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

‘IF I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO LEAVE THIS PLACE’
was bad – very bad. Even trusted old retainers were forbidden in the
purdah quarters.
Expecting some shrill, panicked voice to raise the alarm at any
moment, I tiptoed past snoring rolls of tangled cloth, edging around
the courtyard’s perimeter. Miraculously, I came across a doorway
that led right into my own princely chamber. I peeked out. No one
seemed to be shrieking for the guards, and I was able to enjoy the
sight for a moment. There was something ancient and beautiful
there: the moonlight on exquisite faces, saris muted in colour and
lacquered with silver.
I spent the entire next day stretched out in my oven with Mickey
Spillane. I timed the spurts of current that moved my fan overhead,
to see if there was any pattern to Venkatagiri power cuts. There
wasn’t. I counted the holes in my purdah screens: one had 235, the
other 198. Soon, I considered, I’ll be marking off the days in batches
of seven on the wall. The two ragged twins brought more food, or
perhaps had recaptured the same food. They giggled at me shyly. My
Telegu vocabulary consisted of phrases like ‘Hello,’ ‘How are you?’
‘Goodbye,’ ‘How much is that?,’ ‘You must be out of your mind,’ and
‘Fuck off.’ In vain I tried to ask these twins where the rajkumar was,
and what I might expect in the way of freedom. I had no intention of
touching the food, which appeared to be oddly sentient that day,
content to watch me from where it squatted malevolently on its
chipped plate.
Late the next day two men with untrustworthy eyes and lived-in
dhotis materialised at my bedside, gesturing me to follow them. I
followed the all the way to a neolithic Jeep, finding myself suddenly
driven out of town trailing clouds of dust. Perhaps they were taking
me to the Madras bus? I did not have my luggage though, and I also
lacked sufficient skill in mime to convey this detail to my escorts.
We tore recklessly through the parched wilderness of massive rocks
and anorexic trees for about fifteen minutes; then we swung on two
wheels off the cracked hardtop and onto a sandy goat track. We were
heading toward an abandoned colonial mansion surrounded by
extensive low outbuildings.
‘Cricket club, cricket club,’ the driver informed me with fantastic
235