There were endless accounts of travel in India and over and over, in book after book, there was the scene of late arrival at a dak dak bungalow, the cook cooking in a black kitchen, and Sai realized that her own delivery to Kalimpong in such a manner was merely part of the monotony, not the original. The repet.i.tion had willed her, antic.i.p.ated her, cursed her, and certain moves made long ago had produced all of them: Sai, judge, Mutt, cook, and even the mashed-potato car. bungalow, the cook cooking in a black kitchen, and Sai realized that her own delivery to Kalimpong in such a manner was merely part of the monotony, not the original. The repet.i.tion had willed her, antic.i.p.ated her, cursed her, and certain moves made long ago had produced all of them: Sai, judge, Mutt, cook, and even the mashed-potato car.

Browsing the shelves, Sai had not only located herself but read My Vanishing Tribe, My Vanishing Tribe, revealing to her that she meanwhile knew nothing of the people who had belonged here first. Lepchas, the Rong pa, people of the ravine who followed Bon and believed the original Lepchas, Fodongthing, and Nuzongnyue were created from sacred Kanchenjunga snow. revealing to her that she meanwhile knew nothing of the people who had belonged here first. Lepchas, the Rong pa, people of the ravine who followed Bon and believed the original Lepchas, Fodongthing, and Nuzongnyue were created from sacred Kanchenjunga snow.

There was also James Herriot that funny vet, Gerald Durrell, Sam Pig and Ann Pig, Paddington Bear, and Scratchkin Patchkin who lived like a leaf in the apple tree.

And: The Indian gentleman, with all self-respect to himself, should not enter into a compartment reserved for Europeans, any more than he should enter a carriage set apart for ladies. Although you may have acquired the habits and manners of the European, have the courage to show that you are not ashamed of being an Indian, and in all such cases, identify yourself with the race to which you belong.-H. Hardless, The Indian Gentleman The Indian Gentleman's Guide to Etiquette A rush of anger surprised her. It was unwise to read old books; the fury they ignited wasn't old; it was new. If she couldn't get the pompous fart himself, she wanted to search out the descendants of H. Hardless and stab the life out of them. But the child shouldn't be blamed for a father's crime, she tried to reason with herself, then. But should the child therefore also enjoy the father's illicit gain? rush of anger surprised her. It was unwise to read old books; the fury they ignited wasn't old; it was new. If she couldn't get the pompous fart himself, she wanted to search out the descendants of H. Hardless and stab the life out of them. But the child shouldn't be blamed for a father's crime, she tried to reason with herself, then. But should the child therefore also enjoy the father's illicit gain?

Sai eavesdropped instead on Noni talking to the librarian about Crime and Punishment: Crime and Punishment: "Half awed I was by the writing, but half I was bewildered," said Noni, "by these Christian ideas of confession and forgiveness-they place the burden of the crime on the victim! If nothing can undo the misdeed, then why should sin be undone?" "Half awed I was by the writing, but half I was bewildered," said Noni, "by these Christian ideas of confession and forgiveness-they place the burden of the crime on the victim! If nothing can undo the misdeed, then why should sin be undone?"

The whole system seemed to favor, in fact, the criminal over the righteous. You could behave badly, say you were sorry, you would get extra fun and be reinstated in the same position as the one who had done nothing, who now had both to suffer the crime and the difficulty of forgiving, with no goodies in addition at all. And, of course, you would feel freer than ever to sin if you were aware of such a safety net: sorry, sorry, oh so so sorry.

Like soft birds flying you could let the words free.

The librarian who was the sister-in-law of the doctor they all went to in Kalimpong, said: "We Hindus have a better system. You get what you deserve and you cannot escape your deeds. And at least our G.o.ds look like G.o.ds, no? Like Raja Rani. Not like this Buddha, Jesus-beggar types."

Noni: "But we, too, have wriggled out! Not in this lifetime, we say, in others, perhaps...."

Added Sai: "Worst are those who think the poor should starve because it's their own misdeeds in past lives that are causing problems for them...."

