The Red Carpet by Lavanya Sankaran Read Free Book Online

for looking after his wife while he was away, and won’t he please take a seat and have a drink?
    A drink.
    Mr. D’Costa hadn’t had more than an infrequent glass of beer in a very long time. He was sufficiently relaxed by his warm reception to consider the offer seriously. He could sense the eyes of the other youngsters in the room on him, but when he turned around they were all smiling pleasantly enough; one of them quickly vacated an armchair for him. Perhaps they had all been told the story of his adventure with Rohini.
    A drink. Aman was already moving towards the elaborate bar, and the whisky bottle that lay open on it. It was barely teatime, but everyone was in a celebratory mood. Mr. D’Costa caught sight of the label on the bottle and almost gasped. It—lying so casually open, as though it were nothing more than a bottle of water—was one of the most expensive whisky brands in the world. A rare single malt that, Mr. D’Costa quickly calculated, would cost around five thousand rupees even if one were to pick it up in the cheapest duty-free. He had read about it, and had always thought it the province of men who lived large and well and had their pictures taken with beautiful women on the cover of magazines. Five thousand rupees. That was fully as much as he received from a month’s worth of dividends.
    He thought: How much money do these youngsters have?
    And: Yes, he would most certainly like to have that drink.
    He remembered Rohini putting her hand on his arm, and saying: But first you must come and see the baby.
    He nodded dutifully and followed her into the guest bedroom. The baby’s cot, she explained, had been moved from their bedroom upstairs into the room below, where her mother, and now Rohini, slept. This was to ensure that Aman wasn’t disturbed in the night, while she and her mother took turns with the baby. Mr. D’Costa nodded understandingly. After all, the man had to go out to work every day, and that was difficult to do on interrupted sleep.
    And where is your dear mother? he asked.
    Out shopping for baby clothes, said Rohini. She should be back soon.
    And Mr. D’Costa was angry with himself for not noticing her departure either. He felt that his visit was most ill-timed. He couldn’t help notice that the volume level in the drawing room had increased since he left it. There was really no question about it: his presence was a damper on that youthful crowd. They were getting boisterous again, and loud snatches of their conversation came into the guest room where the little bundled baby slept undisturbed. Mr. D’Costa couldn’t help listening. It was simply his habit to do so.
    He heard a male voice say, somewhat pedantically: “. . . so after much discussion, we concluded that labor pain was like getting kicked in the balls.”
    “Fuck!” said a second man. “Come on, Farhan.
Nothing
can be that bad!”
    “And why not?” said a woman, speaking indignantly. “It probably is a lot worse!”
    “It
is
a lot worse” came Farhan’s voice, dryly. “By inference, being in labor for a whole day and night, like Rohini, must be like getting kicked in the balls, without a break,
for twenty-four hours
straight.
”
    There was a visceral sucking-in of breath by all the men present, and Mr. D’Costa too could feel a responsive quiver run through him at the thought. He was appalled and fascinated by the frankness of the conversation (no ladies and gentlemen these, for all that they were apparently well brought up), and forced his attention back to the baby, helpless cause of her mother’s carnage.
    He made all the appropriate noises while his mind pondered: stay for a drink of a lifetime and impose some more, or leave while they were still pleased to see him?
    The decision was taken out of his hands entirely.
    He exited the baby’s room with Rohini, his mind still undecided between temptation and dignity, when the front door opened and Rohini’s mother swept in, followed by the houseboy