Read Online To the Ends of the Earth by Paul Theroux - Free Book Online

gatherings in the very titles of which I heard the clack of voices, the rattle of mimeographed sheets, the squeak of folding chairs, and the eternal Indian prologue: “There is one question we all have to ask ourselves—” One Nagpur conference was spending a week discussing “Is the Future of Zoroastrianism in Peril?” On the same page two hundred Indians were reported attending a “Congress of Peace-Loving Countries.” “Hinduism: Are We at a Crossroads?” occupied another group, and on theback page there was an advertisement for Raymond’s Suitings (slogan: “You’ll have something to say in Raymond’s Suitings …”). The man wearing a Raymond suit was shown addressing a conference audience. He was squinting, making a beckoning gesture; he had something to say. His words were, “Communication is perception. Communication is expectations. Communication is involvement.”
    A beggar’s skinny hand appeared at my compartment door, a bruised forearm, a ragged sleeve. Then the doomed cry,
“Sahib!”
    At Sirpur, just over the border of Andhra Pradesh, the train ground to a halt. Twenty minutes later we were still there. Sirpur is insignificant: the platform is uncovered, the station has two rooms, and there are cows on the veranda. Grass tufts grow out of the ledge of the booking-office window. It smelled of rain and wood smoke and cow dung; it was little more than a hut, dignified with the usual railway signs, of which the most hopeful was TRAINS RUNNING LATE ARE LIKELY TO MAKE UP TIME . Passengers on the Grand Trunk Express began to get out. They promenaded, belching in little groups, grateful for the exercise.
    “The engine has packed up,” one man told me. “They are sending for a new one. Delay of two hours.”
    Another man said, “If there was a cabinet minister on this train they would have an engine in ten minutes’ time.”
    The Tamils were raving on the platform. A native of Sirpur wandered out of the darkness with a sack of roasted chickpeas. He was set upon by the Tamils, who bought all the chickpeas and demanded more. A mob of Tamils gathered at the stationmaster’s window to howl at a man tapping out Morse code with a little key.
    I decided to look for a beer, but just outside the station I was in darkness so complete I had second thoughts. The smell of rain on the vegetation gave a humid richness to the air that was almost sweet. There were cows lying on the road: they were white; I could see them clearly. Using the cows as road markers I walked along until I saw a small orange light about fifty yards away. I headed toward it and came to a little hut, a low poky shack with mud walls and a canvas roof. There was a kerosene lantern hanging overthe doorway and another inside lighting the surprised faces of half a dozen tea drinkers, two of whom recognized me from the train.
    “What do you want?” one said. “I will ask for it.”
    “Can I buy a bottle of beer here?”
    This was translated. There was laughter. I knew the answer.
    “About two kilometers down the road”—the man pointed into the blackness—“there is a bar. You can get beer there.”
    “How will I find it?”
    “A car,” he said. He spoke again to the man serving tea. “But there is no car here. Have some tea.”
    We stood in the hut drinking milky tea out of cracked glasses. A joss stick was lit. No one said a word. The train passengers looked at the villagers; the villagers averted their eyes. The canvas ceiling drooped; the tables were worn shiny; the joss stick filled the room with stinking perfume. The train passengers grew uncomfortable and, in their discomfort, took an exaggerated interest in the calendar, the faded color prints of Shiva and Ganpati. The lanterns flickered in the dead silence as our shadows leaped on the walls.
    The Indian who had translated my question said under his breath, “This is the real India!”

“I Find You English Girl”—Madras
    T HIS WAS WHAT I IMAGINED: SOMEWHERE PAST THE