This veiled challenge had the desired effect. Naina went to her father and insisted that she would marry no one but me. Her father did not like this. But love for his child was the single chink in his armor. He hired private detectives to research my background. They found nothing objectionable in it other than poverty. Impressed by the ambition that had brought me this far in life, he invited me to his office where, after an hour of grilling, he agreed to the marriage. He even offered to find me a suitably high position—he thought I would do well in the government’s Protocol Department—and advised me to take the appropriate examinations so that this could be managed. The one thing he expected of me, he said as we shook hands in farewell, was that I keep his daughter happy. Failure to do this, he said, smiling jovially, could be dangerous to my health. I was not sure if this was a threat or a joke. In either case, I did not worry about it. How hard could it be to keep a woman happy? I thought. I did not know that Naina would undergo a Jekyllean transformation soon after our wedding.
THE FIRST SIGNS WERE SMALL: NAINA ASKING ME TO FETCH HER a drink at a friend’s party, her tone more an order than a request; Naina deciding on deep red as the color theme for the luxurious new flat her father had given us as a wedding gift, even though I preferred something more restrained; Naina flipping through the numerous invitations we received, deciding which ones to accept and which to snub; Naina spending hours shopping for new shoes at a scandalously expensive store and settling on a pair that cost as much as my salary for a week. (When I remarked on this fact, she reminded me that she was paying for it with her own money. This was true. In addition to a trust, she had a hefty allowance out of which she paid all our household expenses so that I was free to use my salary however I desired. She was generous that way.)
I put up with these rumbles. All her life, Naina had been given everything she wanted as soon as she wanted it. I expected that it would take her time to settle into domesticity. Meanwhile, I focused on my job, which was to oversee hospitality for visiting governmental dignitaries. I liked conversing with powerful people from around the world. I liked my office staff, who treated me with a deference I had never before experienced. Every month, I sent most of my paycheck to my parents, who had by now repaired the roof, paid the most urgent medical bills, and made plans for my middle sister’s wedding. It was a happy time.
A happy time, even though Naina refused to go to my backwater hometown to attend my sister’s wedding. She pointed out that she had already booked tickets for us to attend the Cannes Film Festival. I controlled my temper and requested that she consider coming with me instead, because this was important. She asked if I was crazy. We had our first fight—but those were the early days, and we made it up. Afterward she told me (as part apology) that she would be miserable at the wedding and that would make everyone else miserable, too. So she went to Cannes with her best friend, Rita, and I went home to face my family’s questions.
THE EVENT THAT CAUSED AN IRREPARABLE RIFT IN OUR MARRIAGE occurred the next year, when my parents wanted to visit. I tried to discourage them, offering to travel home again, but they were longing to see my fancy new flat—and my fancy new wife. When I told Naina, she shrugged and said that they could come if I really wanted it, but she wasn’t going to have them staying with us. I could put them up at a hotel. Not to worry, she would pay for it.
Those of you familiar with Indian traditions will realize what an insult that was to my parents—and to me. But I couldn’t say anything. Naina’s last sentence made me aware of how beholden I was to her. It was her flat I was living in, her food I was eating. Even the job I held was due to her father’s string-pulling. I was ashamed that once I had considered these indications of good fortune.
The next day, I stayed back in my office after work; when the other employees left, I phoned my parents to inform them of what Naina had decreed. They did not express the hurt they must have felt. They told me not to worry; they would come another year when it was more convenient. But I knew the truth. They were proud people; they would never ask to visit again. My mother added that she had made a box of Maisoorpak, my favorite sweet, and that she would mail it to me. She hoped Naina would like it. After I hung up, I sat with my head in my hands. When I could no longer escape the fact that I had made the biggest mistake of my life by marrying Naina—yes, I confess it—I started to cry.
That was when someone knocked on the door. A hesitant female voice asked if I was okay. It was Latika, our department’s accountant, who had been working late. Passing by my office, she had heard my sobs. Her concern made me break down further. She fetched me water, rummaged through her handbag and found me a handkerchief to wipe my face, and told me things would surely look better in the morning. I told her I didn’t think so. Before I knew it, I began pouring out my marital troubles. She pulled up a chair and listened, not trying to offer any solutions.
I couldn’t help noting how different Latika was from Naina. She was no beauty, but in her simple sari and minimal makeup she exuded a glow. If Naina was a flashing disco light, Latika was the moon in a misty sky. Behind her glasses, her eyes were understanding, and I felt that she knew the meaning of struggle. The handkerchief she gave me was frayed at the edges, and I was impressed that she hadn’t minded sharing it with me even though I would see this. The act made her seem at once brave and vulnerable—and real in a way that most of the people I had been mingling with recently were not.
I must have talked to her for half an hour, moving from my anger toward Naina to the subject of my parents and how much they had sacrificed for me. In return Latika told me that her parents had died in a train accident a couple of years earlier. She still missed them every day. Her only remaining family was her younger brother, whom she was putting through college.
