profile will do, and he begins walking a few yards behind her. He maintains his distance—it’s important that the women don’t suspect anything, so he’s as unobtrusive as possible. Thus far he’s been able to conceal himself. Usually he holds them only in partial awareness of his eyes, as though they were somewhere around the edges of his consciousness. He’s fully cognizant, during these walks, of the other pedestrians around him, the store signs, and the honking and blaring of the traffic on the street—they come into a sharp relief as the figure pulling him forward weaves in and out of the crowd, and he, too, does his own weaving. He’s not stalking them: he never notes the house the woman has slipped into, never returns a day or two later to the area to see if he can spot her again. Once the woman reaches her destination, he leaves, returning the way he came or grabbing a taxi home.
It’s in the privacy of his room that he then fantasizesabout the woman he’s followed. He imagines that he and the woman have somehow gotten to know each other and have become attracted to each other. He imagines various ways in which this could happen. It could be a woman who has come to the Mahesh Enterprises office. They end up talking. He takes her out for samosas and tea, and that’s how the relationship starts. Or he could be sitting in the lounge of the guesthouse in Thamel, tallying bills and consulting with the manager, when the woman would come in, escorting some foreign guests as their translator or guide. The woman would ask him a question, and that’s how the conversation would begin. She’d end up sitting across from him in the lounge, and they’d talk late into the evening.
These fantasies continue for days. He and the woman are inseparable. They meet in restaurants, parks, at national monuments, museums, and temples. They kiss but only softly, never deep kissing or greedily sucking each other’s tongues. They hold hands. They are tender with each other. And one day he pours out his shame. He tells her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
H E’S AFRAID THAT Didi will find out about his fantasies, so he keeps his mental meanderings tightly locked up inside him. Whom would he tell them to, anyway? He doesn’t have friends with whom he feels comfortable sharing any secrets, let alone something like this. What’s wrong with you? they’d say, these friends he doesn’t have. You’re a good-looking guy, running a business at a young age. Women should be falling over themselves to be with you. You don’t need to pursue these strange women in the streets. If you like someone, why don’t you go talk to her?
But he’s content with his fantasies, the way he can shape them how he wants. He can decide where they’re going to first meet, the first eye contact; he can dictate the paceat which the conversation takes place, the details of the museum or restaurant. He often finds that he has nothing to say to women that he actually meets, unless it’s for business purposes, in which case he is professional and precise and nothing more.
He thinks of himself as a holder of secrets. The big secret is, of course, what’s going on between him and Didi. Sometimes an image comes to him of her death, and he’s drenched in heartrending grief.
He’s ashamed of the improbable and ludicrous imaginings with his women, for what woman would listen to him admit that he sleeps with his stepmother, who masturbates him and lets him come in her hand? But these movies inside his mind console him, and alone in his bed he closes his eyes and just lets them happen. At times he wonders if Didi is going to catch him in the act, right when he’s in the midst of one of these fantasies. It’s strange—he isn’t worried that he’ll run into Didi when he’s on the trail of one of these women. If he does, he’ll have a ready and reasonable excuse for her: he’s on an evening stroll or on his way to an appointment or out to buy a shirt. It’s when
It’s in the privacy of his room that he then fantasizesabout the woman he’s followed. He imagines that he and the woman have somehow gotten to know each other and have become attracted to each other. He imagines various ways in which this could happen. It could be a woman who has come to the Mahesh Enterprises office. They end up talking. He takes her out for samosas and tea, and that’s how the relationship starts. Or he could be sitting in the lounge of the guesthouse in Thamel, tallying bills and consulting with the manager, when the woman would come in, escorting some foreign guests as their translator or guide. The woman would ask him a question, and that’s how the conversation would begin. She’d end up sitting across from him in the lounge, and they’d talk late into the evening.
These fantasies continue for days. He and the woman are inseparable. They meet in restaurants, parks, at national monuments, museums, and temples. They kiss but only softly, never deep kissing or greedily sucking each other’s tongues. They hold hands. They are tender with each other. And one day he pours out his shame. He tells her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
H E’S AFRAID THAT Didi will find out about his fantasies, so he keeps his mental meanderings tightly locked up inside him. Whom would he tell them to, anyway? He doesn’t have friends with whom he feels comfortable sharing any secrets, let alone something like this. What’s wrong with you? they’d say, these friends he doesn’t have. You’re a good-looking guy, running a business at a young age. Women should be falling over themselves to be with you. You don’t need to pursue these strange women in the streets. If you like someone, why don’t you go talk to her?
But he’s content with his fantasies, the way he can shape them how he wants. He can decide where they’re going to first meet, the first eye contact; he can dictate the paceat which the conversation takes place, the details of the museum or restaurant. He often finds that he has nothing to say to women that he actually meets, unless it’s for business purposes, in which case he is professional and precise and nothing more.
He thinks of himself as a holder of secrets. The big secret is, of course, what’s going on between him and Didi. Sometimes an image comes to him of her death, and he’s drenched in heartrending grief.
He’s ashamed of the improbable and ludicrous imaginings with his women, for what woman would listen to him admit that he sleeps with his stepmother, who masturbates him and lets him come in her hand? But these movies inside his mind console him, and alone in his bed he closes his eyes and just lets them happen. At times he wonders if Didi is going to catch him in the act, right when he’s in the midst of one of these fantasies. It’s strange—he isn’t worried that he’ll run into Didi when he’s on the trail of one of these women. If he does, he’ll have a ready and reasonable excuse for her: he’s on an evening stroll or on his way to an appointment or out to buy a shirt. It’s when
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