is the point? All that space lying there useless, waste of water, waste of electricity, waste of heating, air-conditioning, not very intelligent is it? And you have to drive half an hour to the market! They call this the first world??? Ekdum bekaar!"
The father on the hot dog: "The sausage is bad, the bun is bad, the ketchup is bad, even the mustard is bad. And this an American institution! You can get a better sausage in Calcutta!"
Now the son had the lost-luggage story.
Biju stepped out of the airport into the Calcutta night, warm, mammalian. His feet sank into dust wi
Forty-nine
The judge got down on his knees, and he prayed to God, he, Jemubhai Popatlal the agnostic, who had made a long hard journey to jettison his family’s prayers; he who had refused to throw the coconut into the water and bless his own voyage all those years ago on the deck of the SS Strath-naver.
"If you return Mutt, I will acknowledge you in public, I will never deny you again, I will tell the world that I believe in you – you – if you return Mutt – "
Then he got up. He was undoing his education, retreating to the superstitious man making bargains, offering sacrifices, gambling with fate, cajoling, daring whatever was out there -
Show me if you exist!
Or else I will know you are nothing.
Nothing! Nothing! – taunting it.
But by night, the thought reentered his mind -
Was this faith that he had turned away, was it paying him back?
For sins he had committed that no court in the world could take on. But that fact, he knew, didn’t lessen the weight they placed on the scale, didn’t render them nothing… But who could be paying him back? He didn’t believe in angered divinity, in a scale of balance. Of course not. The universe wasn’t in the business of justice. That had simply been his own human conceit – until he learned better.
Yet he thought of his family that he had abandoned.
He thought of his father, whose strength and hope and love he had fed on, only to turn around to spit in his face. Then he thought of how he had returned his wife, Nimi. By this time, Bomanbhai Patel of the delicately carved haveli was dead, and an uncle had usurped the throne, the one misfortune of Bomanbhai – all daughters, no son – playing out its curse beyond his existence.
The judge’s mind returned to why exactly he had sent his wife home. It hinged on one particular incident.
Early one morning in Bonda, a car stopped and a whole group of ladies came flowering out, passionate Congresswoman Mrs. Mohan at the wheel. She had spotted Nimi by the gate of Jemubhai’s residence: "Oh, Mrs. Patel, come along with us – why always no? This time I won’t take no for an answer! Let’s go and have some fun. You must get out of the house now and then."
Half happy, half scared, she had found herself on the wide lap of a stranger in the car. They had driven to the station and had to park far away, for thousands of people had gathered to scream and demonstrate: "British raj murdabad!" They had stopped for a while, then followed a procession of cars to a house.
Nimi was handed a plate with scrambled eggs and toast, but she didn’t eat because there was too much commotion, too many people, all shouting and arguing. She tried to smile at a baby, who remembered how to work the muscles well after the moment and smiled back when it was too late.
Finally, a voice said, "Hurry up, the train is about to leave, we’d better get to the station," and most of the crowd poured out of the house again. One of the people left behind had dropped her at her home and that was that.
"We’re part of history being made, Mrs. Patel. Today you saw one of the greatest men in India."
Which was the one? She couldn’t tell.
The judge, returning from tour – five partridge, two quail, one deer, recorded in his hunting diary – had been summoned by the district commissioner on his return and been given the astonishing news that his wife had been part of the Nehru welcoming committee at the Cantonment Railway Station. She had partaken of scrambled eggs and toast with top members of the Congress Party.
It wasn’t the black mark that had been registered against Jemubhai, blocking his promotion, that was of concern to the commissioner, but the embarrassment that would be suffered by the commissioner himself and by the entire civil service that had, he brought down his fist, "A reputation, goddamn it!"
"It couldn’t be true, sir. My wife is a very traditional lady. She is too reserved, as you know, to attend the club. In fact, she never leaves the house."
"She did this time, oh yes, she did. It’s the traditional types that you have to watch out for, Mr. Patel. Not quite as shy as you would like to claim – it serves as a decoy. I think you will find this trip impossible to disprove, since we have corroboration of it from more than one person. I trust that no member of your family," he paused, "will do anything to compromise your career again. I’m warning you, Patel, as a friend."
Unfriendly face. Mr. Singh hated Jemubhai and he hated Gujaratis and, in particular, he hated Patels, always out to seek their own advantage, like jackals.
Jemubhai drove home along the canal road. He knew the efficiency of the spies they employed, but his jaw had clenched and unclenched: How could it be?
"Out of kindness I invited her," Mrs. Mohan had said when confronted by Jemubhai.
"Out of diabolic slyness," Jemubhai fumed.
"Out of naughtiness," Mr. Mohan said, placing a mithai in Mrs. Mohan’s mouth to congratulate his politically astute wife.
But what would Nimi say?
His back was to her as she entered. Slowly he fixed himself a drink, poured a cruel shimmer of Scotch, picked up ice cubes with silver pincers in the shape of claws, dropped them into his glass. The ice cracked and smoked.