Indian Nocturne Read Online Free PDF Page A

better.
    ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s difficult to explain more clearly. Yes, sometimes I ask myself if it’s a word which indicates arrogance, or whether on the contrary it merely
signifies cynicism. And a great deal of fear as well, perhaps. You follow me?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It isn’t that simple. But perhaps the word “practically” means practically nothing.’
    My companion laughed. It was the first time he had laughed. ‘You are very clever,’ he said, ‘you got the better of me and at the same time you proved me right,
practically.’
    I laughed too, and then said at once: ‘However, in my case it is practically fear.’
    We fell silent for a while, then my companion asked if he could smoke. He rummaged in a bag he had near the bed and the room filled with the aroma of one of those small, scented Indian
cigarettes made from a single leaf of tobacco.
    ‘I read the gospels once,’ he said. ‘It’s a very strange book.’
    ‘Only strange?’ I asked.
    He hesitated. ‘Full of arrogance too,’ he said. ‘No offence meant you understand.’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite see what you mean,’ I said.
    ‘I was referring to Christ,’ he said.
    The station clock struck half-past midnight. I felt sleep getting the better of me. From the park beyond the platforms came the cawing of crows. ‘Varanasi is Benares,’ I said.
‘It’s a holy city. Are you going on a pilgrimage too?’
    My companion stubbed out his cigarette and coughed lightly. ‘I’m going there to die,’ he said, ‘I have only a few days left to live.’ He arranged his cushion under
his head. ‘But perhaps it would be wise to sleep,’ he went on. ‘We don’t have many hours to rest – my train leaves at five.’
    ‘Mine leaves just a little later,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the attendant will come and wake you up in time. I don’t suppose we shall have occasion to see each other again in the form in which we
meet today, these present suitcases of ours. I wish you a pleasant journey.’
    ‘A pleasant journey to you too,’ I answered.

V
    My guidebook maintained that the best restaurant in Madras was the Mysore Restaurant in the Coromandel, and I was most curious to check it out. In the boutique on the ground
floor I bought a white shirt, Indian style, and a pair of smart trousers. I went up to my room and took a long bath to wash away the grime of the journey. The rooms in the Coromandel are furnished
in imitation colonial style, but in good taste. My room was at the back of the building and looked out over a yellowish clearing surrounded by wild vegetation. It was a huge room, with two large
beds covered with two quite beautiful counterpanes. At the far end, near the window, was a writing table with a central drawer and then three drawers at each side. It was by pure chance that I
chose the bottom drawer on the right to put my papers in.
    I ended up going down much later than I would have liked, but in any case the Mysore stayed open till midnight. The restaurant had French windows opening onto the swimming pool and small round
tables in booths of green-lacquered bamboo. The lights on the tables had blue shades and there was a great deal of atmosphere. A musician on a red-upholstered dais entertained the diners with some
very discreet music. The waiter led me through the tables and was most helpful when it came to advising me what to eat. I treated myself to three dishes and drank fresh mango juice. The customers
were almost all Indians, but at the table nearest mine were two Englishmen who had a professional look about them and talked about Dravidian art. They kept up a very pretentious, knowledgeable
conversation, and for the duration of my meal I amused myself by checking in my guidebook to see if the information they were giving each other was correct. Occasionally one of them got a date
wrong, but the other didn’t seem to notice. Conversations you overhear by chance are