A Son of the Circus

That was Martin’s microcosm of India: the mortally wounded animal, the religious ritual, the incessant flies, the unbelievably bright colors, the evidence of casual human shit—and of course the confusion of smells. The missionary had been forewarned: if he couldn’t see beyond such abjectness, he would be of scant use to St. Ignatius—or to any mission in such a world. Shaken, the scholastic wondered if he had the stomach to be a priest. So vulnerable was his state of mind, Martin Mills was fortunate that the news about Madhu was still a day away.

Take Me Home

In the Ladies’ Garden at the Duckworth Club, the noon sun shimmered above the bower. So dense was the bougainvillea, the sun shot through the flowers in pinholes; these beads of bright light dappled the tablecloths like sprinkled diamonds. Nancy passed her hands under the needle-thin rays. She was playing with the sun, trying to reflect its light in her wedding ring, when Detective Patel spoke to her. “You don’t have to be here, sweetie,” her husband said. “You can go home, you know.”

“I want to be here,” Nancy told him.

“I just want to warn you—don’t expect this to be satisfying,” the deputy commissioner said. “Somehow, even when you catch them, it’s never quite satisfying.”

Dr. Daruwalla, who kept looking at his watch, then remarked, “She’s late.”

“They’re both late,” Nancy said.

“Dhar is supposed to be late,” the policeman reminded her.

Dhar was waiting in the kitchen. When the second Mrs. Dogar arrived, Mr. Sethna would observe the increasing degrees of her irritation; when the steward saw that she was clearly agitated, he would send Dhar to her table. Dr. Daruwalla was operating on the theory that agitation inspired Rahul to act rashly.

But when she arrived, they almost didn’t recognize her. She was wearing what Western women familiarly call a little black dress; the skirt was short, with a slight flare, the waist very long and slimming. Mrs. Dogar’s small, high breasts were displayed to good effect. If she’d worn a black-linen jacket, she would have looked almost businesslike, Dr. Daruwalla believed; without a jacket, the dress was more suitable for a cocktail party in Toronto. As if intended to offend Duckworthians, the dress was sleeveless, with spaghetti straps; the brawniness of Rahul’s bare shoulders and upper arms, not to mention the breadth of her chest, hulked ostentatiously. She was too muscular for a dress like that, Farrokh decided; then it occurred to him that this was what she thought Dhar liked.

Yet Mrs. Dogar didn’t move as if she were at all conscious that she was a woman of great strength or noticeable size. Her entry into the Duckworth Club dining room wasn’t in the least aggressive. Her attitude was shy and girlish; rather than stride to her table, she allowed old Mr. Sethna to escort her on his arm—Dr. Daruwalla had never seen her this way. This wasn’t a woman who would ever pick up a spoon or a fork and ring it against her water glass; this was an extremely feminine woman—she would rather starve at her table than cause herself any unflattering attention. She would sit smiling and waiting for Dhar until the club closed and someone sent her home. Apparently, Detective Patel was prepared for this change in her, because the deputy commissioner sp

oke quickly to the screenwriter; Mrs. Dogar had barely been seated at her table.

“Don’t bother to keep her waiting,” the policeman said. “She’s a different woman today.”

Farrokh summoned Mr. Sethna—to have John D. “arrive”—but all the while the deputy commissioner was watching what Mrs. Dogar did with her purse. It was a table for four, as the screenwriter had suggested; this had been Julia’s idea. When there were only two people at a table for four, Julia said, a woman usually put her purse on one of the empty chairs—not on the floor—and Farrokh had wanted the purse on a chair.

“She put it on the floor, anyway,” Detective Patel observed.

Dr. Daruwalla had been unable to prevent Julia from attending this lunch; now Julia said, “That’s because she’s not a real woman.”

“Dhar will take care of it,” the deputy commissioner said.

All Farrokh could think was that the change in Mrs. Dogar was terrifying.

“It was the murder, wasn’t it?” the doctor asked the policeman. “I mean, the murder has totally calmed her—it’s had a completely soothing effect on her, hasn’t it?”

“It appears to have made her feel like a young girl,” Patel replied.

“She must have a hard time feeling like a young girl,” Nancy remarked. “What a lot to do—just to feel like a young girl.”

Then Dhar was there, at Mrs. Dogar’s table; he didn’t kiss her. He approached her unseen, from behind, and he put both his hands on her bare shoulders; perhaps he leaned on her, because she appeared to stiffen, but he was only trying to kick her purse over. When he managed to do this, she picked her purse up and put it on an empty chair.

“We’re forgetting to talk among ourselves,” the deputy commissioner said. “We can’t simply be staring at them and saying nothing.”

“Please kill her, Vijay,” Nancy said.

“I’m not carrying a gun, sweetie,” the deputy commissioner lied.

“What will the law do to her?” Julia asked the policeman.

“Capital punishment exists in India,” the detective said, “but the death penalty is rarely enacted.”

“Death is by hanging,” Dr. Daruwalla said.

“Yes, but there’s no jury system in India,” Patel said. “A single judge decides the prisoner’s fate. Life imprisonment and hard labor are much more common than the death penalty. They won’t hang her.”

“You should kill her now,” Nancy repeated.