When I apologized for having delayed her and offered her a ride (I drove a BMW that my father-in-law had given me and that—until that day—I had been rather vain about), she refused. The buses were still running, and the bus stop was right across from the ladies’ hostel where she roomed. But I insisted, pointing out that it was raining. We sprinted through the rain across the empty street to the parking garage. We were soaked and laughing by the time we reached the car. An hour back, I wouldn’t have believed that anything could have made me laugh on this day. As I drove Latika to her hostel, I felt that, perhaps to balance out my misfortune, the universe had offered me a friend.
I’m not sure when our friendship metamorphosed into love. Neither of us had intended it. Latika considered the husband of another woman out of bounds. When she figured out what was happening, she tried to push me away in distress. But what had blossomed between us was too strong to resist. Still, our relationship never became physical—Latika insisted on that. We understood the necessity of secrecy. At work we pretended we were no more than colleagues. But each day after work, for one precious hour, we went to movie theaters, that old refuge of sweethearts in crowded Indian cities. We chose buildings with small screens and poor air-conditioning because they would not be as crowded. We went to a different one each day and sat in the back of a darkened hall, holding hands and whispering. As the months passed, we dared to dream of a future together in a city far from this one, a future that would include my parents and her brother.
I went to my boss and, in confidence, requested a transfer to a smaller branch in the south of the country—for family reasons, I told him. He advised against it, warning me that it was a huge step back from which my career would never recover. I didn’t care. My ambition, once a conflagration, had become a mild hearth fire. The day my transfer was approved, I asked Naina for a divorce. I pointed out that we were incompatible. She loved parties and shopping, holidays in expensive locales, and running the high-end boutique she had opened recently. The things I cared for—my job, my friends, my books, my family—she found dreary. Why not admit we had both made a youthful mistake and go our own ways?
Naina stared at me, eyes wide with shock. For a moment I thought she looked stricke
n. Then she stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door. In a few seconds I could hear her voice, low and furious, on her phone—probably bad-mouthing me to one of her girlfriends. I didn’t care. I felt a great lightness at having taken this step toward my freedom. I went to my own room—we had started using separate bedrooms some months back, and though we still had physical relations, those times were rare. Using my personal line, I called Latika and told her what had transpired. She was a bit scared but mostly excited—she already knew about my transfer. We decided we would talk more after work.
The next morning I was in my office, fine-tuning details for the visit of a Ghanaian minister, when I heard a commotion. Stepping out, I saw four policemen hurrying Latika down the corridor. Her hair was disheveled and there were streaks of dried tears on her cheeks. She shot me a wounded, accusing look as she passed me. My heart began pounding. I grasped the arm of a policeman and asked him what the problem was; he shook me off, saying he was not at liberty to discuss details. The corridor was filled with employees who stared and whispered, enjoying this bit of drama. I wanted to run after her, but the presence of those staring eyes stopped me. I went back into my office, where I summoned my office boy. From him I discovered that early that morning the police had arrived with a warrant for Latika. Apparently, a large sum of money was missing from accounts that Latika managed, and she was suspected of having embezzled it. She was being taken to the central police station for questioning.
I grabbed my briefcase and started for the stairs. I intended to rush to the police station and do what I could to help Latika. I was certain she was innocent; this mistake could be cleared up soon. But on the way, my boss’s secretary, an older woman who had been with the company for many years and was privy to high-level secrets, stopped me. My boss wanted to see me. Immediately.
I told her I needed to leave right away on a personal emergency, and that I would see him as soon as I got back.
She shook her head. “If you don’t see him now, you may not have a job when you get back.”
Her tone stopped me. I followed her into my boss’s office. He didn’t waste time with niceties. “I got a letter from high-up this morning,” he told me, “stating that your transfer has been revoked.” He did not explain. Instead, he suggested that I return to my room and focus my energies on the Ghanaian minister.
When I stepped out, I had to hold on to the secretary’s desk. My head was whirling. In less than an hour, my world had fallen to pieces. What was going on?
The secretary looked at me with wry sympathy. “Looks like you’ve made someone powerful very angry. If I were you, I’d make amends fast. And I’d stay away from Latika.”
Understanding flashed through me. Naina hadn’t called a friend last night. She had called her father, and he had struck with the immediate intelligence of a hawk that knows how best to mortally wound its prey.
I left my briefcase on the floor of the secretary’s office and drove like a maniac to Latika’s hostel. I bribed the gardener and learned that an hour before, the superintendent had received a phone call. When she hung up, she was very agitated and had Miss Latika’s belongings packed and brought to the gate. She instructed the gatekeeper to give them to Miss Latika but not let her into the hostel. Soon afterward, Miss Latika had shown up in a police van. She had picked up her things and told him she was leaving the city. One of the policemen had stopped her from saying more. She had given the gardener a ten-rupee note as baksheesh when she left. Folded into the note was a letter for a gentleman named Mangalam.
More money changed hands. I got the letter. It consisted of only one sentence: For both our sakes, don’t look for me. When I crushed it into a ball, it seemed as though I were crushing my dreams. And not only dreams but also the part of me that was tender and moral. Latika had called it up. Without her, it could not survive.
Standing outside the dilapidated building, I was forced to admit that I had brought upon Latika trouble so deep that she might never recover from it. And this: though Naina didn’t want me for herself, the thought of my being happy with another woman stung her like poison ivy. She would fight to keep me tied to her for life, and in that battle her father would be her ally.
