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

28
EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
The whole history of Indian cities could be told through street
names. The signs reading Grant Road and St. Mark’s Road have
now gone, replaced by Vithalpatai Road, by Indira Nagar, or some
such – yet the old names survive unofficially. Grant Road is still
somewhere a taxi or auto driver will take you, if you’re patient.
The Bombay Ananda Bhavan proved to be one of the stately
houses, its title on a weather-weary board looking at once out of
place and a sign of the times. A semicircular drive drew you up to a
robust, monsoon-proof porch over steps leading to double doors.
After a screaming argument over the fare, my driver flew off, his
machine sounding more and more like an angry bee trapped in a
jar.
A reception desk with a bell greeted my entrance. There was no
sign of human life. I rang the bell, hearing an odd guttural gurgling,
apparently from beneath the floor. I rang again, shouting out that I
was here. Nothing. Just the subterranean sounds of a viscous
drainage. A clock ticked. A pleasant breeze blew in, carrying
perfumed greenhouse smells on its wings. A fly the size of a small
bird – or possibly a small bird the size of a fly zoomed straight for
my nose, veering drastically away at the last moment. I looked in a
room to my left – a bed draped in mosquito netting – and a room to
my right – a bed draped in mosquito netting, and an armoire the
size of a van. Then I peeked behind the narrow reception desk, to
discover a bearded man in a T-shirt and lungi sound asleep on the
floor.
The occasional gurgling was his snore, which aggravated a
standardised fly that was busy gathering sebum from his glistening
nose. It darted back and forth to the safety of a nearby shelf each
time the man’s mouth puckered with another imminent snore. He
had toenails like a bear, this sleeper, and the soles of his feet looked
like desiccated mudflats, riven with cracks half an inch deep in
some places. They weren’t like leather; they were leather.
He looked serene, with his hands behind his head. I called to
him quietly. No response. Finally I shouted at him. Beyond an
irritable gurgle, still no response. This was no ordinary nap. In the
end I took him by the shoulders and shook, all but slapping his face
as if he’d OD’d or passed out from booze, or both. Finally his droopy
eyelids fluttered.