“Any pictures of you? Or Ma? Or your friends—your best friend?” The boy closed the drawing book restlessly; Mr. Gupta feared his interview was going to be cut short. The sound of the air conditioner grew in its confidential presence. But he must continue; having been drawn in, he now felt excluded, as if a promise of something, something concrete, had been suggested to him, and immediately withdrawn. Where was he to go now? And if he did not go on, it would not be the boy, or the company, but himself he would be left to blame. In the end, you became your own accuser.

Not the boy, but a warm breath of air from the corridor interrupted him, as the door opened farther and Mrs. Sinha-Roy said cheerfully:

“Amal, where have you been? Mrs. Mehra wants to see you, and there are others waiting for you outside.” Mr. Gupta turned to see Mrs. Sinha-Roy, resplendent in her pink Parsi sari, at the door, and Mrs. Mehra, large and solid and smiling behind her, one of the overhead lights shining in her eyes. He knew then that all his years of hard work and preparation and dissembling and dreaming would get him no further than where he was.

“I was talking to Uncle Atul,” said the boy, as if this self-evident fact needed his witness to bring it to conclusion.

Confession of a Sacrifice

Confession of a Sacrifice

I AM BEING PREPARED for a sacrifice. This honour has bowed my head, above all the honours that people might give me. I walk in fear and humility, not quite following the significance of my function.

People are not only nice to me; they are tender with me. They are waiting for the big day to arrive. They have started constructing their shrines, making their preparations. Whenever I walk into the club, people stop eating and give me a second look; it’s as if they realize their food’s a shadow in comparison to the sanctity of my blood, my meat.

The other day I was sitting in the club with an old friend, someone close to my father’s age who has known me for years. He was in the navy blue suit he always prefers to wear, and there were chop suey and two bowls of clear soup before us. We were bent, absorbed, over our bowls of soup, and my friend, Mr. Dastur, asked me how my little one was doing.

“Oh, he’s fine,” I said. “He’s been going to school for a year now.” Mr. Dastur has never really been interested in small talk, although we make nothing but small talk, and he called out distractedly to a waiter to bring him some chili sauce.