The fact was that one was left empty-handed. There was no system to soothe the unfairness of things; justice was without scope; it might snag the stealer of chickens, but great evasive crimes would have to be dismissed because, if identified and netted, they would bring down the entire structure of so-called civilization. For crimes that took place in the monstrous dealings between nations, for crimes that took place in those intimate s.p.a.ces between two people without a witness, for these crimes the guilty would never pay. There was no religion and no government that would relieve the h.e.l.l.

For a moment their conversation was drowned out by the sounds of a procession in the street. "What are they saying?" asked Noni. "They're shouting something in Nepali."

They watched from the window as a group of boys went by with signs.

"Must be the Gorkha lot again."

"But what are they saying?"

"It's not as if it's being said for anyone to understand. It's just noise, tamasha," tamasha," said Lola. said Lola.

"Ha, yes, they keep on going up and down, something or the other...," the librarian said. "It just takes a few degenerate people and they drum up the illiterates, all the no-gooders hanging about with nothing to do...."

Uncle Potty had joined them now, having delivered his rum supply to the jeep, and Father Booty emerged from the mysticism stacks.

"Should we eat here?"

They went into the dining room, but it seemed deserted, the tables with overturned plates and gla.s.ses to signal it was not open for business.

The manager came out of his office, looking harried.

"So sorry, ladies. We're having cash flow problems and we've had to close the dining hall. Getting more and more difficult to maintain things."

He paused to wave at some foreigners. "Going for sightseeing. Yes? At one time all the rajas came to Darjeeling, the Cooch Behar raja, the raja of Burdwan, the Purnia raja.... Don't miss the Ghoom Monastery...."

"You must get money from these tourists?"

The Gymkhana had begun to rent out rooms to keep the club going.

"Hah! What money? They are so scared they'll get taken advantage of because of their wealth, they try and bargain down on the cheapest room.... And yet, just see." He showed them a postcard the couple had left for the front desk to post: "Had a great dinner for $4.50. We can't believe how cheap this country is!!! We're having a great time, but we'll be glad to get home, where, let's be honest (sorry, we've never been the PC types!) there is widespread availability of deodorant...."

"And these are the last of the tourists. We're lucky to have them. This political trouble will drive them away."

Thirty-two.

In this Gymkhana dining hall, in one of the corners slung about with antlers and moth eaten hides, hovered the ghost of the last conversation between the judge and his only friend, Bose. in one of the corners slung about with antlers and moth eaten hides, hovered the ghost of the last conversation between the judge and his only friend, Bose.

It had been the last time they ever met. The last time the judge had ever driven his car out of the Cho Oyu gates.

They had not seen each other in thirty-three years.

Bose lifted his gla.s.s. "To old times," he had said, and drank. "Ahhh. Mother's milk."

He had brought a bottle of Talisker for them to share, and it was he, as was expected, who had instigated this meeting. It was a month before Sai had arrived in Kalimpong. He had written to the judge that he would stay at the Gymkhana. Why did the judge go? Out of some vain hope of putting his memories to sleep? Out of curiosity? He told himself he went because if he did not go to the Gymkhana, Bose would come to Cho Oyu instead.

"You have to say we have the best mountains in the world," said Bose. "Have you ever trekked up Sandak Fu? That Micky went-remember him? Stupid fellow? Wore new shoes and by the time he arrived at the base, he had developed such blisters he had to sit at the bottom, and his wife Mithu-remember her? lot of spirit? great girl?-she ran all the way to the top in her Hawaii chappals. chappals.

"Remember d.i.c.kie, that one with a tweed coat and cherry pipe pretending to be an English lord, saying things like, 'Look upon this h.o.a.ry... h.o.a.ry... winter's... light... et cetera?' Had a r.e.t.a.r.ded child and couldn't take it... he killed himself.

"Remember Subramanium? Wife, a dumpy woman, four feet by four feet? Cheered himself up with the Anglo secretary, but that wife of his, she booted him out of the house and took all the money... and once the money vanished so did the Anglo. Found some other b.u.g.g.e.r...."

