‘Apex?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You can still change it. You just have to pay.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Why? You can’t afford it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How much money do you have left?’
‘About five hundred pounds.’
‘What’s that? Seven hundred dollars?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then you can go home. Even if you buy a new ticket you have enough to go home.’
‘I can’t, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Just because.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s embarrassing.’
‘Aaahh, so this is it. If you go home early, you’ll feel like you’ve given up.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’ll feel like you’ve failed the test.’
‘I’ve done over two months – I’ve almost finished. It’s stupid to give up now.’
‘It’s not meant to be a strength test, you know.’
‘What else is it, then?’
‘A holiday?’
‘It’s not a holiday. It’s travelling. They’re completely different.’
‘Well, why don’t you stay, and try to turn it into a holiday? Then you have some fun. Go to one of these stupid resorts where people just hang out on the beach and forget they’re in India. Why don’t you sit the rest of your time on the beach in Goa?’
‘I’ve just come from Goa.’
‘There’s other places the same. You could go to Kovalam. Or Ajmer.’
‘That’s where I was before Goa.’
‘And now you’ve had enough of India?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it doesn’t seem like you’ve seen any of it.’
‘I don’t care. I’m sick of India.’
For the first time since I had known him, Igor went silent.
‘You think I’m stupid,’ I said.
He shrugged.
‘You do. You think I’m stupid.’
‘Not stupid. Just young. Too young.’
‘For what?’
‘For this country.’
‘There are Indians much younger than me.’
He laughed. ‘But they live here.’
‘So?’
‘Dave – I have to go.’
‘OK.’
‘I’m going now.’
‘Go, then.’
‘Bye, Dave. All the best.’
‘Bye. And thanks.’
‘Have fun, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
He walked out of the room and closed the door without even looking back at me. It seemed a shame to part like that, but I couldn’t really help it. I didn’t want to be abandoned again, and I found it hard to be magnanimous.
After staring at the closed door for a few hours, I decided that the time had come for a taste of the outside world. It took me a while to locate my shoes, which were next to the toilet where I had taken them off a week ago.
On wobbly legs, I headed down the corridor, through the hotel lobby and out into the devastatingly bright sun.
I tottered across the road, and after a brief wander I was so tired that I sat on the kerb to rest. It was a good spot for watching the world go by, and I was soon joined by an oldish man, who came and sat next to me.
‘Would you believe me if I told you that before partition most of my playmates were British citizens,’ he said.
He looked like he was probably a bit of a boring old duffer, and normally I would have blanked him, but for once I was pleased to have someone to talk to, and tried to think of a friendly response.
‘Really? That’s… um, impressive.’ I said.
‘Oh, most assuredly. Johnny, Peter and Freddie were the names of my three closest chums. Of course, they all departed after 1947.’
‘All of them?’
‘Partition, old chap. A lot of good eggs decamped pretty sharpish.’
‘That’s terrible. And… er, why did you have so many English friends?’
‘British, old boy. One mustn’t forget our Caledonian compatriots. Freddie was a Scot, you see.’
‘Oh, right. But why were they all…?’
‘My dear departed father, God rest his soul, was a pillar of the church. And I in my turn have had the good fortune to follow in his footsteps. Are you a Christian?’
I toyed with the idea of telling him that I was an Arsenal supporter instead, but decided that it would be more tactful to lie.
‘Yes.’
‘C of E?’
I couldn’t quite remember what C of E stood for, but it was obvious that he wanted me to say yes, so I nodded.
‘Marvellous. What a happy coincidence. Allow me to introduce myself- Charles A. Tripathi, junior.’
He shook my hand.
‘I’m Dave. David.’
‘Delighted to meet you. Do you take tea?’
‘Um… I suppose so.’
‘Come to my house. It isn’t pleasant to be alone.’ I didn’t know whether this referred to me or to him, but I obeyed and followed him down the street. He turned off down a side-road, marching a few steps ahead of me and making no effort to converse.
Just as I was beginning to feel that I couldn’t go much further, we arrived at a tiny concrete house. He stood at the door and ushered me in.
As I entered, it occurred to me that this was the first home I had seen since arriving in India. I was surprised by how much it looked like an English one: TV set in the corner, a few chairs, a rug, pictures on the wall. Everything seemed pretty recognizable, really.
‘Sit, please,’ he said, indicating a chair. ‘Feel free to examine some of our literature.’ He pointed at a pile of leaflets on a coffee-table, then left the room.
I could hear him shouting things in Hindi, so I picked up a leaflet and started reading. The colours and typeface made it look like it had been printed in the seventies. On the front it said . Below that was a whole load of text that I couldn’t be bothered to read, so I opened it up, revealing three pictures on three pages, each with a large caption at the top. On the left, it said, above a picture of a wise old man with a grey beard; in the middle, it said, ‘beauty’ above a picture of a butterfly; and on the right, it said, above a picture of a nuclear mushroom-cloud.
I was in the process of retrieving my jaw from the coffee-table when Charles returned with a child dressed in rags. He shouted something at the kid, who started sweeping the floor under my feet with a long bundle of twigs. On another command, the kid ran out of the room.
‘Tea and cakes will be arriving presently,’ said Charles.
He remained standing and hovered around me nervously, while I sat in the chair riddling with the leaflet, trying to think of something to say.
After a while, seven or so smartly dressed children bundled into the room, pushing and shoving at each other to get a good view of me without getting too close.
‘These are my grandchildren. And if you don’t mind, they would like your autograph.’
‘My autograph?’
‘Exactly. A sample of your handwriting will be most educative.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my handwriting had been bad at the age of ten, and in steady decline ever since. He passed me a pen and said something to them in Hindi. One by one, they came up to me and gave me a scrap of paper. I wrote my name and a little message for each of them, as neatly as I could, and gave each child a pat on the head.
The children then trooped out of the room and ran into the street, laughing.
‘You are a very kind man,’ said Charles. ‘I can tell already. Above and beyond the call of duty – this is your motto.’
‘Um… I suppose it is.’
‘And modest, too, of course. English schooling is still the best in the world, I am pleased to see.’
‘I’m not sure about that, you know.’
‘Come, come. You have made your point already. Grammar school or public school, I don’t even want to know which one. You have the mark of a gentleman stamped all over you.’