Desais, arriving, stopped by and chatted long enough for Lucy
to fear that Tusker would invite them to join him at his expense. The Desais were the richest
free-loaders in Pankot. And not once, going to Europe, had they come back with one single
little thing from the modest list they usually asked Lucy to give them. Moreover, they were
the only two of Tusker’s Indian friends who had neither called nor sent flowers. Well, almost
the only two. If she put her addled little mind to it she imagined she’d be able to think of
several others who would make the same kind of fantastic excuses Mrs Desai was making
about having only “just heard” because they’d been here, there, everywhere, dashing about
the place, what with their son Bubli to see off to Dusseldorf, a conference in Delhi Mr Desai
had had to attend and now their daughter’s marriage coming off shortly in Bombay, eight
hundred guests, a killing expense.
“Can’t they just elope?” Tusker asked. Tusker said things like that to Mrs Desai. It was a
form of flirtation, although she knew he didn’t like the woman. Mrs Desai threw back her
disgustingly beautiful head and laughed, and her diminutive husband who had no
conversation that wasn’t about money actually smiled as if this was an idea he had turned
over in his computer-like mind and regretfully rejected. Their daughter was to marry a
minister’s grandson.
“What a marvellous idea,” Mrs Desai said. “Ved and Sita would adore to do just that, but
his parents are crashingly orthodox and seem to have literally hundreds of relations, apart
from all the government people who’ll expect to be invited. Thank God it’s Bombay and not
Delhi, or I suppose we’d have had to have her too.”
“Come,” Mr Desai said.
Tusker now sat down. In public he was punctilious about such things. As he settled again
he muttered, “With a crore of her husband’s black market money to try and get rid of, what’s
she complaining about?”
“Oh, Tusker,” she whispered, then—looking at the prices for the first time—thought, Oh
God. “I think the soup of the day, don’t you?”
“Not unless you want to kill me off for good. You’re looking at Tahble Dhoti, which is the
usual load of old rubbish from yesterday’s left-overs.”
That’s us too, Lucy thought, not quite thinking it in words but getting their resonance. She
wished he wouldn’t use his private language in public. Tahble Dhoti. People sometimes
misunderstood.
“What we’re looking at is the Allah Carti. Or the Allah Cart, after all we’re all in it up to the
neck. Say what you want, Luce and don’t look at the rupees.”
She took off her spectacles. First “old thing” and now “Luce”. A goose walked over her
grave. “I’ll have what you have, Tusker, but I’m honestly not terribly hungry and remember
what Dr Mitra said. Please be circumspect.”
Was he going to mention the mali ? It was strange that he had refused to mention him so
far. He had not mentioned the garden once, since the night she found him crying on the loo.
Perhaps he was ashamed. She had never seen him cry before. She had half-hoped that Dr
Mitra, who had visited one day soon after the mali started, would say something, so that
Tusker would be forced to take note and say something himself, but Mitra was a man who
never noticed domestic arrangements and had hardly listened, probably hadn’t taken it in ,
when she confided to him that the state of the garden was getting on Tusker’s nerves.
But I’m not going to think about all this today, she told herself. I am here, at the Shiraz,
with Tusker. She looked round the room. There were some American tourists at the far end
of the room. She guessed they were American because they were all talking to one another,
and at least two of the women had their hair done like Jackie Kennedy. Between her and the
Americans was a table-load of Japanese with their cameras slung over the backs
to fear that Tusker would invite them to join him at his expense. The Desais were the richest
free-loaders in Pankot. And not once, going to Europe, had they come back with one single
little thing from the modest list they usually asked Lucy to give them. Moreover, they were
the only two of Tusker’s Indian friends who had neither called nor sent flowers. Well, almost
the only two. If she put her addled little mind to it she imagined she’d be able to think of
several others who would make the same kind of fantastic excuses Mrs Desai was making
about having only “just heard” because they’d been here, there, everywhere, dashing about
the place, what with their son Bubli to see off to Dusseldorf, a conference in Delhi Mr Desai
had had to attend and now their daughter’s marriage coming off shortly in Bombay, eight
hundred guests, a killing expense.
“Can’t they just elope?” Tusker asked. Tusker said things like that to Mrs Desai. It was a
form of flirtation, although she knew he didn’t like the woman. Mrs Desai threw back her
disgustingly beautiful head and laughed, and her diminutive husband who had no
conversation that wasn’t about money actually smiled as if this was an idea he had turned
over in his computer-like mind and regretfully rejected. Their daughter was to marry a
minister’s grandson.
“What a marvellous idea,” Mrs Desai said. “Ved and Sita would adore to do just that, but
his parents are crashingly orthodox and seem to have literally hundreds of relations, apart
from all the government people who’ll expect to be invited. Thank God it’s Bombay and not
Delhi, or I suppose we’d have had to have her too.”
“Come,” Mr Desai said.
Tusker now sat down. In public he was punctilious about such things. As he settled again
he muttered, “With a crore of her husband’s black market money to try and get rid of, what’s
she complaining about?”
“Oh, Tusker,” she whispered, then—looking at the prices for the first time—thought, Oh
God. “I think the soup of the day, don’t you?”
“Not unless you want to kill me off for good. You’re looking at Tahble Dhoti, which is the
usual load of old rubbish from yesterday’s left-overs.”
That’s us too, Lucy thought, not quite thinking it in words but getting their resonance. She
wished he wouldn’t use his private language in public. Tahble Dhoti. People sometimes
misunderstood.
“What we’re looking at is the Allah Carti. Or the Allah Cart, after all we’re all in it up to the
neck. Say what you want, Luce and don’t look at the rupees.”
She took off her spectacles. First “old thing” and now “Luce”. A goose walked over her
grave. “I’ll have what you have, Tusker, but I’m honestly not terribly hungry and remember
what Dr Mitra said. Please be circumspect.”
Was he going to mention the mali ? It was strange that he had refused to mention him so
far. He had not mentioned the garden once, since the night she found him crying on the loo.
Perhaps he was ashamed. She had never seen him cry before. She had half-hoped that Dr
Mitra, who had visited one day soon after the mali started, would say something, so that
Tusker would be forced to take note and say something himself, but Mitra was a man who
never noticed domestic arrangements and had hardly listened, probably hadn’t taken it in ,
when she confided to him that the state of the garden was getting on Tusker’s nerves.
But I’m not going to think about all this today, she told herself. I am here, at the Shiraz,
with Tusker. She looked round the room. There were some American tourists at the far end
of the room. She guessed they were American because they were all talking to one another,
and at least two of the women had their hair done like Jackie Kennedy. Between her and the
Americans was a table-load of Japanese with their cameras slung over the backs
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