Riot Read Free

describe it any better, Cindy. I heard his voice, and the only thing I could care about was hearing that voice again.
    And I did, because Mr. Das went on and on, and Lakshman asked him all these gentle, probing questions, and I sat and listened to him, and I saw his sad, gentle eyes, and I knew I had found a kindred spirit.
    I know you’re going to say, there you go again, Priscilla, you’re an incurable romantic, and I suppose I am and I’m not ashamed of it. Because you know what, Cindy, every time I think I’ve found a kindred spirit I’ve usually been right, whether it’s with you or Professor Nichols or even with Winston, even if that ended badly. And there’s no danger of that kind of complication arising here. We’ve spent loads of time together since that first meeting at the office and he’s very correct, very gentle, very proper. Oh, and he’s married. OK? So get any wicked thoughts out of your devious little mind, Ms Cindy Valeriani. He’s had an arranged marriage, I’ll have you know, with all the trimmings, and he has a little daughter he’s very proud of, six years old and with dimpled cheeks you can hardly resist wanting to pinch. I know, not just because I’ve seen her picture in his office, but because she was presented to me when he invited me home to dinner. Little Rekha with the deep dark eyes and the dimples. So there.
    The wife’s a bit strange, actually, very different from him, reserved and not very communicative. She didn’t make much effort to engage me in conversation. In fact, no sooner had the servants served us dinner than she disappeared to attend to Rekha and left me alone with Lakshman. Which was fine with me, of course, but it felt a bit odd, especially when she emerged only when I asked to say goodnight and goodbye.
    But in that time we talked and talked, Cindy. I know he only invited me because he wanted to be courteous to the only foreigner in Zalilgarh, and maybe — just maybe — because he liked me when we met at the project and later talked in his office, but we soon connected at a much more, what can I call it, elemental level. As the evening wore on I realized I’m the only person in this back-of-beyond town he can actually talk to — the only person with a comparable frame of reference, who’s read the same sorts of books, seen the same movies, heard some of the same music (thank God for elder brothers). These Indian officials lead terribly lonely lives in the districts. He’s 33, and he’s God as far as the local bureaucracy is concerned. But it also means that he’s the only man in Zalilgarh from his sort of background; he’s surrounded by people who haven’t had his education, haven’t thought the same thoughts, can’t discuss the same ideas in the same English language. When he’s posted in Delhi or even the state capital, Lucknow, it’s completely different, of course, but here in Zalilgarh he’s It, and he’s pretty much alone. Oh, he’s constantly being invited to the homes of the local bigwigs, the landlords and caste leaders and contractors and community chiefs with whom he has to be on intimate terms, but he has nothing in common intellectually with any of them. He mentioned one friend, the district superintendent of police, who’d been to the same college, but they’re a couple of years apart and hadn’t been close then, and in any case I’m not sure their normal work gives them all that much time together. At least that’s the impression I had. So when Priscilla Hart comes along, full of stories of life in the Big Apple and knowledgeable as hell about Indian women and their reproductive rights, he sits up and listens. And why not, huh?
    Actually, when I said goodnight and left him that night, I realized for the first time how lonely I was. I’d come prepared for the kind of experience I was having before I met him