Bose threw back his head to laugh and his dentures came gnashing down. He hurriedly lowered his head and gobbled them up again. The judge was pained by the scene of them before they'd even properly embarked on the evening-two white-haired Fitzbillies in the corner of the club, water-stained durries, durries, the grimacing head of a stuffed bear slipping low, half the stuffing fallen out. Wasps lived in the creature's teeth, and moths lived in its fur, which also fooled some ticks that had burrowed in, confident of finding blood, and died of hunger. Above the fireplace, where a portrait of the king and queen of England in coronation attire had once hung, there was now one of Gandhi, thin and with ribs showing. Hardly conducive to appet.i.te or comfort in a club, the judge thought. the grimacing head of a stuffed bear slipping low, half the stuffing fallen out. Wasps lived in the creature's teeth, and moths lived in its fur, which also fooled some ticks that had burrowed in, confident of finding blood, and died of hunger. Above the fireplace, where a portrait of the king and queen of England in coronation attire had once hung, there was now one of Gandhi, thin and with ribs showing. Hardly conducive to appet.i.te or comfort in a club, the judge thought.

Still, you could imagine what it must have been like, planters in boiled shirts riding for miles through the mist, coattails in their pockets to meet for tomato soup. Had the contrast excited them, the playing of tiny tunes with fork and spoon, the dancing against a backdrop that celebrated blood-sports and brutality? In the guest registers, the volumes of which were kept in the library, ma.s.sacres were recorded in handwriting that had a feminine delicacy and perfect balance, seeming to convey sensitivity and good sense. Fishing expeditions to the Teesta had brought back, just forty years ago, a hundred pounds of mahaseer. mahaseer. Twain had shot thirteen tigers on the road between Calcutta and Darjeeling. But the mice hadn't been shot out and they were chewing the matting and scurrying about as the two men talked. Twain had shot thirteen tigers on the road between Calcutta and Darjeeling. But the mice hadn't been shot out and they were chewing the matting and scurrying about as the two men talked.

"Remember how I took you to buy the coat in London? Remember that awful b.l.o.o.d.y thing you had? Looking like a real gow wallah? gow wallah? Remember how you used to p.r.o.nounce Remember how you used to p.r.o.nounce Jheelee Jheelee as as Giggly? Giggly? Remember? Ha ha." Remember? Ha ha."

The judge's heart filled with a surge of venomous emotion: how dare dare this man! Is this why he had made the journey, to raise himself up, put the judge down, establish a past position of power so as to be able to respect himself in the present? this man! Is this why he had made the journey, to raise himself up, put the judge down, establish a past position of power so as to be able to respect himself in the present?

"Remember Granchester? And is there honey still for tea?" And is there honey still for tea?"

He and Bose in the boat, holding themselves apart in case they brush against the others and offend them with brown skin.

The judge looked for the waiter. They should order dinner, get this over with, make it an early night. He thought of Mutt waiting for him.

She would be at the window, her eyes hooked on the gate, tail uncurled between her legs, her body tense with waiting, her brows furrowed.

When he returned, he would pick up a stick.

"I could throw it? You could catch it? Should I?" he would ask her.

Yes yes yes yes-she would leap and jump, unable to bear the antic.i.p.ation for a moment longer.

So he tried to ignore Bose, but hysterically, once he had begun, Bose accelerated the pace and tone of his invasiveness.

He had been one of the ICS men, the judge knew, who had mounted a court case to win a pension equal to that of a white ICS man, and they had lost, of course, and somehow the light had gone out of Bose.

Despite letter after letter typed on Bose's portable Olivetti, the judge had refused to become involved. He'd already learned his cynicism by then and how Bose had kept his naivete alive-well, it was miraculous. Even stranger, his naivete had clearly been inherited by his son, for years later, the judge heard that the son, too, had fought a case against his employer, Sh.e.l.l Oil, and he, too, had lost. The son had reasoned that it was a different age with different rules, but it had turned out to be only a different version of the same old.

"It costs less to live in India," they responded.

But what if they wished to have a holiday in France? Buy a bottle at the duty-free? Send a child to college in America? Who could afford it? If they were paid less, how would India not keep being poor? How could Indians travel in the world and live in the world the same way Westerners did? These differences Bose found unbearable.

But profit could only be harvested in the gap between nations, working one against the other. They were d.a.m.ning the third world to being third-world. They were forcing Bose and his son into an inferior position-thus far and no further-and he couldn't take it. Not after believing he was their friend. He thought of how the English government and its civil servants had sailed away throwing their topis topis overboard, leaving behind only those ridiculous Indians who couldn't rid themselves of what they had broken their souls to learn. overboard, leaving behind only those ridiculous Indians who couldn't rid themselves of what they had broken their souls to learn.

