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Authors: Hari Kunzru
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heavy weight of gold-ringed fingers. A thick red tikka line marks her hair-parting, and her mouth is stained crimson with betel-juice. The overall effect would not be out of place on a dissecting table. Once or twice she reaches forward to pinch and rub the flesh of Pran’s arm, judging its texture as one might a bolt of cloth at a tailor’s. Pran is too busy eating to care.
Neither the man nor the woman has a demeanour calculated to inspire trust. An objective observer (here, as is so often the case, sadly lacking) might note the sparkle in their eyes as they watch Pran eat. Under his layer of street-filth Pran’s extraordinary good-looks are still apparent. The man and woman seem immensely pleased by him, and when he finishes his meal with a resounding burp, they beam as if he has just told a joke.
‘Call me Ma-ji,’ says the woman.
‘And I am Balraj the wrestler,’ says the man.
Pran tells them his name and, at Ma-ji’s request, narrates the story of how he came to be out on the street, and how the kind beggar told him where to find them.
‘And so you’re quite alone?’ asks Ma-ji. Pran nods sadly and admits that unless his family has a change of heart, he is indeed quite alone.
‘The beggar said nothing of what work we do here?’ asks Balraj.
‘No, nothing at all. What is it you do?’ Pran is eager to know why so many attractive young women live under their roof.
‘It’s a sort of charitable organization,’ explains Ma-ji. ‘We give a home to these poor girls and in return they do some basic chores and, you know, light work of other kinds.’ She waggles her head to emphasize the token nature of this employment.
‘Normally we don’t take in boys,’ notes Balraj. ‘But in your case we can make an exception. Obviously you will have to do as you are told, and ride the rough with the smooth.’
Pran promises he will do his best. Already he is picturing a life of kiss-chase and other stimulating games, interspersed with a little fetching and carrying, or some guard duty on the days when Balraj does not feel up to the mark. It certainly sounds much better than being tutored, or wandering around town on his own. It looks as if he has fallen on his feet.
‘Have some of my special lassi,’ says Ma-ji, chucking Pran’s cheek and handing him a metal beaker. ‘It’s very good.’
Pran drains the yoghurty drink in one go, and is met by two enormous grins. Ma-ji and Balraj have things to do, but suggest he might like to rest for a while before starting work later in the day. They get up, shut the door and leave him alone. Soon Pran begins to feel extremely, irresistibly tired, and, curling himself up on a charpai, falls fast asleep.
Pran dreams of a land made of stacked chapatis and curds, populated by vegetable girls with okra fingers and aubergine breasts and saucy looks in their green-pea eyes. Their relations with Pran are confused but delicious, and course after course goes by in prandial harmony until the beggar who is dead starts running around, grabbing at bits of Pran’s partners and stuffing them into his red mouth, which is annoying although Pran supposes there is enough to go round and is honestly prepared to share until the beggar starts plucking at Pran’s own arms and legs which is really too much – and then finally turns into Ma-ji, who with the help of a little servant girl seems to be fitting Pran into some sort of silky costume.
His head aches and he has no idea of the time. He supposes it is evening since he can barely see the room around him. The only illumination comes from a couple of candles and a red lamp which throbs alarmingly in one corner. Pran feels peculiar, as if he is seeing the world through several layers of padding. His limbs are now made of a watery substance, which will not respond to the frantic commands sent by his brain. His disorientation is not lessened when he spots himself in a mirror and sees he is being slipped into a gauzy pink silk robe with
Neither the man nor the woman has a demeanour calculated to inspire trust. An objective observer (here, as is so often the case, sadly lacking) might note the sparkle in their eyes as they watch Pran eat. Under his layer of street-filth Pran’s extraordinary good-looks are still apparent. The man and woman seem immensely pleased by him, and when he finishes his meal with a resounding burp, they beam as if he has just told a joke.
‘Call me Ma-ji,’ says the woman.
‘And I am Balraj the wrestler,’ says the man.
Pran tells them his name and, at Ma-ji’s request, narrates the story of how he came to be out on the street, and how the kind beggar told him where to find them.
‘And so you’re quite alone?’ asks Ma-ji. Pran nods sadly and admits that unless his family has a change of heart, he is indeed quite alone.
‘The beggar said nothing of what work we do here?’ asks Balraj.
‘No, nothing at all. What is it you do?’ Pran is eager to know why so many attractive young women live under their roof.
‘It’s a sort of charitable organization,’ explains Ma-ji. ‘We give a home to these poor girls and in return they do some basic chores and, you know, light work of other kinds.’ She waggles her head to emphasize the token nature of this employment.
‘Normally we don’t take in boys,’ notes Balraj. ‘But in your case we can make an exception. Obviously you will have to do as you are told, and ride the rough with the smooth.’
Pran promises he will do his best. Already he is picturing a life of kiss-chase and other stimulating games, interspersed with a little fetching and carrying, or some guard duty on the days when Balraj does not feel up to the mark. It certainly sounds much better than being tutored, or wandering around town on his own. It looks as if he has fallen on his feet.
‘Have some of my special lassi,’ says Ma-ji, chucking Pran’s cheek and handing him a metal beaker. ‘It’s very good.’
Pran drains the yoghurty drink in one go, and is met by two enormous grins. Ma-ji and Balraj have things to do, but suggest he might like to rest for a while before starting work later in the day. They get up, shut the door and leave him alone. Soon Pran begins to feel extremely, irresistibly tired, and, curling himself up on a charpai, falls fast asleep.
Pran dreams of a land made of stacked chapatis and curds, populated by vegetable girls with okra fingers and aubergine breasts and saucy looks in their green-pea eyes. Their relations with Pran are confused but delicious, and course after course goes by in prandial harmony until the beggar who is dead starts running around, grabbing at bits of Pran’s partners and stuffing them into his red mouth, which is annoying although Pran supposes there is enough to go round and is honestly prepared to share until the beggar starts plucking at Pran’s own arms and legs which is really too much – and then finally turns into Ma-ji, who with the help of a little servant girl seems to be fitting Pran into some sort of silky costume.
His head aches and he has no idea of the time. He supposes it is evening since he can barely see the room around him. The only illumination comes from a couple of candles and a red lamp which throbs alarmingly in one corner. Pran feels peculiar, as if he is seeing the world through several layers of padding. His limbs are now made of a watery substance, which will not respond to the frantic commands sent by his brain. His disorientation is not lessened when he spots himself in a mirror and sees he is being slipped into a gauzy pink silk robe with
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