The Nowhere Man by Kamala Markandaya

Author:Kamala Markandaya
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HopeRoad

21

‘IT WAS A MISTAKE,’ SRINIVAS HEARD HIMSELF SAYING, ‘if I had thought about it, Mr Platt, if I had considered it carefully as I should have done, I would have gone down on my knees to you. Well, perhaps not. It would have embarrassed you, and you would have gone away without hearing me out. Besides, kneeling is not our custom. We prostrate ourselves, you know. We throw ourselves at God’s feet.’

‘Feet are dreadful,’ the woman said.

‘The feet are stone,’ said Srinivas. ‘What else could they be? One cannot expect divinity to be made flesh before one’s eyes. Whatever you may believe,’ he said accommodatingly, ‘I could never believe that.’

‘I do not believe,’ the woman said.

‘Besides, flesh,’ said Srinivas, ‘would never survive. The devotional needs of mankind, Mr Platt, are too destructive. Even stone does not last, you know. If you look you will see the toes are abridged. In older gods the toenails are eroded up to the quick. All done by touch, just fingertips touching.’

‘Horrible,’ said the woman, with a clatter.

‘Why, it’s you, Mrs Fletcher,’ said Srinivas. ‘You’ve dropped your handbag. For some peculiar reason I thought you were Mr Platt, but of course he would never carry a handbag. Men don’t, generally speaking, do they, Mrs Fletcher?’

‘No,’ gasped Mrs Fletcher. ‘I was just going,’ she said, ‘Mrs Pickering’s here with the doctor.’ And fled.

When she was gone Srinivas went back to what was on his mind, but soon the door opened again.

‘Nothing but comings and goings,’ complained Srinivas to this visitor.

‘That going was rather rapid,’ said the visitor.

‘That was Mrs Fletcher,’ said Srinivas. ‘She is of a rather nervous disposition, it is difficult to know why. I was talking about Platt – you are not Platt, are you?’

‘I am Dr Radcliffe,’

‘Yes, well, Platt was a man from my past life. An unusual man for his time, though at the time one didn’t recognize it. I ought to have fallen at his feet, you know, touched his toes in gratitude.’

‘You’re lucky to have any toes left,’ said Dr Radcliffe.

‘I am no god,’ Srinivas smiled faintly. ‘Only gods have their toes nibbled away by the devout.’

‘No. Being human,’ said the doctor, deftly winding bandages, ‘you have to be content with frostbite.’

‘Kiss of death, touch of life, who knows?’ Srinivas smiled cheerfully. ‘I am babbling,’ he said. His father had been taken away for babbling.

‘You have a high temperature and are slightly delirious,’ said Dr Radcliffe.’ Your wife – ‘

‘My wife? Vasantha? Is she here?’ Srinivas was very confused. His father’s fate had been written on buff-coloured paper that the telegraph office used. Vasantha’s ashes he had himself consigned to the river.

‘I am not his legal wife,’ said Mrs Pickering.

‘Common law spouse,’ said Srinivas, giggling.

‘My mistake,’ said the doctor. ‘You are, may I say, in highly capable hands.’

‘We are all in God’s hands,’ said Srinivas, piously.

‘Yes, well, I’ll look in again tomorrow,’ said Dr Radcliffe. How close God lay under some surfaces, he thought with a flicker which could have been envy, though he also felt it was not really very suitable for this climate.

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