of the room had subdued him. If, perhaps, he was to get a conversation going, he would feel more
emboldened.
His questions came innocently at first. How long had she been here? Eighteen months. Where in India did she come from? A small central state. Which borough of New York did she live in? Brooklyn,
but she was hoping to move to Manhattan soon. She answered in a calm steady voice, like any young person doing work experience in a big city. But with the easy flow of conversation, Sethia found he
was, if anything, further away from saying the words that would seal his revenge.
The minutes passed and he could tell from her progression over his body that time was running out. He thought perhaps it was a logistical problem. After all, how could he say anything when his
face was buried in this hole? That was it. He would wait for them to be face to face, then he would see her haughty expression crumble. Sethia began to prepare for the moment she would ask him to
turn over, and then he would say, ‘You’re certainly a long way from Kusumapur!’ How funny and satisfying that would be. Yes, that was it; he was just allowing the anticipation to
build until he was face to face with her.
And finally, the moment came. He heard her voice softly ask him to turn over. But as soon as he had, even before he had, while the pressure points of his hard cracked heels were being pressed,
he was struck by a terrible feeling of pity. His heart went out to this young girl working the night her great-aunt had died. The small flat in Brooklyn. The long flight back to India. The decay of
that life, the banality of this one. And suddenly he was filled with a feeling of protective pride for this little Maratha princess. She was not someone so far removed from him, he thought with
sudden pain; she was, as he had once been, just one more person India had let down.
When Chitra and Sethia were finally face to face, she looked down on a man who wore an expression wretched with grief, a man who had exacted more revenge than he could handle, and wanted no more
massage. He rose fast and apologetically, reaching in the darkness for his robe. ‘It was very good. Fine, yes, fine.’ It was just that he was old and got tired easily these days.
‘I hope you understand. Please. And good luck with everything. Good luck in India.’
Oh, what had he said! He hoped she had not heard. He made quickly for the door, but his feet were oily and the floor slippery. He couldn’t find his slippers in the dark. He had managed to
pick his way to the door, when he heard her say from the blackness behind him: ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come this evening. It’s just that I do this work . . . and it can
be embarrassing to meet people from India who know my family.’
The door was open. A crack of light cleaved the massage room in half. They stood for a moment that way as long shadows and little people. With voice hoarse and eyes turning to glass, Sethia
said, ‘We are not embarrassed, beti. We are never embarrassed. Life is too short. God bless.’
And saying this, he hurried away into the comfortless tranquillity of soft music and aromatic oils.
3
Notes from a Burglary
(2006)
‘It is the responsibility of free men to trust and to celebrate what is constant – birth, struggle, and death are constant, and so is love, though we may not always
think so – and to apprehend the nature of change, to be able and willing to change. I speak of change not on the surface but in the depths – change in the sense of renewal. But renewal
becomes impossible if one supposes things to be constant that are not – safety, for example, or money, or power.’
The Fire Next Time , James Baldwin
On a day in July, when Delhi’s skies whitened, and I was in my last year of college in America, a period of extended isolation came abruptly to an
end. Jasbir Singh Jat (ASI), the first to arrive on the scene, trailed the house’s high green walls, pointing to
emboldened.
His questions came innocently at first. How long had she been here? Eighteen months. Where in India did she come from? A small central state. Which borough of New York did she live in? Brooklyn,
but she was hoping to move to Manhattan soon. She answered in a calm steady voice, like any young person doing work experience in a big city. But with the easy flow of conversation, Sethia found he
was, if anything, further away from saying the words that would seal his revenge.
The minutes passed and he could tell from her progression over his body that time was running out. He thought perhaps it was a logistical problem. After all, how could he say anything when his
face was buried in this hole? That was it. He would wait for them to be face to face, then he would see her haughty expression crumble. Sethia began to prepare for the moment she would ask him to
turn over, and then he would say, ‘You’re certainly a long way from Kusumapur!’ How funny and satisfying that would be. Yes, that was it; he was just allowing the anticipation to
build until he was face to face with her.
And finally, the moment came. He heard her voice softly ask him to turn over. But as soon as he had, even before he had, while the pressure points of his hard cracked heels were being pressed,
he was struck by a terrible feeling of pity. His heart went out to this young girl working the night her great-aunt had died. The small flat in Brooklyn. The long flight back to India. The decay of
that life, the banality of this one. And suddenly he was filled with a feeling of protective pride for this little Maratha princess. She was not someone so far removed from him, he thought with
sudden pain; she was, as he had once been, just one more person India had let down.
When Chitra and Sethia were finally face to face, she looked down on a man who wore an expression wretched with grief, a man who had exacted more revenge than he could handle, and wanted no more
massage. He rose fast and apologetically, reaching in the darkness for his robe. ‘It was very good. Fine, yes, fine.’ It was just that he was old and got tired easily these days.
‘I hope you understand. Please. And good luck with everything. Good luck in India.’
Oh, what had he said! He hoped she had not heard. He made quickly for the door, but his feet were oily and the floor slippery. He couldn’t find his slippers in the dark. He had managed to
pick his way to the door, when he heard her say from the blackness behind him: ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come this evening. It’s just that I do this work . . . and it can
be embarrassing to meet people from India who know my family.’
The door was open. A crack of light cleaved the massage room in half. They stood for a moment that way as long shadows and little people. With voice hoarse and eyes turning to glass, Sethia
said, ‘We are not embarrassed, beti. We are never embarrassed. Life is too short. God bless.’
And saying this, he hurried away into the comfortless tranquillity of soft music and aromatic oils.
3
Notes from a Burglary
(2006)
‘It is the responsibility of free men to trust and to celebrate what is constant – birth, struggle, and death are constant, and so is love, though we may not always
think so – and to apprehend the nature of change, to be able and willing to change. I speak of change not on the surface but in the depths – change in the sense of renewal. But renewal
becomes impossible if one supposes things to be constant that are not – safety, for example, or money, or power.’
The Fire Next Time , James Baldwin
On a day in July, when Delhi’s skies whitened, and I was in my last year of college in America, a period of extended isolation came abruptly to an
end. Jasbir Singh Jat (ASI), the first to arrive on the scene, trailed the house’s high green walls, pointing to
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