dark length of flesh, stubbled white, hung lower from his chin than he would have thought possible. But he also recognized an old fire in his face, and no sooner had he squared
eyes with it than it consumed all trace of weakness. No, it was death to let anything go; he would keep it all very near to him, ‘the grief and the glory’.
Downstairs, the lobby swarmed with Indians. Sethia swelled with pride at the thought that he was a living record of the time when his countrymen had been pygmies abroad, restricted to twenty
dollars a day. And now, here they were, thinking nothing of paying five hundred a night for a room. He remembered when even he had had to eat at fast-food restaurants and delis; but now, at any
moment, the pretty blonde concierge would walk over to tell him that his reservation that night at Jean Georges was confirmed. And it was as he scanned the lobby for her that he caught sight of a
familiar figure gliding across its marble floor.
Though the hair now was grey and there was an ashen cast over his once glowing skin, he was unmistakable in his quilted kaftan and still held a broad packet of Dunhills in his hands. The
distress in his face was visible even at a distance.
‘Maggu!’ Sethia said, hurrying up to him with a broad smile.
Mahapatra stopped and swivelled around. A glazed look of disappointment entered his eyes.
‘Hello, Amit,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me! The great Indian socialist at the WEF?’
‘No,’ Mahapatra replied coldly, ‘I have a textile exhibition at the Met.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Amit said, now smiling more broadly than ever, ‘I thought you would have been by her side at the last.’
‘I was, till just the other day. But then she was better and said I should go. She went fast, and in peace.’
‘And you’re not Master of Ceremonies at the funeral?’
‘I’m flying tomorrow,’ Maggu said wearily, ‘with Chitra.’
‘Chitra?’
‘The Rajamata’s great-niece.’
‘She lives here, in New York?’ Sethia asked with fresh interest.
‘Yes,’ Maggu replied, ‘in this hotel in fact.’
An incredulous expression crossed Sethia’s face. He was about to say something when Mahapatra pre-empted him.
‘She’s a student of hotel management, here as a trainee. They’re turning the
Kusumapur Palace into a hotel.’
‘Ah!’ Sethia said with satisfaction. ‘I thought so. Otherwise, where could those broken-down princes afford to stay here? That’s all they can do now, I suppose. Hawk
their last few possessions, turn their palaces into hotels and use their names while they still can.’
‘Yes, OK. Well, nice to see you, Amit. Some other time. Give my love to Udaya.’
Before he could say anything else Maggu was gone, leaving Sethia with a new and deeper malaise.
Sethia was about to step out of the hotel but instead he let the revolving doors take him back into the lobby. He headed in long strides for the concierge’s desk. His blonde favourite was
not there; in her place was a tall black man, who managed to greet Sethia while artfully bringing a phone conversation to an end.
‘Mr Sethia,’ he said, ‘how can I help you?’
‘I’m looking,’ Sethia began, ‘for an employee of yours, who happens to be the niece of a very dear
friend of mine from India.’
The concierge stared in wonder at this wide range of connections operating in the place where he worked.
‘From India? Wow! What is her name?’
Sethia hesitated and then said, ‘I’m not sure of the department, but her name would be Chitrangada Singh of Kusumapur.’
The concierge baulked, then laughed. ‘You’re going to have to spell that.’
Sethia had just begun to do so when the concierge said, ‘Wait, wait, I know her. Chitra from New Delhi. I know her. She works in the spa.’
‘In the spa?’ Sethia said, unable to contain his delight. ‘What does she do there?’
The concierge shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure, but they’re usually made to
eyes with it than it consumed all trace of weakness. No, it was death to let anything go; he would keep it all very near to him, ‘the grief and the glory’.
Downstairs, the lobby swarmed with Indians. Sethia swelled with pride at the thought that he was a living record of the time when his countrymen had been pygmies abroad, restricted to twenty
dollars a day. And now, here they were, thinking nothing of paying five hundred a night for a room. He remembered when even he had had to eat at fast-food restaurants and delis; but now, at any
moment, the pretty blonde concierge would walk over to tell him that his reservation that night at Jean Georges was confirmed. And it was as he scanned the lobby for her that he caught sight of a
familiar figure gliding across its marble floor.
Though the hair now was grey and there was an ashen cast over his once glowing skin, he was unmistakable in his quilted kaftan and still held a broad packet of Dunhills in his hands. The
distress in his face was visible even at a distance.
‘Maggu!’ Sethia said, hurrying up to him with a broad smile.
Mahapatra stopped and swivelled around. A glazed look of disappointment entered his eyes.
‘Hello, Amit,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me! The great Indian socialist at the WEF?’
‘No,’ Mahapatra replied coldly, ‘I have a textile exhibition at the Met.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Amit said, now smiling more broadly than ever, ‘I thought you would have been by her side at the last.’
‘I was, till just the other day. But then she was better and said I should go. She went fast, and in peace.’
‘And you’re not Master of Ceremonies at the funeral?’
‘I’m flying tomorrow,’ Maggu said wearily, ‘with Chitra.’
‘Chitra?’
‘The Rajamata’s great-niece.’
‘She lives here, in New York?’ Sethia asked with fresh interest.
‘Yes,’ Maggu replied, ‘in this hotel in fact.’
An incredulous expression crossed Sethia’s face. He was about to say something when Mahapatra pre-empted him.
‘She’s a student of hotel management, here as a trainee. They’re turning the
Kusumapur Palace into a hotel.’
‘Ah!’ Sethia said with satisfaction. ‘I thought so. Otherwise, where could those broken-down princes afford to stay here? That’s all they can do now, I suppose. Hawk
their last few possessions, turn their palaces into hotels and use their names while they still can.’
‘Yes, OK. Well, nice to see you, Amit. Some other time. Give my love to Udaya.’
Before he could say anything else Maggu was gone, leaving Sethia with a new and deeper malaise.
Sethia was about to step out of the hotel but instead he let the revolving doors take him back into the lobby. He headed in long strides for the concierge’s desk. His blonde favourite was
not there; in her place was a tall black man, who managed to greet Sethia while artfully bringing a phone conversation to an end.
‘Mr Sethia,’ he said, ‘how can I help you?’
‘I’m looking,’ Sethia began, ‘for an employee of yours, who happens to be the niece of a very dear
friend of mine from India.’
The concierge stared in wonder at this wide range of connections operating in the place where he worked.
‘From India? Wow! What is her name?’
Sethia hesitated and then said, ‘I’m not sure of the department, but her name would be Chitrangada Singh of Kusumapur.’
The concierge baulked, then laughed. ‘You’re going to have to spell that.’
Sethia had just begun to do so when the concierge said, ‘Wait, wait, I know her. Chitra from New Delhi. I know her. She works in the spa.’
‘In the spa?’ Sethia said, unable to contain his delight. ‘What does she do there?’
The concierge shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure, but they’re usually made to
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