He swallowed the spittle. Unzipping his cotton trousers, he let them slide down. Pressing the middle and index fingers of his right hand together, he stuck them deep into his rectum; then he dipped them into one of the glasses of whiskey and stirred.
He pulled up his trousers and zipped them. He frowned at the tainted whiskey; now came the tricky part-things had to be arranged so that the right man took the right glass.
He left the pantry carrying the tray.
The official from the state Electricity Board, sitting at Abbasi’s table, grinned. He was a fat, dark man in a blue safari suit, a steel ballpoint pen in his jacket pocket. Abbasi carefully placed the tray on the table in front of the gentleman.
“Please,” Abbasi said, with redundant hospitality; the official had taken the glass closer to him, and was sipping and licking his lips. He finished the whiskey in slow gulps, and put the glass down.
“A man’s drink.”
Abbasi smiled ironically.
The official placed his hands on his tummy.
“Five hundred,” he said. “Five hundred rupees.”
Abbasi was a small man, with a streak of gray in his beard that he did not attempt to disguise with dye, as many middle-aged men in Kittur did; he thought the white streak gave him a look of ingenuity, which he felt he needed, because he knew that his reputation among his friends was that of a simpleminded creature prone to regular outbreaks of idealism.
His ancestors, who had served in the royal darbars of Hyderabad, had bequeathed him an elaborate sense of courtesy and good manners, which he had adapted for the realities of the twentieth century with touches of sarcasm and self-parody.
He folded his palms into a Hindu’s namaste and bowed low before the official. “Sahib, you know we have just reopened the factory. There have been many costs. If you could show some-”
“Five hundred. Five hundred rupees.”
The official twirled his glass around, and gazed at the Air India logo with one eye, as if some small part of him were embarrassed by what he was doing. He gestured at his mouth with his fingers: “A man has to eat these days, Mr. Abbasi. Prices are rising so fast. Ever since Mrs. Gandhi died, this country has begun to fall apart.”
Abbasi closed his eyes. He reached toward his desk, pulled out a drawer, took out a wad of notes, counted them, and placed the money in front of the official. The fat man, moistening his finger for each note, counted them one by one; producing a blue rubber band from a pocket of his trousers, he strapped it around the notes twice.
But Abbasi knew the ordeal was not over yet. “Sahib, we have a tradition in this factory that we never let a guest depart without a gift.”
He rang the bell for Ummar, his manager, who entered almost at once with a shirt in his hands. He had been waiting outside the whole time.
The official took the white shirt out of its cardboard box. He looked at the design: a golden dragon whose tail spread around onto the back of the shirt.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“We ship them to the United States. They are worn by men who dance professionally. They call it ‘ballroom dancing.’ They put on this shirt and swirl under red disco lights.” Abbasi held his hands over his head and spun around, shaking his hips and buttocks suggestively; the official watched him with lascivious eyes.
He clapped, and said, “Dance for me one more time, Abbasi.”
Then he put the shirt to his nose and sniffed it three times.
“This pattern…” He pressed on the outlines of the dragon with his thick finger. “It is wonderful.”
“That dragon is the reason I closed,” Abbasi said. “To stitch the dragon takes very fine embroidery work. The eyes of the women doing this work get damaged. One day this was brought to my attention; I thought, I don’t want to answer to Allah for the damage done to the eyes of my workers. So I said to them, go home, and I closed the factory.”
The official smiled ironically. Another of those Muslims who drink whiskey and mention Allah in every other sentence.
He put the shirt back in its box and tucked it under his arm. “What made you reopen the factory, then?”
Abbasi bunched his fingers and jabbed them into his mouth. “A man has to eat, sahib.”
They went down the stairs together, Ummar following three steps behind. When they reached the bottom, the official saw a dark opening to his right. He took a step toward the darkness. In the dim light of the room, he saw women with white shirts on their laps, stitching threads into half-finished dragons. He wanted to see more, so Abbasi said, “Why don’t you go in, sahib? I’ll wait out here.”
He turned and looked at the wall, while Ummar took the official around the factory floor, introduced him to some of the workers, and led him back out. The official extended his hand to Abbasi just before he left.
I shouldn’t have touched him, Abbasi thought, the moment he closed the door.
At six p.m., half an hour after the women left the stitching room for the day, Abbasi closed the factory, got into his Ambassador car, and drove from the Bunder toward Kittur; he could think about one thing only.
Corruption. There was no end to it in this country. In the past four months, since he had decided to reopen his shirt factory, he had had to pay off:
The electricity man; the Water Board man; half the Income Tax Department of Kittur; half the Excise Department of Kittur; six different officials of the Telephone Board; a land tax official of the Kittur City Corporation; a sanitary inspector from the Karnataka State Health Board; a health inspector from the Karnataka State Sanitation Board; a delegation of the All India Small Factory Workers’ Union; and delegations of the Kittur Congress Party, the Kittur BJP, the Kittur Communist Party, and the Kittur Muslim League.
The white Ambassador car went up the driveway of a large, whitewashed mansion. At least four evenings a week Abbasi came to the Canara Club, to a small air-conditioned room with a green billiards table, to play snooker and drink with his friends. He was a good shot, and his aim deteriorated after his second whiskey, so his friends liked to play long sets with him.
“What’s bothering you, Abbasi?” asked Sunil Shetty, who owned another shirt factory in the Bunder. “You’re playing very rashly tonight.”
“Another visit from the Electricity Department. A real bastard this time. Dark-skinned fellow. Lower caste of some kind.”
Sunil Shetty purred in sympathy; Abbasi missed his shot.
Halfway through the game, the players all moved away from the table, while a mouse scurried across the floor, running along the walls until it found a hole to vanish into.
Abbasi banged his fist on the edge of the table. “Where does all our membership money go? They can’t even keep the floors clean! You see how corrupt the management of the club is?”
After that, he sat quietly with his back to the sign that said RULES OF THE GAME MUST BE FOLLOWED AT ALL TIMES and watched the others play, while resting his chin on the end of his cue stick.
“You are tense, Abbasi,” said Ramanna Padiwal, who owned a silk and rayon store on Umbrella Street and was the best snooker-shark in town.
To dispel this myth, Abbasi ordered whiskeys for everyone, and they stopped playing and held their glasses wrapped in paper napkins as they sipped. As always, what they talked about first was the whiskey itself.
“You know that chap who goes around from house to house offering to pay twenty rupees if you sell him your old cartons of Johnnie Walker Red Label?” Abbasi said. “To whom does he sell those cartons in return?”
The others laughed.
“For a Muslim, you’re a real innocent, Abbasi,” Padiwal, the silk and rayon salesman, said with a laugh. “Of course he sells them to the bootlegger. That’s why the Johnnie Walker Red you buy from the store, even if it comes in a genuine bottle and genuine carton, is bootlegged.”
Abbasi spoke slowly, drawing circles in the air with his finger: “So I sold the carton…to the man who will sell it to the man who will bootleg the stuff and sell it back to me? That means I’ve cheated myself?”