The Pleasure Seekers by Tishani Doshi

looking up at the façade of the building, at the turbaned men with twirly moustaches who were greeting people as they stepped out of their chauffeur-driven cars. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hotel as grand as this in all my life, never mind stayed in one.’
    ‘Well, don’t get carried away,’ said Babo, ‘It’s only for one night. Tomorrow we drive to Anjar, where things are, shall we say, more rustic. And after the wedding, we go to Sylvan Lodge, which is no five-star hotel either. I decided to splurge on your first night in India since my monetary privileges have been reinstated.’
    As they walked through the lobby and took the elevator upstairs to their room on the fifth floor, Siân finally unpursed her lips. ‘I feel like everyone’s staring at me.’
    ‘That’s because they are,’ Babo grinned.
    ‘Why? Do I look funny? Have I got something stuck in my teeth?’
    ‘No, silly. Because they like staring in general, and because you’re beautiful.’
    Inside the room, Siân removed her shoes and walked past the bed on to the balcony, which had wooden shutters and which looked out on to a large archway.
    ‘That’s the Gateway of India,’ said Babo, positioning himself on the bed with a beer from the minibar. ‘Built to commemorate the visit of King George V.’
    Siân stood there and watched, hypnotized by the pigeons and by the horse-carriages that were taking young lovers for a ride. All along the horizon ships were putting down their anchors in the harbour, and to the right, the streetlights glittered, defusing all the darkness of the pavements below. ‘There’s so much life,’ she said, turning to Babo, ‘So much – it feels like it’s bursting from within. There can’t be any place like this in the world.’
    ‘Come here,’ said Babo, ‘Come, sit by me.’
    But Siân continued to stand pensively on the balcony, trying to reconcile herself with her surroundings. It was so strange. She was finally here. Babo was sitting just metres across from her, looking as though the six months between them had never happened, as though they’d always been together. But Siân could feel the distance growing in her again, she could feel that little something in the pit of her stomach, quieter now, but there.
    ‘Come here,’ said Babo, suddenly standing on the bed, doing his best cave man imitation, beating his chest and howling. ‘I want to devour you. I’m ready to devour you now. I’m going to have my way with you,’ he said, leaping off the bed to grab Siân, who squealed uncontrollably as he pulled her away from the balcony and flung her down on the pristine sheets.
    Now that he had her underneath him, Babo burrowed his eyes into her and said, ‘I’m going to say it again. Look at you, you beautiful thing. Coming here so bravely all by yourself. All the way to India to marry ME! I must be the luckiest man in the world.’
    ‘And the hairiest,’ said Siân, giggling. ‘I have to say, this is pretty sexy,’ she murmured, running her fingers through his hair. ‘But this,’ she said, tugging his beard, ‘This is pretty scratchy, so there’s going to be no devouring until this is gone.’
    That evening, before the first of three sha-bing sha-bang sessions and a romantic room-service dinner for two, Siân led Babo to the marble bathroom where she made him sit on a stool, shirtless, in front of the gilt-edged mirror, while she lathered up his beard and snip snipped it away. Babo felt nothing but her hands and the hot soapy water. He felt the sharp grazing of a razor against his cheeks, clearing and clearing, until a soft, new brownness shone through.
     
    In Anjar, Ba was waiting for them to arrive. She could smell the Welsh girl coming closer. They were making a picture again: Babo and Siân in their orange Fiat – the ‘Flying Fiat’, as it would later be known. Siân was wearing a peacock-green sari that Trishala had picked out for her, and which one of the receptionist girls had