That evening Naina and I dined together as though nothing amiss had occurred. As I watched her compliment the cook on the Chicken Makhani, rage flowed through my veins like exhilaration. Liberated from the scruples that Latika had lovingly woven around me, I felt a plan taking shape. I would begin by flirting with Naina’s closest friends, women too well connected for her to ignore or harm. I would use my charms to embroil these women in affairs, and flaunt these affairs so all of Delhi’s rich and famous gossiped about them. If in the process I broke a few hearts, it didn’t matter, as long as Naina became the laughingstock of high society. I would shame her and her father until in desperation they would do one of two things, and at this point I didn’t care which. They would either hire a thug to kill me, or they would make sure I went somewhere far away. In this way, I would gain my freedom.
CAMERON HEARD THE END OF MANGALAM’S STORY, BUT IT WAS also a kind of not-hearing. In his head he had drifted into another place, in another dimension. Tall yellow flowers grow wild around the crumbly brick of the walls, all the way up to the locked iron gates. Cameron has no trouble recognizing the gates. Hasn’t he been looking at their photo for years? The road leading to the gates—no more than a gravel path—is mud-red. Cameron’s feet slip-slide on it as he walks. He wishes there were something to hold on to, a rail, a bush, another person’s arm. The wish surprises him. It is so un-Cameron-like. For years now he’s prided himself on doing without support, on being the one others come to for help. But his backpack is so heavy. He wants to drop it, but he can’t. The backpack is filled with gifts. Without the backpack, Seva might not like him. He hoists it higher onto his shoulders, though that makes it harder to draw breath. Around his heart, there’s a sharp, hot squeezing, like scorpion pincers. He’s encountered scorpions before, on desert missions. He hopes there aren’t any here in the foothills, because beyond the gates the children in their patched blue uniforms are playing barefoot.
The boys chase a soccer ball around the yard. From the articles he’s been reading to prepare for this journey, Cameron knows they call soccer something different here. But holes have opened up in his memory, and he can’t remember what. The girls play crocodile, jumping onto the porch of the old building with shrieks of delight and terror so that the girl who is crocodile can’t get them. Their legs are thin and scabbed, but when they run they’re transformed into forest flashes of golden brown. Seva runs the fastest; the crocodile will never catch her. When she reaches the gate, she swings up on it. Seva, Cameron calls. Seva! She looks out through the bars, an inquiring frown on her face, as though she can hear but can’t see him. Behind her the mountain range is wrinkled and friendly, like the head of an elephant. The air smells of cow-dung fires. A goat bleats to be milked.
He drops the backpack and runs to the gate. He wants to touch her determined fingers, the nails black with dirt. But the orphanage bell is ringing. It summons the children to study hour. They make a ragged, reluctant line at the pump so they can wash their hands and feet. A teacher in a faded sari appears on the porch and yells at Seva to get off the gate, but she hangs there for an additional moment, listening, a perplexed expression in her eyes.
Seva, he shouts, it’s Cameron. He’s only a foot away from her now. He can see the gap between her top teeth, which are a little crooked. One of her braids has come undone. Flecks of rust from the gate coat her forearms. She has a muddy smudge on her cheekbone. He reaches through the bars to wipe it off.
Seva! the teacher thunders.
Coming, Mam, she says. She jumps down from the gate, agile as a monkey, leaving Cameron’s finger to caress the air.
“THAT SUCKS, MR. M,” LILY SAID. “TO FINALLY FIND SOMEONE you love so much and then lose her like that. No wonder you were pissed off. I’m glad you got away.”
&n
bsp; Now that he had finished his story, Mangalam’s teeth began to chatter again. He hugged himself. “I got away geographically,” he said. “But not legally. Or psychologically. Naina’s still my wife, and I can’t forget that. Maybe today, in a while, I really will become free.” He glanced up where the collapsed ceiling had been, and Uma, following his eyes, caught a movement there. A shattered light fixture, still attached by its chain to something, had begun a small, swinging movement. Why would it do that?
“It wasn’t all Naina’s fault,” Mangalam continued. “I started the cycle of wrongdoing. I used her to get what I wanted. It’s only fair that she became the cause for losing what I wanted even more. Karma’s wheel is intricate.”
“What do you mean, karma’s wheel?” said Mrs. Pritchett. She leaned across her husband toward Mr. Mangalam.
“Remember how I flirted and enticed purposely, intending to snare Naina’s friends? Well, after I achieved my purpose and was sent away to America, I found I couldn’t stop behaving like that toward women—even those I respected and felt a genuine liking for.” Here he glanced at Malathi. “It was like those stories we tell children to frighten them into goodness: if they grimace long enough, their muscles will freeze, and when they want to smile, they will not be able to.”
Mangalam turned toward Malathi and spoke as though they were alone. “I think we might die here—perhaps in the next few hours, if more of the building comes down or the air deteriorates further…. I don’t want to die without telling you that I’m sorry for my behavior.”
Malathi said, “I accept. And thank you for translating my story, which I chose partly to jab at you, the kind of man I thought you were.”