do everything from manning the gym floor to handling the reservations desk, manicures, massage,
I don’t know,’ he said, and laughing, added, ‘feed the epidermis-nibbling fish.’
But Sethia was not listening. A plan took shape in his mind.
‘Darius,’ he said, conspicuously reading the concierge’s name pin, ‘will you do me a favour? Will you send her a message saying that a friend of her family is staying at
the hotel and would like to take her out for a drink this evening? If she’s free, she should meet me at seven in the bar.’
Darius was nodding his head, hastily scribbling down the information. Sethia thanked him and hurried up to his room.
* * *
He waited that night in the bar, drinking Laurent-Perrier rosé alone. ‘So she hasn’t come,’ he said to himself, when he saw the clock strike eight,
‘works in a spa, massaging strange men, but thinks she is too good to meet Amit Sethia. Chal, we’ll see about that.’ Though a drunken aggression grew in him, he was not angry. He
was pleased she had not come; the second part of his plan depended on her not coming; in fact, he was not sure what he would have done had she actually shown up.
A little before nine he went upstairs and changed into a large Four Seasons robe, with a nap as soft as velvet, and a matching pair of towelling slippers. He liked to walk though the
hotel’s carpeted corridors dressed like this; it made him feel he was above caring for the proprieties the hotel inspired in others.
In the spa, the air was suffused with the faint smell of eucalyptus oil. An atmosphere part clinic, part afterlife pervaded the place. There were bamboo screens and narrow channels
of water lined with floating candles. Attendants in white hurried about him, speaking in whispered tones. He allowed himself to be led into a dark room, stopping only
to ask if his choice of masseuse had been honoured. But he didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
In the room itself, where soft music played, he saw a girl in uniform, who for all her diffidence and servile manners, had a Kusumapur face. He knew those features immediately: the thick black
hair, the large limpid eyes, the thin stern lips. She stood in the ghostly light emanating from a steaming fountain full of white pebbles. And for a moment, even Amit Sethia was shocked by the
irreverence of it all. It was always the West, he thought; the West that had turned these small local rajas into exotic royalty; and the West now that offered them up as masseuses and spa
attendants. What are they really? And what are we in relation to them? Who was to know?
He closed the door behind him and pushed off his robe in one swift movement. He thought he saw the trainee-princess steel her expression at the sight of this old naked man from India. Then
climbing onto the massage bed, he let his face sink into its hollow. The darkness behind him seemed to expand, and a moment later, drops of warm scented oil fell lightly on his legs and feet. Soon
he felt the first brush of those little hands against his body. And in the large granite bowl below him, Amit Sethia saw, from the light of a floating candle, its thin aluminium base bounded in
with pink orchids, the smiling face of a man at peace. His revenge was at last secreting its satisfactions.
But what revenge could be exacted privately? To be complete, it had to be acknowledged. And practising what he would say, he mouthed the words into the cavity below him, too soft for her to
hear: ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Yes, that would do it. Those little royal hands would stop their work and all that needed to be said would be said. But even with victory so near,
Sethia found himself strangely incapable of saying the words aloud. Was it weakness, the same lack of courage as that night many years ago? He didn’t think so. But then what was it? What was
preventing him from taking something that was so justly his? He wondered if the silence and darkness
I don’t know,’ he said, and laughing, added, ‘feed the epidermis-nibbling fish.’
But Sethia was not listening. A plan took shape in his mind.
‘Darius,’ he said, conspicuously reading the concierge’s name pin, ‘will you do me a favour? Will you send her a message saying that a friend of her family is staying at
the hotel and would like to take her out for a drink this evening? If she’s free, she should meet me at seven in the bar.’
Darius was nodding his head, hastily scribbling down the information. Sethia thanked him and hurried up to his room.
* * *
He waited that night in the bar, drinking Laurent-Perrier rosé alone. ‘So she hasn’t come,’ he said to himself, when he saw the clock strike eight,
‘works in a spa, massaging strange men, but thinks she is too good to meet Amit Sethia. Chal, we’ll see about that.’ Though a drunken aggression grew in him, he was not angry. He
was pleased she had not come; the second part of his plan depended on her not coming; in fact, he was not sure what he would have done had she actually shown up.
A little before nine he went upstairs and changed into a large Four Seasons robe, with a nap as soft as velvet, and a matching pair of towelling slippers. He liked to walk though the
hotel’s carpeted corridors dressed like this; it made him feel he was above caring for the proprieties the hotel inspired in others.
In the spa, the air was suffused with the faint smell of eucalyptus oil. An atmosphere part clinic, part afterlife pervaded the place. There were bamboo screens and narrow channels
of water lined with floating candles. Attendants in white hurried about him, speaking in whispered tones. He allowed himself to be led into a dark room, stopping only
to ask if his choice of masseuse had been honoured. But he didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
In the room itself, where soft music played, he saw a girl in uniform, who for all her diffidence and servile manners, had a Kusumapur face. He knew those features immediately: the thick black
hair, the large limpid eyes, the thin stern lips. She stood in the ghostly light emanating from a steaming fountain full of white pebbles. And for a moment, even Amit Sethia was shocked by the
irreverence of it all. It was always the West, he thought; the West that had turned these small local rajas into exotic royalty; and the West now that offered them up as masseuses and spa
attendants. What are they really? And what are we in relation to them? Who was to know?
He closed the door behind him and pushed off his robe in one swift movement. He thought he saw the trainee-princess steel her expression at the sight of this old naked man from India. Then
climbing onto the massage bed, he let his face sink into its hollow. The darkness behind him seemed to expand, and a moment later, drops of warm scented oil fell lightly on his legs and feet. Soon
he felt the first brush of those little hands against his body. And in the large granite bowl below him, Amit Sethia saw, from the light of a floating candle, its thin aluminium base bounded in
with pink orchids, the smiling face of a man at peace. His revenge was at last secreting its satisfactions.
But what revenge could be exacted privately? To be complete, it had to be acknowledged. And practising what he would say, he mouthed the words into the cavity below him, too soft for her to
hear: ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Yes, that would do it. Those little royal hands would stop their work and all that needed to be said would be said. But even with victory so near,
Sethia found himself strangely incapable of saying the words aloud. Was it weakness, the same lack of courage as that night many years ago? He didn’t think so. But then what was it? What was
preventing him from taking something that was so justly his? He wondered if the silence and darkness
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