The Red Carpet by Lavanya Sankaran Read Free Book Online Page A

struggling under an armful of packages.
    She nodded amiably to the greetings of her daughter’s friends, and then spied Mr. D’Costa. The immediate joy on her face made it clear: if there was one person who believed that, without him, Rohini would have faced the direst of times, this was she.
    “Mr. Dacosta! . . . So nice! . . . So kind! . . . I wanted to drop in and thank you personally, but so busy with the newborn baby!”
    He was involuntarily swept back into the baby’s room to admire again the newborn infant while she pointed out with pride the reproduction of her son-in-law’s nose and her daughter’s fingers. “Maya,” she said. “We are going to call her Maya.”
    Mr. D’Costa was back in his familiar milieu. There were no mysteries here.
    “Come, Mr. Dacosta.” She led him back to the drawing room, and asked, “Now please have something . . .”
    “I’m just fixing him a drink,” Aman put in.
    “Tchi! Aman! A drink at four o’clock in the afternoon! Nah, nah. What will Mr. Dacosta think! He is not a drunken one like all you people!” She shook her head affectionately at the chorus of halfhearted denials. “Mr. Dacosta will prefer some hot tea and some nice
garam-garam
snacks.”
    Temptation was swept away on a tide of goodwill; he saw his drink vanish into someone else’s hands and drunk thereafter as though it was the merest home-brew, and Mr. D’Costa found himself meekly agreeing to tea and hot samosas.
    He ate three samosas with chutney, which were indeed delicious, and drank two cups of well-sugared tea. Rohini’s mother sat by his side, and kept his plate filled, and his mouth engaged in exchanging all manner of information crucial to their understanding of each other. He found himself telling her about his son in Australia, and his long-ago job of forty years with British Tobacco. Just so would he have liked to sit across from Elizabeth’s mother, chatting pleasantly about their grandchild and the commingling of their families.
    The back of his mind, however, couldn’t help questioning, over and over: how much money did these youngsters make?
    Surely, surely, it was enough for a plane ticket?
    And today, several months later, closed curtains.
    “You know them so well,” said Mr. Kurien, without intentional malice, “why don’t you go and check?”
    Mr. D’Costa ignored both Mr. Kurien and his own impulses and waited. But when the curtains remained defiantly closed the following morning as well, he decided to act.
    He told himself that he had to go vegetable shopping anyway; it was just a question of stopping en route, a small meaningless diversion, nothing more. He imagined: perhaps Rohini would turn to him, to cry and confide her problems. Perhaps, once again, he was to be her support in distress, what with his son out of town, her parents living in Australia, and all.
    As once before, he dressed carefully, shaving and bathing and then drying his hair before combing it through with Brylcreem. He ironed the blue-and-pink checked polyester shirt and light blue poplin pants that constituted one of his best attires. He dressed slowly, then removed the pure leather brown belt from the plastic bag at the back of his cupboard. He looped it around his waist and slipped his feet into black crisscrossed Bata sandals. He was ready.
    He looked in on his wife and told her he was heading out to the market. He half hoped that she would comment on his dress, but as usual, she barely paid attention. Her gaze was fixed on the television screen, where a pert-looking cartoon girl dressed in an animal skin stood with arms akimbo.
“But, Fred . . . !”
went the nasal twang.
“Oh, brother!”
His wife smiled in response and raised the volume. Mr. D’Costa closed the door behind him as he left.
    It could be nothing. Perhaps Rohini was just sleeping late after a party. Perhaps she had left for a trip while Mr. D’Costa had been away to the market. Perhaps she had changed her housekeeping style.