Death of a Lesser God by Vaseem Khan

Author:Vaseem Khan [Khan, Vaseem]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

The National Library was grander than she could possibly have imagined, with all the trappings of a palace, the sort peasants might burn down during a revolution. Once the home of the lieutenant governor of Bengal, the neoclassical milk-white building – with green-painted doors and window frames – was set within grounds so vast and lush they could have doubled as a safari park.

Inside, she found an intimidatingly cavernous reading room with a vaulted ceiling held up by Roman beams and supported by Corinthian pillars. A grandfather clock hung on one wall. Her guidebook informed her that it had been made in London and transported to the tropics, presumably because the locals – despite creating an ancient civilisation rich in science and literature – had somehow managed to neglect the tricky business of learning how to tell the time properly.

Her heart skipped a beat as she noted the packed reading tables. These people – young men, for the most part – looked as if they belonged. Could the same be said of her?

It took her ten minutes to approach a librarian at the main desk and to be directed to the newspaper section. She gathered a stack of issues from the past decade, and then walked up a broad flight of steps to a mezzanine where reading desks were laid out between floor-to-ceiling shelving.

As she turned a corner, a figure coming the other way stumbled into her, sending her sprawling, newspapers flying in all directions.

A moment of blankness, and then she felt a hot rush race up her throat and to her cheeks.

A youngish man looked down at her from behind square-framed spectacles. ‘I’m so terribly sorry!’

She ignored him and pushed herself to her feet, then crouched down again and began to gather the newspapers together. Her set of pencils – sharpened that morning to the point where they might have served as kebab skewers – had embedded themselves in the carpet.

The man dropped into a squat and began helping her.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ she said, without looking at him.

‘It’s the least I can do.’

When they’d collected everything together, he gestured her towards a nearby desk.

Setting the stack down, he pushed his own book – a thick, red-bound volume entitled The Criminal Law Journal of India: Volume 52, 1949 – under one arm and held out a hand. ‘My name’s Haresh. Once again, allow me to apologise for my clumsiness.’

She found it difficult to meet his eyes. He was of middling height, uncommonly handsome, with glossy black hair, shining cheeks, and a debonair moustache. His white shirt went well with his tan brogues and khaki trousers.

‘Do you have a name?’

She cleared her throat. ‘Seema. Seema Desai.’

He smiled. ‘You’re not from Calcutta, are you?’

She looked at him sharply.

‘Your accent. You’re not Bengali. Let me guess . . . Bombay?’

She nodded.

‘In that case, allow me to welcome you to our fair city. Shagatom! ’ He nodded at the stack of newspapers. ‘Are you studying at the university?’

She hesitated, then shook her head.

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