Indian girls can look heartbreakingly beautiful, but the women look fat and frustrated, the men look angry, the boys look wretched and onanistic. The eternal question for an Indian traveler is 'Where will we eat?'"
"Americans say the same thing."
"I know. Americans are fat too, not from frustration but from excess. The poor are fat in America. The rich are thin. It's the awful food there. Not like this."
She was chewing as she spoke, as though to prove her point. "This is so pure. I can see by your slightly puffy eyes that you don't have good kidney function. But after you get a thorough checkup, establish your body type and your chakras, you'll be on the right path."
"You're taking me by the hand, I see."
"It'll do you good. Each of these dishes has value and balance."
I swallowed, trying to convince myself, and said, "I see."
"It's almost sacramental, eating like this. Think of your body."
Her saying that made me conscious of her lovely body, her hand dipping into the rice, making a ball of it, dipping it into the lentils. Thomas Metcalfe, of the governor general's office, could not bear to see a woman eat cheese. I guessed it was not disgust, but probably aroused something in him. Sitting with Mrs. Unger, I realized I loved to watch a pretty woman eat, especially messy food, her trying to be dainty over it and failing, the flecks of food on her lips, the chewing, the neck sinews tightening with a swallow. I could see more: Mrs. Unger's stomach muscles framed by the bodice of her sari and her wraparound. The pleasure of her eating was also the pleasure I took in admiring her good health. She sat upright with strength and grace, using her fingertips on the rice, the dripping okra, the mushy peas. And I was aroused by the small splash of food on her lower lip, her lapping at it like a cat, making the lip gleam.
"I assure you that tonight you'll sleep like a baby."
The old man came over to make sure we had everything we wanted. He chatted cozily but with respect to Mrs. Unger. He directed the girl to refill our glasses of lime water. I struggled to eat a believable portion; the tang of soil lingered on the unsalted, spiceless food.
When the old man had gone, she said, "Do you get regular massages?"
"I wish I did."
"That's what you need."
All this time I had feared that she would ask me again about what she mentioned in her letter, the body in the hotel room, Rajat's worry, the danger for him. But she said nothing more about the letter, which when I had received it seemed so urgent.
"You should have a massage. I know just the place."
She fluttered her fingers in a bowl of water, and as she did so the Indian girl appeared behind her with a towel. After drying her hands, Mrs. Unger took a pen and pad out of her bag and wrote down a name. The purple ink and her loopy handwriting reminded me of her letter.
"Morning is best. Have a light breakfast. Be at this place at ten."
As she gave me the piece of paper, I laughed because she was bossy in such an appealing way, mothering me with concern and care.
She said, "I hope your friends won't mind my taking charge of you."
This seemed to me an odd remark, at once full of confidence, presuming on me. Yet her assurance made me wary. Confident-seeming women often made encumbering statements like this when deep down they were uncertain, the sort of overfamiliar bluster that was easily punctured by a sharp reply.
Instead of embarrassing her by game-playing, I said, as politely as I could, "I wish I knew which friends you mean."
I wasn't offended. I was in Calcutta, living by my wits. I was seriously interested in which people she might mean. But even my polite response made her shy, as though I'd been blunt.
"The folks on Ho Chi Minh Sarani, maybe."
That made no sense to me, and I couldn't help smiling. Yet she was smiling back at me in a kind of challenging suggestion that she knew more than I'd guessed.
"Where's that?"
"The American consulate."
"Is that the name of
"Americans say the same thing."
"I know. Americans are fat too, not from frustration but from excess. The poor are fat in America. The rich are thin. It's the awful food there. Not like this."
She was chewing as she spoke, as though to prove her point. "This is so pure. I can see by your slightly puffy eyes that you don't have good kidney function. But after you get a thorough checkup, establish your body type and your chakras, you'll be on the right path."
"You're taking me by the hand, I see."
"It'll do you good. Each of these dishes has value and balance."
I swallowed, trying to convince myself, and said, "I see."
"It's almost sacramental, eating like this. Think of your body."
Her saying that made me conscious of her lovely body, her hand dipping into the rice, making a ball of it, dipping it into the lentils. Thomas Metcalfe, of the governor general's office, could not bear to see a woman eat cheese. I guessed it was not disgust, but probably aroused something in him. Sitting with Mrs. Unger, I realized I loved to watch a pretty woman eat, especially messy food, her trying to be dainty over it and failing, the flecks of food on her lips, the chewing, the neck sinews tightening with a swallow. I could see more: Mrs. Unger's stomach muscles framed by the bodice of her sari and her wraparound. The pleasure of her eating was also the pleasure I took in admiring her good health. She sat upright with strength and grace, using her fingertips on the rice, the dripping okra, the mushy peas. And I was aroused by the small splash of food on her lower lip, her lapping at it like a cat, making the lip gleam.
"I assure you that tonight you'll sleep like a baby."
The old man came over to make sure we had everything we wanted. He chatted cozily but with respect to Mrs. Unger. He directed the girl to refill our glasses of lime water. I struggled to eat a believable portion; the tang of soil lingered on the unsalted, spiceless food.
When the old man had gone, she said, "Do you get regular massages?"
"I wish I did."
"That's what you need."
All this time I had feared that she would ask me again about what she mentioned in her letter, the body in the hotel room, Rajat's worry, the danger for him. But she said nothing more about the letter, which when I had received it seemed so urgent.
"You should have a massage. I know just the place."
She fluttered her fingers in a bowl of water, and as she did so the Indian girl appeared behind her with a towel. After drying her hands, Mrs. Unger took a pen and pad out of her bag and wrote down a name. The purple ink and her loopy handwriting reminded me of her letter.
"Morning is best. Have a light breakfast. Be at this place at ten."
As she gave me the piece of paper, I laughed because she was bossy in such an appealing way, mothering me with concern and care.
She said, "I hope your friends won't mind my taking charge of you."
This seemed to me an odd remark, at once full of confidence, presuming on me. Yet her assurance made me wary. Confident-seeming women often made encumbering statements like this when deep down they were uncertain, the sort of overfamiliar bluster that was easily punctured by a sharp reply.
Instead of embarrassing her by game-playing, I said, as politely as I could, "I wish I knew which friends you mean."
I wasn't offended. I was in Calcutta, living by my wits. I was seriously interested in which people she might mean. But even my polite response made her shy, as though I'd been blunt.
"The folks on Ho Chi Minh Sarani, maybe."
That made no sense to me, and I couldn't help smiling. Yet she was smiling back at me in a kind of challenging suggestion that she knew more than I'd guessed.
"Where's that?"
"The American consulate."
"Is that the name of
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