spoilt brat was treated far better than he deserved.’
Keith was scandalised. ‘You do know it’s autobiographical? You’re talking about Truffaut!’
Prabir considered this new information. ‘Then he was probably being too gentle on himself. In reality, he was probably even
more stupid and selfish.’
Amita had very different tastes, and took him to
BladeRunner TM OnIce TM with MusicInTheStyleOf TM GilbertAnd-Sullivan TM
. He’d heard that the show was distantly derived from a halfway decent science-fiction novel, but no evidence of that survived
amongst the fog, laser beams, and black rubber costumes. During the interval, a disembodied voice calling itself ‘Radio KJTR’
cackled inanities about sex with amputees. The McDonald’s in the foyer was offering a free game/ soundtrack/novelisation ROM
with every MacTheBlade TM , which turned out to be a frothy pink drink like liquefied styrofoam. The worst thing was Amita humming ‘I Am the Very Model
of a Modern Mutant Replicant’ for the next six weeks.
By the end of their third month in Toronto there was a perceptible change in the household, as if it had been decided that
their settling-in period was over. Amita began hosting dinner parties, and introducing her foster-children to her friends.
The guests made goo-goo noises over Madhusree, and handed Prabir calling cards with Dior web sites embedded in the chips.
Keith and Amita’s acquaintances were drawn from almost every profession, but remarkably they all had one thing in common.
Arun was a lecturer, writer, editor, social commentator, and poet. Bernice was a sculptor, performance artist, political activist,
and poet. Denys was a multimedia consultant, advertising copywriter, film producer … and poet. Prabir flipped through all
the cards one night, to be sure he hadn’t left someone out, but there were no exceptions.
Dentist, and poet. Actor, and poet. Architect, and poet. Accountant, and poet
.
Thankfully, none of these visitors ever raised the subject of the war with him, but that left them with little choice but
to ask about school. To Prabir’s dismay, confessing that his best subjects were science and mathematics almost invariably
triggered a baffling stream of
non sequiturs
comparing him with the famous Indian mathematician Ramanujan. Could they really not tell that he was too old for this kind
of growup-to-be-an-astronaut flattery? And why did they always invoke Ramanujan? Why not Bose or Chandrasekhar, why not Salam
or Ashtekar, why not even (perish the thought) someone Chinese or European or American? Prabir eventually discovered the reason:
an Oliver Stone biopic that had been released in 2010. Amita rented it for him. The story was punctuated with sitar-drenched
hallucinatory visits from Hindu deities, dispensing cheat notes to the struggling young mathematician. In the end, Ramanujan
steps from his deathbed into a desert strewn with snakes, all biting their tails to form the symbol for infinity.
There were worse things in the world than being patronised by the And Poets. Prabir knew that he was a thousand times better
off than most of the war’s orphans – and if this fact had ever slipped his mind, the TV was full of harrowing footage from
Aceh and Irian Jaya to rub his face in it. The fighting was over, the leaders of the coup had been overthrown, and five provinces
had gained independence, but ten million people were starving across the archipelago. He’d been deprived of nothing – save
the one thing that no one could restore. Amita not only fed, clothed and sheltered them, she bestowed endless physical affection
on Madhusree, and she would have done the same for him if he hadn’t recoiled from her touch.
Prabir found himself growing almost ashamed of his lack of respect for her, and he began to wonder if his fears for Madhusree
were unfounded. Amita hadn’t tried to brainwashhim with her bizarre theories; maybe Madhusree would be
Keith was scandalised. ‘You do know it’s autobiographical? You’re talking about Truffaut!’
Prabir considered this new information. ‘Then he was probably being too gentle on himself. In reality, he was probably even
more stupid and selfish.’
Amita had very different tastes, and took him to
BladeRunner TM OnIce TM with MusicInTheStyleOf TM GilbertAnd-Sullivan TM
. He’d heard that the show was distantly derived from a halfway decent science-fiction novel, but no evidence of that survived
amongst the fog, laser beams, and black rubber costumes. During the interval, a disembodied voice calling itself ‘Radio KJTR’
cackled inanities about sex with amputees. The McDonald’s in the foyer was offering a free game/ soundtrack/novelisation ROM
with every MacTheBlade TM , which turned out to be a frothy pink drink like liquefied styrofoam. The worst thing was Amita humming ‘I Am the Very Model
of a Modern Mutant Replicant’ for the next six weeks.
By the end of their third month in Toronto there was a perceptible change in the household, as if it had been decided that
their settling-in period was over. Amita began hosting dinner parties, and introducing her foster-children to her friends.
The guests made goo-goo noises over Madhusree, and handed Prabir calling cards with Dior web sites embedded in the chips.
Keith and Amita’s acquaintances were drawn from almost every profession, but remarkably they all had one thing in common.
Arun was a lecturer, writer, editor, social commentator, and poet. Bernice was a sculptor, performance artist, political activist,
and poet. Denys was a multimedia consultant, advertising copywriter, film producer … and poet. Prabir flipped through all
the cards one night, to be sure he hadn’t left someone out, but there were no exceptions.
Dentist, and poet. Actor, and poet. Architect, and poet. Accountant, and poet
.
Thankfully, none of these visitors ever raised the subject of the war with him, but that left them with little choice but
to ask about school. To Prabir’s dismay, confessing that his best subjects were science and mathematics almost invariably
triggered a baffling stream of
non sequiturs
comparing him with the famous Indian mathematician Ramanujan. Could they really not tell that he was too old for this kind
of growup-to-be-an-astronaut flattery? And why did they always invoke Ramanujan? Why not Bose or Chandrasekhar, why not Salam
or Ashtekar, why not even (perish the thought) someone Chinese or European or American? Prabir eventually discovered the reason:
an Oliver Stone biopic that had been released in 2010. Amita rented it for him. The story was punctuated with sitar-drenched
hallucinatory visits from Hindu deities, dispensing cheat notes to the struggling young mathematician. In the end, Ramanujan
steps from his deathbed into a desert strewn with snakes, all biting their tails to form the symbol for infinity.
There were worse things in the world than being patronised by the And Poets. Prabir knew that he was a thousand times better
off than most of the war’s orphans – and if this fact had ever slipped his mind, the TV was full of harrowing footage from
Aceh and Irian Jaya to rub his face in it. The fighting was over, the leaders of the coup had been overthrown, and five provinces
had gained independence, but ten million people were starving across the archipelago. He’d been deprived of nothing – save
the one thing that no one could restore. Amita not only fed, clothed and sheltered them, she bestowed endless physical affection
on Madhusree, and she would have done the same for him if he hadn’t recoiled from her touch.
Prabir found himself growing almost ashamed of his lack of respect for her, and he began to wonder if his fears for Madhusree
were unfounded. Amita hadn’t tried to brainwashhim with her bizarre theories; maybe Madhusree would be
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