think you are? If his mother was his mother and his father was the strange Englishman in the picture, then logically he is a half-and-half, a blackie-white. But he feels nothing in common with those people. They hate Indians. They hate him, that is for certain. He remembers the rise and fall of the badminton racket, the man’s face as he kicked and swore. He is not the same as those people. He does not think of England as his home. Home is here, on the other side of the blue door.
He begins to cry, and eventually falls into a troubled, shivery sleep.
The city carries on around him. The pariah dogs carry on snuffling about in rubbish heaps and gutters. Policemen, thieves, revellers, carriers of nightsoil, tongawallahs, station porters and other darkside people go about their business through streets which in places are almost as busy as by day.
Pran wakes up, frozen and disoriented, into a grey morning. Over him looms a series of irregular brown shapes, which resolve themselves into a line of scrawny buttocks. By his head a row of rickshaw-wallahs and stall-owners are squatting over the gutter, spitting, gossiping, cleaning teeth and moving their bowels. He jerks his head away to a safe distance and remembers with a wave of horror where he is.
The beggar is still asleep, a speculative fly crawling over one eyelid. Pran shuffles over, his arms clasped over his quivering chest, and prods him with a toe.
‘Wake up. It’s morning.’
The beggar does not move. Pran digs him again. Nothing. He reaches down and shakes his arm. It is cold and stiff. He steps back, realizing with a dull shock what has happened. The influenza can come very quickly.
Like the rest of the world, he has no time to mourn, because at that moment a tonga pulls up to the blue door of the Razdan mansion. A man steps out, dressed formally in an achkan and an embroidered cap. His beard is neatly trimmed. A pair of wire-framed spectacles perch on his distinguished nose. Pran Nath rushes over to him, his whole being suffused with joy.
‘Uncle! Uncle!’
Pandit Bhaskar Nath Razdan, younger brother of the dead lawyer, looks round with an expression of disgust.
‘Get away from me, you vile creature!’
Pran Nath stops dead in his tracks. His uncle looks extremely agitated, clutching a silk handkerchief over his face. ‘Chowkidar?’ he calls. ‘Chowkidar, where are you?’
The chowkidar appears in the doorway, brandishing his lathi. His grey moustaches quiver with indignation.
‘Chowkidar,’ orders the pandit, ‘get this vermin out of my sight. I don’t want him hanging round the doorstep, giving the family a bad name. Make sure he doesn’t come back.’
‘Yes, sir!’ says the chowkidar, standing to old-soldierly attention. Pran Nath does not wait to be beaten again. He flees, his eyes full of tears. Now he knows it is true. He is alone in the world.
Mumbling and sobbing like a deranged person, he makes his way into the narrow alleys of the sabzi mandi. Assuming he is ill, people avoid him, clearing out of his path as he stumbles towards them. He stops to watch a foodwallah making jalebi, piping coils of sugary dough into a huge skillet of bubbling oil. The fried squiggles are lifted with a ladle, dipped into caramelized coating and fried again. Dip and fry, dip and fry. They look good. Desperate, Pran makes a sudden run for the sweets, snatching up a handful and running off down the street. Behind him he can hear the man swearing, but he tears on, sprinting as fast as he can. Soon the shouts of rage die away. Success. Pran crams down the jalebi in a secluded back street, sucking the juice off his fingers, not caring about the grime and filth that come with it. The sugar gives him a tiny rush of intoxication.
Fortified by this, he feels confident enough to present himself at the address the dead beggar recommended. The house is located at the end of a particularly narrow and foul-smelling alley, pocked by piles of rubbish and puddles of
He begins to cry, and eventually falls into a troubled, shivery sleep.
The city carries on around him. The pariah dogs carry on snuffling about in rubbish heaps and gutters. Policemen, thieves, revellers, carriers of nightsoil, tongawallahs, station porters and other darkside people go about their business through streets which in places are almost as busy as by day.
Pran wakes up, frozen and disoriented, into a grey morning. Over him looms a series of irregular brown shapes, which resolve themselves into a line of scrawny buttocks. By his head a row of rickshaw-wallahs and stall-owners are squatting over the gutter, spitting, gossiping, cleaning teeth and moving their bowels. He jerks his head away to a safe distance and remembers with a wave of horror where he is.
The beggar is still asleep, a speculative fly crawling over one eyelid. Pran shuffles over, his arms clasped over his quivering chest, and prods him with a toe.
‘Wake up. It’s morning.’
The beggar does not move. Pran digs him again. Nothing. He reaches down and shakes his arm. It is cold and stiff. He steps back, realizing with a dull shock what has happened. The influenza can come very quickly.
Like the rest of the world, he has no time to mourn, because at that moment a tonga pulls up to the blue door of the Razdan mansion. A man steps out, dressed formally in an achkan and an embroidered cap. His beard is neatly trimmed. A pair of wire-framed spectacles perch on his distinguished nose. Pran Nath rushes over to him, his whole being suffused with joy.
‘Uncle! Uncle!’
Pandit Bhaskar Nath Razdan, younger brother of the dead lawyer, looks round with an expression of disgust.
‘Get away from me, you vile creature!’
Pran Nath stops dead in his tracks. His uncle looks extremely agitated, clutching a silk handkerchief over his face. ‘Chowkidar?’ he calls. ‘Chowkidar, where are you?’
The chowkidar appears in the doorway, brandishing his lathi. His grey moustaches quiver with indignation.
‘Chowkidar,’ orders the pandit, ‘get this vermin out of my sight. I don’t want him hanging round the doorstep, giving the family a bad name. Make sure he doesn’t come back.’
‘Yes, sir!’ says the chowkidar, standing to old-soldierly attention. Pran Nath does not wait to be beaten again. He flees, his eyes full of tears. Now he knows it is true. He is alone in the world.
Mumbling and sobbing like a deranged person, he makes his way into the narrow alleys of the sabzi mandi. Assuming he is ill, people avoid him, clearing out of his path as he stumbles towards them. He stops to watch a foodwallah making jalebi, piping coils of sugary dough into a huge skillet of bubbling oil. The fried squiggles are lifted with a ladle, dipped into caramelized coating and fried again. Dip and fry, dip and fry. They look good. Desperate, Pran makes a sudden run for the sweets, snatching up a handful and running off down the street. Behind him he can hear the man swearing, but he tears on, sprinting as fast as he can. Soon the shouts of rage die away. Success. Pran crams down the jalebi in a secluded back street, sucking the juice off his fingers, not caring about the grime and filth that come with it. The sugar gives him a tiny rush of intoxication.
Fortified by this, he feels confident enough to present himself at the address the dead beggar recommended. The house is located at the end of a particularly narrow and foul-smelling alley, pocked by piles of rubbish and puddles of
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