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

‘THERE’S BLOODLETTING AS WE SPEAK’
doors, plodding through the suffocating air until I reached the top
floor, where a low gate closed off the stairs from a dim landing. This
was definitely not the house I’d visited in 1974. The corridor I now
faced had yellowed paint blistering or coming off in huge scabs
everywhere. The woodwork was shabby, and a threadbare runner
snaked down the grimy floor, off which were doors closed by tattered
old curtains. I called out.
A broad-faced, cheerful woman dressed like a nurse appeared from
behind a rag, opening the gate and letting me in. She shouted
something unintelligible down the corridor, while a small dog was
going the right way about getting a swift kick in the skull.
Lady Sinha appeared in a far doorway. An elegant, beautiful
woman, she’d barely changed in twenty years, except for dark circles
beneath her eyes and an expression of utter sorrow and fatigue on
her face. Hugs, kisses, then she ushered me down to a sitting room.
Tragically dilapidated, its paint cracked into pockets large enough
to hold magazines, the room was thick with a hopelessness and
despair that emanated from every object: from the chewed rug and
the geriatric sofa and chairs; from the cluttered dusty cabinet packed
with the little mementoes of a lifetime; from the weary old ceiling
fan that flailed overhead in vain; from the tarnished silver frames
bearing photos from that parallel universe where people just like
the Sinhas also lived, but looked young and happy; from the yellow
net curtains that would dissolve if washed; and from the broad,
stained expanse of balcony visible through open French doors and
looking onto another of those hideous concrete towers that march
across every Indian skyline. The sole virtue of these structures,
beyond their cheapness to erect, is that they will surely disintegrate
within twenty years.
‘As you can see, darling,’ Lady Sinha – Anjoo – said in a mournful
cadence, ‘things have changed since you were last here.’
She’d been up all night with her son, who’d been vomiting blood.
He refused to go to hospital, so they’d hired a nurse to look after
him. It wasn’t the best arrangement: he’d bribed the driver to
smuggle in supplies of booze, which he had hidden all over the
house now. He refused to eat, and spent most of his time fighting
with his younger sister, Manjoola, when he was not in a coma.
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