Indian Nocturne Read Free Page B

the spittings of chewed betel and the heat was suffocating. Or
perhaps it was the overpoweringly strong smell that gave this sensation of suffocation. In any case, the fans on the ceiling weren’t working. Then the doctor turned back and I followed him in
silence.
    ‘He’s not here,’ I said. ‘He’s not one of these.’
    He pushed aside the curtain to the hall again with the same politeness as before, letting me lead the way.
    ‘The heat is unbearable,’ I said, ‘and the fans aren’t working. It’s incredible.’
    ‘The voltage is very low at night in Bombay,’ he answered.
    ‘And yet you have a nuclear reactor at Trobay, I saw the cooling tower from the front.’
    He smiled very weakly. ‘Almost all the energy goes to the factories, then to the luxury hotels and the Marine Drive area; here we have to make do.’ He set off along the corridor
taking the opposite direction to the one we’d come from. ‘India’s like that,’ he finished.
    ‘Did you study here?’ I asked.
    He stopped to look at me and I had the impression that a flicker of nostalgia lit his eyes. ‘I studied in London,’ he said, ‘and then I did my specialisation in
Zürich.’ He brought out his straw cigarette case and took a cigarette. ‘An absurd specialisation for India. I’m a cardiologist, but no one here has heart problems; only you
people in Europe die of heart attacks.’
    ‘What do people die of here?’ I asked.
    ‘Of everything that has nothing to do with the heart. Syphilis, tuberculosis, leprosy, typhoid, septicaemia, cholera, meningitis, pellagra, diphtheria and other things. But I enjoyed
studying the heart, I enjoyed finding out about that muscle that controls our lives, like this.’ He made a gesture, opening and closing his fist. ‘Perhaps I thought I would discover
something inside it.’
    The corridor opened on to a small covered courtyard in front of a low brick building.
    ‘Do you believe in God?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m an atheist. Being an atheist is the worst possible curse, in India.’
    We crossed the courtyard and stopped in front of the other building.
    ‘The terminal cases are in here,’ he said, ‘there’s just a chance your friend is one of them.’
    ‘What are they suffering from?’ I asked.
    ‘Everything you can possibly imagine,’ he said, ‘but perhaps it would be better if you went now.’
    ‘I think so too,’ I said.
    ‘I’ll show you out,’ he said.
    ‘No, don’t bother, please, perhaps I can get out through that door in the entrance gate. I think we’re by the road here.’
    ‘My name’s Ganesh,’ he said, ‘after the merry God with the elephant’s face.’
    I told him my name too before setting off. The gate was only a moment away beyond a hedge of jasmin. It was open. When I turned to look back at him he spoke again. ‘If I find him, should I
say something?’
    ‘No thanks,’ I said, ‘don’t say anything.’
    He raised his hairpiece as if it were a hat and made a slight bow. I went out into the street. It was getting light and the people on the pavements were waking up. Some were rolling up the mats
they slept on at night. The street was full of crows hopping around the cow dung. Near the steps at the entrance was a beat-up old taxi, the driver asleep with his face against the side window.
    ‘The Taj Mahal,’ I said, getting in.

III
    The only inhabitants of Bombay who take no notice of the ‘right of admission’ regulations in force at the Taj Mahal are the crows. They drop slowly onto the terrace
of the Inter-Continental, laze on the Mogul windows of the older building, perch amid the branches of the mango trees in the garden, and hop on the perfect carpet of lawn that surrounds the
swimming pool. They would go and drink from the pool itself or peck at the orange peel in your martini, were it not for a very efficient servant in livery who chases them off with a cricket bat, as
though in some absurd match orchestrated by a