Maya by C. W. Huntington Page B

by Margaret Billings. Since Davis was on my dissertation committee, I reluctantly decided to go over and mingle. Ever since my conversation with Margaret, I had more or less avoided the office. I never had been comfortable there, but lately it had gotten worse. I felt like an imposter, as though I might be exposed at any moment and arrested for impersonating a legitimate fellow.
    It was almost nine when I arrived. The guard let me through the gate and I walked unobtrusively into the lounge, where the party was already well underway. There must have been forty or fifty people in all, mostly other American scholars, either new arrivals in India or those stationed in Delhi. Their Indian colleagues and research associates were scattered here and there among the group, several of them poised uncomfortably at the periphery of small circles of men and women who were talking and laughing loudly. It was evident that people were drinking hard. Waiters dressed in regal white coats festooned with rows of brass buttons circulated through the room bearing silver trays stacked with pakoras, samosas, and other South Asian hors d’oeuvres. Under one of the festive red turbans I recognized Mahmud. He looked my way and nodded a silent, formal greeting.
    The typewriter had been removed from a table near the kitchen and replaced with various bottles of duty-free liquor and an assortment of Indian beer. Another of the regular office staff had been pressed into service behind the bar. Next to him stood the director, a distinguished Sikh in his late fifties, short, with the obligatory upper-class Indian paunch and a friendly smile full of white teeth. He was wearing an emerald green turban that perfectly matched his silk tie, a white linen shirt, and a conservative brown suit with barely perceptible, green pinstripes. As I approached the bar he extended his right hand, which carried with it two heavy gold rings, one set with a diamond, the other with a row of pink rubies.
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Harrington. How are you this evening?”
    â€œFine, Mr. Singh.”
    He shook my hand, a bit limply, then withdrew his fingers and dangled them over the bottles. The rings glowed softly, reflecting the tiered flames of a brass butter-lamp that burned at the end of the table. “What will you have to drink?”
    I studied the labels on the beer. The choice was between Rosy Pelican, He-Man 9000, and Tipsy. “Any of these will be fine.”
    â€œBalaram!” He turned to the bartender and spoke to him quickly in Hindi.
    I accepted the glass, thanked Balaram, and nodded to Mr. Singh, who was already setting off to take care of some other business in the kitchen.
    â€œNow what?” I wondered. I suddenly imagined myself, as if from across the room, dressed in white pantaloons and a loose white satin blouse with large buttons, my face painted with a frown.
    I moved away from the table and surveyed the crowd. Three people were standing off to my right near a bookshelf displaying publications of past Fulbright scholars. I heard a familiar nasal voice and recognized Margaret just as she looked my direction and smiled, motioning me to come over.
    â€œStanley, how nice to see you here.” She gave me a knowing look. Before I could respond she turned to face an elderly gentleman wearing a baggy tweed coat and a pair of scuffed hush puppies. He had a drink in one hand, a pipe in the other. “Stanley, this is John McIntyre, from Harvard. He’s been gathering material for a study of early Buddhist logic. John, Stanley Harrington. Chicago. Quite an authority on Vedanta.” Once again she caught my eye with a portentous glance.
    â€œGlad to meet you, Stanley.” He glanced at his hands, both of which were occupied, then shrugged and smiled.
    â€œGood evening,” I said.
    â€œAnd of course you and Frank are old friends,” Margaret continued, directing my attention to the man on her left. I hadn’t noticed until