His photograph, thus attired, thus annoyed, was still up on the wall, in a parade of history glorifying the progress of Indian law and order.
4:30: tea had to be perfect: drop scones made in the frying pan. He would embark on them with forehead wrinkled, as if angrily mulling over something important, and then, as it would into his retirement, the draw of the sweet took over, and his stern work face would hatch an expression of tranquility.
5:30: out he went into the countryside with his fishing rod or gun. The countryside was full of game; lariats of migratory birds lassoed the sky in October; quail and partridge with lines of babies strung out behind whirred by like nursery toys that emit sound with movement; pheasant – fat foolish creatures, made to be shot – went scurrying through the bushes. The thunder of gunshot rolled away, the leaves shivered, and he experienced the profound silence that could come only after violence. One thing was always missing, though, the proof of the pudding, the prize of the action, the manliness in manhood, the partridge for the pot, because he returned with -
Nothing!
He was a terrible shot.
8:00: the cook saved his reputation, cooked a chicken, brought it forth, proclaimed it "roast bastard," just as in the Englishman’s favorite joke book of natives using incorrect English. But sometimes, eating that roast bustard, the judge felt the joke might also be on him, and he called for another rum, took a big gulp, and kept eating feeling as if he were eating himself, since he, too, was (was he?) part of the fun…
9:00: sipping Ovaltine, he filled out the registers with the day’s gleanings. The Petromax lantern would be lit – what a noise it made – insects fording the black to dive-bomb him with soft flowers (moths), with iridescence (beetles). Lines, columns, and squares. He realized truth was best looked at in tiny aggregates, for many baby truths could yet add up to one big size unsavory lie. Last, in his diary also to be submitted to his superiors, he recorded the random observations of a cultured man, someone who was observant, schooled in literature as well as economics; and he made up hunting triumphs: two partridge… one deer with thirty-inch horns…
11:00: he had a hot water bottle in winter, and, in all seasons, to the sound of the wind buffeting the trees and the cook’s snoring, he fell asleep.
The cook had been disappointed to be working for Jemubhai. A severe comedown, he thought, from his father, who had served white men only.
The ICS was becoming Indianized and they didn’t like it, some of these old servants, but what could you do? He’d even had a rival for the position, a man who appeared with tattered recommendations inherited from his father and grandfather to indicate a lineage of honesty and good service.
The cook’s father, who had made his way through his career without such praise, had bought recommendations on the servant chittie exchange for his son, some so antiquated they mentioned expertise in the dhobi pie and country captain chicken.
The judge looked them over: "But his name is not Solomon Pap-piah. It is not Sampson. It is not Thomas."
"They liked him so much, you see," said the cook’s father, "that they gave him a name of their own people. Out of love they called him Thomas."
The judge was disbelieving.
"He needs to be trained," the father admitted finally and dropped his demand for twenty rupees for his son, "but that is why he will come cheap. And in puddings there is nobody to beat him. He can make a new pudding for each day of the year."
"What can he make?"
"Bananafritterpineapplefritterapplefritterapplesurpriseapple-charlotteapplebettybreadandbutterjamtartcaramelcustardtipsypudding
Rumtumpuddingjamrolypolygingersteamdatepuddinglemonpancakeegg
custardorangecustardcoffeecustardstrawberrycustardtriflebakedalaskamangosoufflélemonsoufflécoffeesouffléchocolatesoufflégooseberrysouffléhotchocolatepuddingcoldcoffeepuddingcoconutpuddingmilkpuddingrumbabarumcakebrandysnappearstewguavastewplumstewapplestewpeachstewapricotstewmangopiechocolatetartappletartgooseberrytartlemontartjamtartmarmaladetartbebincafioatingislandpineappleupsidedownappleupsidedowngooseberryupsidedownplumupsidedownpeachupsidedownraisinupsidedown – "
"All right. All right."
Twelve
So Sai’s life had continued in Kalimpong – Lola and Noni, Uncle Potty and Father Booty, the judge and cook… until she met Gyan.
She met Gyan because one day, when Sai was sixteen, Noni found she could no longer teach her physics.
It had been an overhot summer afternoon and they sat on the Mon Ami veranda. All over the mountainside, the heat had reduced the townspeople to a stupor. Tin roofs sizzled, dozens of snakes lay roasting on the stones, and flowers bloomed as plushly and perfectly as on a summer outfit. Uncle Potty sat looking out on the warmth and sheen, the oil brought forth upon his nose, upon the salami, the cheese. A bite of cheese, a bite of salami, a gulp of icy Kingfisher. He leaned back so his face was in the shade and his toes were in the sun, and sighed: all was right with the world. The primary components were balanced, the hot and cold, the liquid and solid, the sun and shade.
Father Booty in his dairy found himself transported to a meditative state by the hum of his cows’ chewing. What would yak-milk cheese taste like…?
Nearby the Afghan princesses were sighing and deciding to eat their chicken cold.
Mrs. Sen, undefeated by the heat, started up the road to Mon Ami, propelled by the latest news from her daughter, Mun Mun, in America: she was to be hired by CNN. She reflected happily on how this would upset Lola. Hah, who did Lola Banerjee think she was? Putting on airs… always showing off about her daughter at the BBC…
Unsuspecting of the approaching news, Lola was in the garden picking caterpillars off the English broccoli. The caterpillars were mottled green and white, with fake blue eyes, ridiculous fat feet, a tail, and an elephant nose. Magnificent creatures, she thought, studying one closely, but then she threw it to a waiting bird that pecked and a green stuffing squiggled out of the caterpillar like toothpaste from a punctured tube.
On the Mon Ami veranda, Noni and Sai sat before an open text book: neutrons… and protons… electrons… So if – then -???
They were yet unable to grasp the question but were taunted by the sight, beyond the veranda, of a perfect sunlit illustration of the answer: speck insects suspended in a pod within which they jigged tirelessly, bound by a spell that could not be undone.
Noni felt a sudden exhaustion come over her; the answer seemed attainable via miracle not science. They put the book aside when the baker arrived at Mon Ami as he did each afternoon, lifting his trunk from his head and unlatching it. Outside the trunk was scuffed; inside it glowed like a treasure chest, with Swiss rolls, queen cakes, and, taught to him by missionaries on the hillside, peanut butter cookies evocative of, the ladies thought, cartoon America: gosh, golly, gee whiz, jeepers creepers.