35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

230
EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
search of something resembling a main door, I found a shamefully
fat man with wall eyes who beckoned me up a worn granite staircase.
I wondered in passing just how long granite would take to wear.
My guide ushered me along dim, corroded corridors and finally
into a small room furnished with filthy old steel folding chairs and a
picnic table. Here I found the rajkumar seated with about ten other
men, all of them dressed identically in creased, baggy white pyjamas.
At first he acted as if he’d never seen me in his life, although, on
the other hand, he did not look unduly surprised by the sudden
appearance of a Western stranger. Maybe they were always dropping
in. I felt obliged to remind him of our great friendship in Bangalore,
his kind offer, my phone call . . . He motioned for me to sit. After
that I never got over the feeling that he didn’t know what the hell I
was going on about.
We sat, the whole dozen of us, on the creaky unstable chairs in
uncomfortable silence. At least I was uncomfortable. Indians are quite
capable of not saying anything to each other for considerable periods
of time without feeling remotely ill at ease.
The room did not strike me as palatial. Its walls had probably
needed a good dusting and a coat of whitewash when Robert Clive
was still poring over the East India Company’s ledgers. They were
bare, apart from three yellowed photographs in buckled frames of
men standing over dead tigers and a curled calendar emblazoned
with the image of the Tirupati idol, Lord Venkateswara; a burly
space alien inordinately fond of ostentatious jewellery. The fat wall
eyed man abruptly reappeared bearing a bowl of what looked like
red sponges soaked in pink fluid. I thanked him profusely, feeling
more in need of a bath than food, gamely picking up the stained
spoon. The stuff tasted like chunks of watermelon in an eighty per
cent solution of sugar. It was so sweet it was almost bitter. I had to
put the bowl aside after two mouthfuls. The fat old man picked it up
and pushed it back into my hands, making a bizarre squeaking noise
at me.
‘What does he want?’ I asked the rajkumar.
‘He wants you to eat it all,’ my host replied jovially, adding, ‘This
man is my personal servant, you see. He is looking after me since I
was a boy. But he is deaf-mute – no hearing, no speaking, isn’t it?’