saying how much they loved it. But it was a horror, and here was his discovery: the horror didn't stop; it went on repeating; he turned a corner and went down a new street and his senses were assaulted again, the sidewalks like freak shows.
"You seem a good deal disappointed," Mr. Shah said. Shah, the point man, was his guide in everything.
"Not disappointed," Dwight said. "I'm disgusted. I'm frightened. I am appalled. Don't you see I want to go home?"
In this world of anguish he felt physically hurt by what he saw. But it continued for the days he was there and did not stop until he had gotten back on the plane and left the smell of failure, of futility, of death and disease, returning to Boston with another discovery: in all that misery, there was money.
"I can't believe we closed the deal," he said to Shah. "My clients are very happy."
Shah smiled and said, "I am at your service, sir."
"They're either at my throat or at my feet," he'd e-mailed to Kohut back at the office after the deal had been made. "And then they're biting each other's ankles."
But there was another deal to be done. After two days of fighting the misery, he'd stopped going out. He stayed in his hotel until it was time to meet the car, then he went to Jeejeebhoy Towers and the meeting, ate nothing, and returned to his hotel in the car. He ate bananas in his roomâbananas were safe. But a diet of bananas and bottled water blocked him solid. There's a headline, he told himself. But it was something to report.
"You get sick?" It was the usual response to his saying he'd just been to India.
"I was constipated."
Â
Second trip, the life-changing one. At first he had refused. He had taken his risk; Maureen didn't care. He had pleaded with Sheely to take the assignment. Sheely had been to India once and was allowed to say "Never again" because he was a senior partner, but he didn't stop there.
"Go to India?" Sheely raged. The very name could set him off. "Why should I go to India? Indians don't even want to go to India! Everyone's leaving India, or else wants to leave, and I don't blame them. I understand whyâI'd want to leave too if I lived there. Which I don't, nor do I ever want to go to that shitty place ever again. Don't talk to me about India!"
Kohut too had seniority. Instead of pleading, Dwight thought: Extreme measures. He brought a supply of tuna fish, the small cans with pop-off lids, and crackers, and Gatorade. It was like a prison diet, but it would be bearable and appropriate for his seven days of captivity in Mumbai. These he would spend in the best room of the best hotel: the Elephanta Suite at the Taj Mahal Hotel, just across from the Gateway.
Yet he was ashamed of himself, standing in his hotel bathroom of polished marble and gilt fittings, leaning over the sink, eating tuna fish out of a can with a plastic fork. Three days of that, three days of Shah's saying, "You must see Crawford Market and Chor Bazaar. Perhaps Elephanta Caves, perhaps side trip to Agra to see Taj? What you want to see?"
"The Gateway of India."
"Very nice. Three portal arches. Tripulia of Gujarati design. Not old, put up by British in 1927. But..." Shah widened his mouth, grinning in confusion.
"What?"
"You can see it from here."
"That's what I like about it."
India was a foreign country where he'd been assigned to find outsourcing deals, not a place to enjoy but one to endure, like going down a dark hole to find jewels. He worked in the boardroom, wrangling with manufacturers; he sat in his suite and watched CNN. His grimmest pleasure was looking through the classifieds of the
Hindustan Times,
the pages headed "Matrimonials," and he smiled in disbelief at the willingness in the details, the eagerness of the girls desperate to be brides, the boys to be grooms. His disillusionment with marriage was compounded by his misery in India. He suffered, and the firm was grateful, for India proved to be outsourcing heaven.
"I had a query from a
"You seem a good deal disappointed," Mr. Shah said. Shah, the point man, was his guide in everything.
"Not disappointed," Dwight said. "I'm disgusted. I'm frightened. I am appalled. Don't you see I want to go home?"
In this world of anguish he felt physically hurt by what he saw. But it continued for the days he was there and did not stop until he had gotten back on the plane and left the smell of failure, of futility, of death and disease, returning to Boston with another discovery: in all that misery, there was money.
"I can't believe we closed the deal," he said to Shah. "My clients are very happy."
Shah smiled and said, "I am at your service, sir."
"They're either at my throat or at my feet," he'd e-mailed to Kohut back at the office after the deal had been made. "And then they're biting each other's ankles."
But there was another deal to be done. After two days of fighting the misery, he'd stopped going out. He stayed in his hotel until it was time to meet the car, then he went to Jeejeebhoy Towers and the meeting, ate nothing, and returned to his hotel in the car. He ate bananas in his roomâbananas were safe. But a diet of bananas and bottled water blocked him solid. There's a headline, he told himself. But it was something to report.
"You get sick?" It was the usual response to his saying he'd just been to India.
"I was constipated."
Â
Second trip, the life-changing one. At first he had refused. He had taken his risk; Maureen didn't care. He had pleaded with Sheely to take the assignment. Sheely had been to India once and was allowed to say "Never again" because he was a senior partner, but he didn't stop there.
"Go to India?" Sheely raged. The very name could set him off. "Why should I go to India? Indians don't even want to go to India! Everyone's leaving India, or else wants to leave, and I don't blame them. I understand whyâI'd want to leave too if I lived there. Which I don't, nor do I ever want to go to that shitty place ever again. Don't talk to me about India!"
Kohut too had seniority. Instead of pleading, Dwight thought: Extreme measures. He brought a supply of tuna fish, the small cans with pop-off lids, and crackers, and Gatorade. It was like a prison diet, but it would be bearable and appropriate for his seven days of captivity in Mumbai. These he would spend in the best room of the best hotel: the Elephanta Suite at the Taj Mahal Hotel, just across from the Gateway.
Yet he was ashamed of himself, standing in his hotel bathroom of polished marble and gilt fittings, leaning over the sink, eating tuna fish out of a can with a plastic fork. Three days of that, three days of Shah's saying, "You must see Crawford Market and Chor Bazaar. Perhaps Elephanta Caves, perhaps side trip to Agra to see Taj? What you want to see?"
"The Gateway of India."
"Very nice. Three portal arches. Tripulia of Gujarati design. Not old, put up by British in 1927. But..." Shah widened his mouth, grinning in confusion.
"What?"
"You can see it from here."
"That's what I like about it."
India was a foreign country where he'd been assigned to find outsourcing deals, not a place to enjoy but one to endure, like going down a dark hole to find jewels. He worked in the boardroom, wrangling with manufacturers; he sat in his suite and watched CNN. His grimmest pleasure was looking through the classifieds of the
Hindustan Times,
the pages headed "Matrimonials," and he smiled in disbelief at the willingness in the details, the eagerness of the girls desperate to be brides, the boys to be grooms. His disillusionment with marriage was compounded by his misery in India. He suffered, and the firm was grateful, for India proved to be outsourcing heaven.
"I had a query from a
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