Again they went to court and again they would go to court with their unshakable belief in the system of justice. Again they lost. Again they would lose.

The man with the white curly wig and a dark face covered in powder, bringing down his hammer, always against the native, in a world that was still colonial.

In England they had a great good laugh, no doubt, but in India, too, everyone laughed with the joy of seeing people like Bose cheated. There they had thought they were superior, putting on airs, and they were just the same-weren't they?-as the rest.

The more the judge's mouth tightened, the more Bose seemed determined to drive the conversation until it broke.

"Best days of my life," he said. "Remember? Punting by King's, Trinity, what a view, my G.o.d, and then what was it? Ah yes, Corpus Christi.... No, I'm getting it wrong, aren't I? First Trinity, then St. John's. No. First Clare, then Trinity, then some ladies' thing, Primrose... Primrose?"

"No, that's not the order at all," the judge heard himself saying in tight-wound offended tones like an adolescent. "It was Trinity then Clare."

"No, no, what are you saying. King's, Corpus Christi, Clare, then St. John. Memory going, old chap...."

"I think your your memory may be failing you!" memory may be failing you!"

Bose was drinking peg after peg, desperate to wrangle something-a common memory, an establishment of truth that had, at least, a commitment from two people- "No, no. King's! Trinity!" he pounded his gla.s.s on the table. "Jesus! Clare! Gonville! And then on to tea at Granchester!"

The judge could no longer bear it, he raised his hand into the air, counted fingers: 1. St. John's!2. Trinity!3. Clare!4. King's!

Bose fell silent. He seemed relieved by the challenge.

"Should we order some dinner?" asked the judge.

But Bose swung rapidly to another position-satisfaction either way-but depth, resolution. Still a question for Bose: should he d.a.m.n the past or find some sense in it? Drunk, eyes aswim with tears, "b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" he said with such bitterness. "What b.a.s.t.a.r.ds they were!" raising his voice as if attempting to grant himself conviction. "Goras-get away with everything don't they? b.l.o.o.d.y white people. b.l.o.o.d.y white people. They're responsible for all the crimes of the century!" They're responsible for all the crimes of the century!"

Silence.

"Well," he said then, to the disapproving silence, trying to reconcile with it, "one thing we're lucky for, baap re, baap re, is that they didn't stay, thank G.o.d. At least they left...." is that they didn't stay, thank G.o.d. At least they left...."

Still nothing from the judge.

"Not like in Africa-still making trouble over there...."

Silence.

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter too much-now they can just do their dirty work from far away...."

Jaw clenched unclenched hands clenched unclenched clenched.

"Oh, they weren't all bad, I suppose.... Not all...."

Jaw clenched unclenched hands clenched unclenched clenched unclenched-

Then the judge burst out, despite himself: "YES! YES! YES! They were bad. They were part of it. And we were part of the problem, Bose, exactly as much as you could argue that we were part of the solution."

And: "Waiter!

"Waiter!

"Waiter?

"Waiter!!

"WAITER!!!" shouted the judge, in utter desperation. "Probably gone chasing the hen," said Bose weakly. "I don't think they were expecting anyone." shouted the judge, in utter desperation. "Probably gone chasing the hen," said Bose weakly. "I don't think they were expecting anyone."

The judge walked into the kitchen and found two green chilis looking ridiculous in a tin cup on a wooden stand that read "Best Potato Exhibit 1933."

Nothing else.

He went to the front desk. "n.o.body in the kitchen."

The man at the reception was half asleep. "It is very late, sir. Go next door to Glenary's. They have a full restaurant and bar."

"We have come here for dinner. Should I report you to the management?" Resentfully the man went around to the back, and eventually a reluctant waiter arrived at their table; dried lentil scabs on his blue jacket made yellow dabs. He had been having a snooze in an empty room-ubiquitous old-fashioned waiter that he was, functioning like a communist employee, existing comfortably away from horrible capitalist ideas of serving monied people politely.

"Roast mutton with mint sauce. Is the mutton tender?" asked the judge imperiously.