Arms Race Read Online Free PDF

spilling champagne from her glass. The golden liquid, seemingly
an extension of her glittering sari, rained down upon the last copier in the Delhi
line. The machine stuttered and sizzled. The operator stumbled back. Across the floor
Jaisalmer forged ahead. Their final machine spat out the final copy and the turbanned
workers threw up their arms in victory.
    A win, cried the manager, a surprise win for two hundred and twelve!
    Jora cheered until he was hoarse. A Jaisalmer worker held up the final copy for all
to see. It looked completely blank.
    When the noise died down the manager held out his hands. Ladies and gentlemen, that
concludes the fifty-second copying of Lonely Planet India . The floor will now be
closed for collation and binding. We will see you all next month.
    He turned to Jora, his mouth a thin displeased line. Follow me.
    At the end of the walkway the manager entered an office lined with oak. Framed first
editions of Lonely Planet India hung around the walls. He sat at his desk, unlocked
a drawer and counted out a very large sum of money. He shoved this across the table
to Jora.
    So, the manager said. Business.
    Jora ignored the money. He was feeling good. He crossed one leg over the other and
said, I want to change the guidebook.
    The manager smiled. Impossible, he replied.
    Jora said nothing. He let the silence grow.
    What do you want to change, the manager said, irritated.
    I want my hotel listed.
    Impossible, the manager repeated. If I change the guidebook it is no longer the guidebook.
No one will buy a copy if it differs from the original.
    But they’re already different. Those last copies are blank.
    Those we sell in the villages. The further from Delhi, the worse the copy. But this
a problem of technology, not intention. If I could make every copy perfect, I would.
    All I ask is one small addition. Here.
    Jora passed a crumpled slip of paper across the manager’s desk. Grains of sand spilled
onto the dark wood. The manager took the paper, then swept his sleeve across the
desk. He began to read.
    But this is a fantasy, he said. I am sure you would like your hotel to have the best
food in Rajasthan . You wish it to be so, but your desire does not make it so.
    But it’s the honest truth.
    Perhaps. But it would be dishonest of me to make this change.
    You think you’re honest, copying someone else’s book?
    The copies I make are honest
to the original.
    But are they honest to India? How, if they don’t include my hotel?
    Ask the editors of Lonely Planet .
    It’s a tiny addition. Two lines of text.
    Do you see two lines of empty space waiting for you? Go back to your village. India
is full.
    Jora clasped the stacks of thousand-rupee notes and slid the money back towards the
manager. India is never full, he said.
    The manager’s nostrils flared. He gripped the arms of his chair and sat forward.
Listen, choot . You are an illiterate village dog. I have been to the West. I know
what these people want, and I will stay true to their vision. They are not interested
in yours.
    Jora stood and scooped the cash into his bag. I am a village man, he said, and you
are an uncle-fucking pirate and a fool. Put me in your book!
    The manager rose to his feet, and the two short men stood glaring at each other.
    Out of the question, the manager shouted. Now get out of my office!
    Jora spent the seventeen-hour journey home in a fury. He railed against the manager
and the sons of daughters of camels who had fathered him. Yet, hour by hour, the
steady weight of the bag in his lap calmed him down. There was enough in there to
pay off much of his debt. But he wouldn’t pay off his debt. When he stepped from
the bus into the freezing sands of Jaisalmer, he knew what he would do instead.
    Sir, you need a hotel? a tout called out to him. Shahi Palace! Very good write-up
in Lonely Planet !
    It was his nephew Raj, sitting at Shinde’s chai stall. Jora sat and called for tea,
and handed Raj the