B006NZAQXW EBOK by Kiran Desai Read Free Book Online Page B

water.
    Now he traced the outline of his face and drew in the fantastic costume. He smiled and bowed at his reflection as if he were his own honoured guest. The lizards on the wall watched him with severe eyes. He stuck out his tongue at them, felt suddenly and ridiculously happy. Perhaps he was made for a life hung with brocades, worked out in fine patterns of jewels. Perhaps he was made to wear silk slippers and, with a wave, demand the world’s attention. Striking a pose, nose in the magical air, hand raised for a touch of drama, he sang, making up his own words to a popular tune: ‘My suit is Japanese, tra-la-la, my lunch was Chinese, tra-la-la, but though I may roam, tra-la-la, don’t worry, Mama and Papa, my heart belongs to home. Oh, my heart belongs to home.’ He gyrated his hips in perfect circles.
    Venturing out of the room to where the party had just begun, he was made brave by the smell of the biryani and kebabs; encouraged by the sparkle of elegant clothes and jewellery, by the clinking of plates and finger bowls, by the laughter of the arriving guests in the tent and the jostling sweets frying in clarified butter just outside. A red carpet stretched from the entrance of the marriage tent all the way to a fountain at the centre. Sampath cavorted up and down its length, tossing his nose ring, kicking his legs. Mr D. P. S. and his wife, plying their future son-in-law’s family with drinks and snacks, greeted his advance upon them withstunned silence. Sampath felt as if his feet were far above the floor, as if, floating in some groundless state, he were missing the weight of his head, his stomach and all of his insides. ‘Tomorrow it will be too late,’ he sang, chandelier-style drops in his nose all aquiver. He waded into the fountain and jumped in the spray, splashing the grand ladies with water so they ran squealing in consternation. ‘Meet me under the plantain tree,’ he warbled, ‘and there will be no more talk of heartache.’
    And slowly, deliciously, feeling it was the right thing to do, Sampath began to disrobe. Horrified shrieks rose from his audience. However, in this flushed moment, he mistook them for cries of admiration. With a style particular to himself, one by one he let the saris and dupattas draped about him fall. He unwrapped the last glittering length of fabric, but still he felt he had not yet reached the dazzling pinnacle of his performance, the pinnacle he strove towards, that his whole being was in anticipation of. He could not let himself down and he began to unbutton his shirt. He tossed the garment into the air like a hero throwing away the rag with which he has cleaned the weapon that will kill his enemy. As the shrieks grew in volume and intensity, he lowered his hand to his pants. ‘Stop him,’ shouted Mr D. P. S., and several people rushed forwards. But Sampath climbed deftly on to the highest tier of the fountain and, in one swift movement, lowered both his trousers and his underpants. His back to the crowd, he stuck his brown behind up into the air and wiggled it wildly in an ecstatic appreciation of the evening’s entertainment he himself had just provided.
    ‘Haiiii. What did you do?’ shouted the family when Sampath returned home, jobless, sober and soaked to the skin. ‘Kindly remove yourself,’ Mr D. P. S. had said to him, socoldly Sampath’s heart had frozen over. ‘It is no longer necessary to report to work.’
    But he hated his job anyway. He didn’t want his job. He didn’t want it, he couldn’t do it and he didn’t want another job. He would not be able to do that either. He felt defiant. But …
    ‘What! You have lost your job!’
    ‘Hai, hai, this boy is nothing but trouble and misfortune.’
    ‘You are completely lacking in common sense.’
    ‘Did you get water in your nose?’
    ‘What are we going to do now?’
    ‘You really took off your underpants?’
    ‘The dye from the wet clothes has stained you blue. Quick. Soap yourself