Chapters (62)
- Cover
- Dedication
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- PART ONE
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- PART TWO
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER THIRTY
- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
- CHAPTER FORTY
- CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
- CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
- CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
- CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
- CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
- CHAPTER FIFTY
- CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
- CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
- CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION GUIDE
I tried to relax on one of the sofas. But, feeling no small measure of discomfort, I realized the scene reminded me of the first words Willy Smets had said to me. Indians could be the means to my happiness or the obstacle to it. Despite the inconvenience this memory caused me, I had to admit he was right. It was powerfully tempting to let someone take care of you, even when it stank of exploitation. At the same time, I felt like a shit. There I was, enjoying the fruits of low-cost labor, all the while indifferent to the challenges Ramu might have been facing. Far from his family and friends, he was from some forsaken corner in the North of India, earning a pittance from a gora who barely appreciated him. Surely he was sending his entire salary back to his family. I was ashamed to think I’d been seduced. I was a convert. A believer in what Willy had told me. That the hardships of the Indian lower classes, to me, amounted to little more than a convenience. A means to achieve my own happiness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TUESDAY, JULY 8, 1975, 7:31 A.M.
Ramu tapped on my bedroom door and swept inside. I’d already done my run and had my bath. He opened the curtains and placed a tray with tea and biscuits on the table beside my bed.
“Newspapers, sir?” he asked.
I flipped through the Times of India as I sipped my tea, a masala I could only assume was Ramu’s own concoction. It was damn good. Not as sweet as Vikky’s at the office. Just right. Fragrant and fulfilling, without the risk of diabetes.
A telex from New York was waiting for me in the office. “Unable to locate Nielsen. No trace of him in Seattle. Maybe he went elsewhere. Gary.”
I thumbed through the latest news coming over the wire. For Christ’s sake, Ruffian had to be destroyed after breaking down in her match race with Foolish Pleasure. What a tragedy. A waste of a beautiful animal.
Ford announced he was going to run in ’76. No surprises there. But who would the Democrats put up against him? Probably Birch Bayh or Mo Udall, I figured. In India, the news was drying up. I was struggling to find an angle to pursue or a lead that needed a follow-up. Frank told me I’d better get on my horse or he’d send me back home. Joey Rahman had plenty of good ideas, he said.