skyline. The soldiers who
fly in the night. He tries to imagine a war. Robot killing machines
running through the alleys, titanium blades in all four hands,
avatars of Kali. Aeai gunships piloted by warriors half a planet away
coming in across the Ganga on strafing runs. Awadh's American allies
fight in the modern manner, without a single soldier leaving home,
without a single body bag. They kill from continents away. He fears
that strange tableau he had seen enacted on the streets was prophecy.
Between the water and the fundamentalists, the Ranas have run out of
choices.
A crunch of gravel, a movement on the silver lawns. Ram Das appears
from the moon shadows under the harsingars. Vishram freezes on his
balcony. Another Western way he has slipped into: casual nakedness.
Ram Das steps on to the shaved lawn, parts his dhoti, and takes a
piss by the lazy moon of India, lolling on its side like a temple
gandava. He cleans himself, then turns around and waggles his head
slowly at Vishram, a salutation, a blessing. He goes on his way. A
peacock shrieks.
Home at last.
PART TWO: SAT CHID EKAM BRAHMA
9: VISHRAM
Until thirty minutes ago, Vishram Ray had boasted that he had never
owned a suit. He has always recognised that some day he might need
one and that when he did he really would so he keeps a set of
measurements with a family of Chinese tailors in Varanasi together
with choice of fabric, cut, lining, and two shirts. He's wearing that
suit now in his seat at the teak boardroom table of Ray Power. It
arrived at the Shanker Mahal half an hour ago by bicycle courier.
Vishram was still adjusting the collar and cuffs as the flotilla of
cars arrived at the steps. Now he's on the twentieth floor of the Ray
tower with Varanasi a smoggy brown stain at his feet, the Ganga a
distant curl of sullied silver, and still no one will tell him what
the hell this is about.
Those Chinese really understand fabric. The collar fit is perfect. He
can hardly see the stitches.
The boardroom doors open. Corporate lawyers file in. Vishram Ray
wonders what the collective noun is for corporate lawyers. A fleece?
A fuckover? Last in line is Marianna Fusco. Vishram Ray can feel his
mouth sag open. Marianna Fusco gives him the smallest of smiles,
certainly less than you would expect from someone you (a) had
first-class sex with and (b) embroiled in a street riot, and sits
down opposite him. Under the teak table, Vishram flicks on his palmer
and types invisible text.
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?
The staff open the double doors to now admit the board members.
I TOLD YOU IT WAS A FAMILY BUSINESS MATTER.
Marianna's message appears to Vishram to be hovering over her
breasts. She's in that great and eminently practical suit.
But he's not so bad himself. The bankers and representatives from the
credit unions and grameen banks take their sears. Many of the members
from the rural micro-credit banks have never been so far off the
ground in their lives. As Vishram coolly pours himself a water with
his left hand while his right texts IS THIS A GAME? his father enters
the room. He wears a simple round-collared suit, the length of the
jacket his only concession to fashion, but he turns every head. There
is a look on his face Vishram hasn't seen since he was a boy when his
father was setting up the company, the determined serenity of a man
certain he is doing right. Behind him is Shastri, his shadow.
Ranjit Ray goes to the head of the table. He doesn't take his seat.
He salutes his board and guests. The big wooden room hums with
tension. Vishram would give anything to make an entrance like that.
"Colleagues, partners, honoured guests, my clear family,"
Ranjit Ray begins. "Thank you all for coming today, many of you
at considerable inconvenience and expense. Let me say at the outset
that I would not have asked you to come if I did not feel it was a
matter of the utmost importance to this company."
Ranjit Ray's voice is a soft, deep prayer that carries to
fly in the night. He tries to imagine a war. Robot killing machines
running through the alleys, titanium blades in all four hands,
avatars of Kali. Aeai gunships piloted by warriors half a planet away
coming in across the Ganga on strafing runs. Awadh's American allies
fight in the modern manner, without a single soldier leaving home,
without a single body bag. They kill from continents away. He fears
that strange tableau he had seen enacted on the streets was prophecy.
Between the water and the fundamentalists, the Ranas have run out of
choices.
A crunch of gravel, a movement on the silver lawns. Ram Das appears
from the moon shadows under the harsingars. Vishram freezes on his
balcony. Another Western way he has slipped into: casual nakedness.
Ram Das steps on to the shaved lawn, parts his dhoti, and takes a
piss by the lazy moon of India, lolling on its side like a temple
gandava. He cleans himself, then turns around and waggles his head
slowly at Vishram, a salutation, a blessing. He goes on his way. A
peacock shrieks.
Home at last.
PART TWO: SAT CHID EKAM BRAHMA
9: VISHRAM
Until thirty minutes ago, Vishram Ray had boasted that he had never
owned a suit. He has always recognised that some day he might need
one and that when he did he really would so he keeps a set of
measurements with a family of Chinese tailors in Varanasi together
with choice of fabric, cut, lining, and two shirts. He's wearing that
suit now in his seat at the teak boardroom table of Ray Power. It
arrived at the Shanker Mahal half an hour ago by bicycle courier.
Vishram was still adjusting the collar and cuffs as the flotilla of
cars arrived at the steps. Now he's on the twentieth floor of the Ray
tower with Varanasi a smoggy brown stain at his feet, the Ganga a
distant curl of sullied silver, and still no one will tell him what
the hell this is about.
Those Chinese really understand fabric. The collar fit is perfect. He
can hardly see the stitches.
The boardroom doors open. Corporate lawyers file in. Vishram Ray
wonders what the collective noun is for corporate lawyers. A fleece?
A fuckover? Last in line is Marianna Fusco. Vishram Ray can feel his
mouth sag open. Marianna Fusco gives him the smallest of smiles,
certainly less than you would expect from someone you (a) had
first-class sex with and (b) embroiled in a street riot, and sits
down opposite him. Under the teak table, Vishram flicks on his palmer
and types invisible text.
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?
The staff open the double doors to now admit the board members.
I TOLD YOU IT WAS A FAMILY BUSINESS MATTER.
Marianna's message appears to Vishram to be hovering over her
breasts. She's in that great and eminently practical suit.
But he's not so bad himself. The bankers and representatives from the
credit unions and grameen banks take their sears. Many of the members
from the rural micro-credit banks have never been so far off the
ground in their lives. As Vishram coolly pours himself a water with
his left hand while his right texts IS THIS A GAME? his father enters
the room. He wears a simple round-collared suit, the length of the
jacket his only concession to fashion, but he turns every head. There
is a look on his face Vishram hasn't seen since he was a boy when his
father was setting up the company, the determined serenity of a man
certain he is doing right. Behind him is Shastri, his shadow.
Ranjit Ray goes to the head of the table. He doesn't take his seat.
He salutes his board and guests. The big wooden room hums with
tension. Vishram would give anything to make an entrance like that.
"Colleagues, partners, honoured guests, my clear family,"
Ranjit Ray begins. "Thank you all for coming today, many of you
at considerable inconvenience and expense. Let me say at the outset
that I would not have asked you to come if I did not feel it was a
matter of the utmost importance to this company."
Ranjit Ray's voice is a soft, deep prayer that carries to
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