Indian Nocturne Read Free

this.
    ‘He was a friend of yours?’
    ‘In a way,’ I said, ‘once.’
    ‘When was he admitted?’
    ‘Almost a year ago, I think, at the end of the monsoon.’
    ‘A year is a long time,’ he said. And then went on: ‘The monsoon is the worst season, so many people come in.’
    ‘I can imagine,’ I answered.
    He put his head in his hands, as if he were thinking, or as if he were very tired. ‘You can’t imagine,’ he said. ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’
    It was a simple, practical question, but I hesitated over the answer, for I too felt the weight of memory, and at the same time I sensed its inadequacy. What does one remember of a face in the
end? No, I didn’t have a photograph, I only had my memory: and my memory was mine alone, it wasn’t describable, it was the look I remembered on Xavier’s face. I made an effort and
said: ‘He’s the same height as I am, thin, with straight hair; he’s about my age; sometimes he has an expression like yours, Doctor, because if he smiles he looks sad.’
    ‘It’s not a very exact description,’ he said, ‘still, it makes no difference, I don’t remember any Janata Pinto, at least not for the moment.’
    We were in a very grey, bare room. On the far wall was a large concrete sink, like the kind used for washing clothes. It was full of sheets of paper. Next to the sink was a long rough table and
that too was laden with paper. The doctor got up and went to the far end of the room. He seemed to have a limp. He began to rummage through the papers on the table. From where I was I had the
impression that they were pages from exercise books and pieces of brown wrapping paper.
    ‘My records,’ he said, ‘each one is a name.’
    I stayed where I was in my seat facing his small work table, looking at the few objects he’d put there. There was a small glass ball with a model of Tower Bridge and a framed photograph
showing a house that looked like a Swiss chalet. It struck me as absurd. At a window of the chalet you could see a female face, but the photograph was faded and blurred.
    ‘He isn’t an addict, is he?’ he asked me from the other end of the room. ‘We don’t admit addicts.’
    I didn’t say anything and shook my head. ‘Not that I know of,’ I said then. ‘I don’t think so, I’m not sure.’
    ‘But how do you know he came to the hospital, are you sure?’
    ‘A prostitute at the Khajuraho hotel told me. That was where he was staying, last year.’
    ‘And you,’ he asked, ‘are you staying there too?’
    ‘I slept there last night, but I’ll leave tomorrow. I try not to stay more than a night in the same hotel, whenever possible.’
    ‘Why?’ he asked, suspicious. He held an armful of papers and looked at me over his glasses.
    ‘Just because,’ I said. ‘I like to change every night, I’ve only got this one small suitcase.’
    ‘And have you already decided for tomorrow?’
    ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I think I’d like a very comfortable hotel, maybe a luxury one.’
    ‘You could go to the Taj Mahal,’ he said, ‘it’s the most sumptuous hotel in the whole of Asia.’
    ‘Perhaps that’s not a bad idea,’ I answered.
    He plunged his arms into the sink amongst the pieces of paper. ‘So many people,’ he said. He had sat down on the rim of the basin and was cleaning his glasses. He rubbed his eyes
with a handkerchief as if they were tired or irritated. ‘Dust,’ he said.
    ‘The paper?’ I said.
    He lowered his eyes and turned away from me. ‘The paper,’ he said, ‘the people.’
    From the distance came a dark boom of iron, as though a bin were rolling down the stairs.
    ‘Anyway, he’s not there,’ he said, letting all the papers drop. ‘I don’t think it’s worth looking for him amongst these names.’
    Instinctively I got up. The moment had come for me to leave, I thought, that was what he was saying, that I should go. But he didn’t seem to notice and went to a metal cabinet that once
upon a time