The whole day seemed like an eternity to the boy, especially when holiday and party happened to coincide in a chance intermission. He had no homework he needed to attack immediately; instead he had this sense of a function, a role that had come to him out of nowhere, a calling that he was equal to.
By evening the guests and colleagues, before they left their houses, had begun to apply the finishing touches — aftershave lotion on the cheeks, the last fold of the sari smoothed till it seemed exactly in place. And, at home, like some unappeasable master of ceremonies, Amal tasted the savouries, which were either brought to him on a plate with a glass of cola, or which he himself chose at random.
The Guptas were, as it happened, the first to arrive; they must look suitably grateful, because they were to occupy this flat from the twenty-third of the month; they needed to put in an appearance before anyone else. On the way, Mrs. Gupta had bought herself a fragrant mogra from a girl and put it in her hair. The flat itself was on display; every preparatory movement had stopped, and the drawing room had a finished look about it, as if a work of art had reached its public, final version.
Gradually, the other guests began to trickle in, the doorbell was rung, and each couple greeted with varying degrees of surprise, recognition, and familial warmth. “Where’s Amal?” everyone wanted to know, as if the solution to this party lay not in its social hierarchies, or in the longer-term destinies it vaguely pointed to, but in where, and who, the boy was. Because the party, after all, was a serious business.
As the party moved on, and the evening darkened outside with the intermittent light of other buildings, Atul Gupta found himself, at nine o’clock, alone and moorless for a few minutes in the corridor, with a drink in his hand. He realised, with a sort of tentativeness that was rarely visible but had been reserved for his first days in the office, which had been naked then but was apparelled in decent clothes since, that the door not far away from him, which had been left slightly ajar and from which a bright light was shining, was the boy’s door. He saw his ambition and fear and curiosity had preceded him here and were waiting like a shadow outside it. He cleared his throat and, taking a few steps forward, knocked.
“Come in,” said a small voice from within. Mr. Gupta’s heart beat a little faster. He pushed the door by the handle; the beast, or god, or mystery, the company’s inmost secret, however you chose to view him, was sitting there at the edge of his bed, a glass of cola on the floor before him, a drawing book in his hand. This was the head of finance’s innermost sanctum, this was where his life and heart beat, and he, Assistant Company Secretary, must, against his own wishes, surrender and bow his head silently before it. On a bright red carpet lay, innocently, three or four dinky toys, including an overturned truck; stopping near it as if it might go off if he touched it, Mr. Gupta said:
“How are you, young man?” The boy turned to look at him; and Mr. Gupta flinched, as if his future, or what little he knew of it, had turned to look at him in that air-conditioned room and judged him; for these were not his boss’s eyes, but the eyes that, invisibly, ruled and governed his boss’s life. He had not known, before he’d begun, that company life concealed such mysteries; the Managing Director’s children were long grown up and lived abroad, in England. It was here, then, that, by default, all that was sweet and virginal and innocent about the company dwelt, a savage whose mind was far removed from adult reasoning and the laws that governed adult life.
“Hello, Uncle Atul,” said the boy, without much interest. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“May I sit down?” said Mr. Gupta, smiling, but feeling as if he were straining against a hidden door that wouldn’t open.
“Yes, Uncle,” said Amal, glumly preparing for a conversation. The man sat at the edge of the bed, as if he’d been told to by a wave of the hand. The company itself had never been so perfunctory with him.
“Nice room you have,” he said, uttering a truth in a hapless way to make it sound like a lie. When, in the past, he’d presented his reports and the relevant taxation figures to his superiors, even the worst-compiled of them had more conviction than his platitude. The question that short-sighted politicians and bureaucrats had been asking of companies such as his — was it worth it? — the toothpaste, the colas, the enamel paint, the butter — was one he suddenly found asking himself. He picked up a dinky toy and put it down again.
The boy said nothing; then, moving his body towards Mr. Gupta, handed him the large drawing book he had in his hands.
“I drew these pictures today,” he said quietly, without modesty but without bravado, either.
“Oh, that’s nice!” said Mr. Gupta, finding it easier to lie as time wore on, staring at the clumsy figures in blue and yellow as if they were some sort of cipher, or somehow part of that other, more recalcitrant code he was trying to interpret. He bent his head, almost submissively, and said, “What’s this?”
He looked very gravely at a misshapen green creature, obviously an animal in the early days of its evolution, with what looked like rain falling behind it. It was as if the creature had floated out of nowhere into his immediate vision.
“That’s a horse,” said the boy, simply. “That’s the sky,” pointing to the crowded blue strokes. The man nodded slowly like one who, without realising it, had been made more knowledgeable, as indeed he had; what had seemed like clouds in his confused, self-created landscape, massed and obfuscating, were resolving themselves into ordinary shapes and forms.
Not finished, he noted a scarecrow-like figure with large eyes. Cheerfully, as if he were now more adept at this game, he asked:
“What’s this?” The boy picked up the tepid cola from the floor and sipped it as the man respectfully waited for an answer.
“That’s baba,” the boy revealed casually. Mr. Gupta started; he felt a secret had been revealed to him that no one else in the company knew. So this was how his father, Gupta’s own boss, appeared in the eyes of what was hidden, what lay at the source of questions and solutions that he would not be able to understand. Quickly he asked, still struggling to put his impulses into words:
“Any pictures of you? Or Ma? Or your friends — your best friend?” The boy closed the drawing book restlessly; Mr. Gupta feared his interview was going to be cut short. The sound of the air conditioner grew in its confidential presence. But he must continue; having been drawn in, he now felt excluded, as if a promise of something, something concrete, had been suggested to him, and immediately withdrawn. Where was he to go now? And if he did not go on, it would not be the boy, or the company, but himself he would be left to blame. In the end, you became your own accuser.
Not the boy, but a warm breath of air from the corridor interrupted him, as the door opened farther and Mrs. Sinha-Roy said cheerfully:
“Amal, where have you been? Mrs. Mehra wants to see you, and there are others waiting for you outside.” Mr. Gupta turned to see Mrs. Sinha-Roy, resplendent in her pink Parsi sari, at the door, and Mrs. Mehra, large and solid and smiling behind her, one of the overhead lights shining in her eyes. He knew then that all his years of hard work and preparation and dissembling and dreaming would get him no further than where he was.
“I was talking to Uncle Atul,” said the boy, as if this self-evident fact needed his witness to bring it to conclusion.
Confession of a Sacrifice
I AM BEING PREPARED for a sacrifice. This honour has bowed my head, above all the honours that people might give me. I walk in fear and humility, not quite following the significance of my function.