Discussion Activity

1658 I V. S. NAIPAIJt

The senator grew tense. "Frog' bastard," he murmured indignantly. Then he closed his eyes in order to relax and he met himself in the darkness. Remember, he remembered, that whether it's you or someone else, it won't be long before you'll be dead and it won't be long before your name won't even be left. 8

He waited for the shudder to pass. "Tell me one thing," he asked then. "What have you heard about me?" "Do you want the honest-to-God truth?" "The honest-to-God truth." "Well," Laura Farina ventured, "they say you're worse than the rest because

you're different." The senator didn't get upset. He remained silent for a long time with his eyes

closed, and when he opened them again he seemed to have returned from his most hidden instincts.

"Oh, what the hell," he decided. "Tell your son of a bitch of a father that I'll straighten out his situation."

"If you want, I can go get the key myself," Laura Farina said. The senator held her back. "Forget about the key," he said, "and sleep awhile with me. It's good to be

with someone when you're so alone." Then she laid his head on her shoulder with her eyes fixed on the rose. The

senator held her about the waist, sank his face into woods-animal armpit, and gave in to terror. Six months and eleven days later he would die in that same position, debased and repudiated because of the public scandal with Laura Farina and weeping with rage at dying without her.

7. Epithet for "French." 8. A direct translation of a sentence from Marcus Aurelius's Meditations (4.6).

rinidadian Nobel laureate V. S. Naipaul has traveled widely to doc-

ument the lives of the poor and down- trodden, in essays and novels set on five continents. Of Indian descent, raised in multicultural Trinidad, and educated in England, Naipaul was one of the first writers to gain international prominence for representing the post- colonial world, but he has often riled critics and intellectuals with his con-

troversial views, He has, been critical of postcolo ments and cultures and almost nostalgic attitude I

nial times. His rejection of ideology has helped give tions of the contemporary

intensity and precision. Vidiadhar Surajprasaci

born to Hindu parents on 1932, in the small town of

. S. NAIPA1 I 16,59 Trinidad For the first six

years of his with the Political and psychological life, Naipaul lived in the "Lion's Den," implications of exile, colonization and a house run with an iron fist by his violence. A Bend in the River (1979), in grandmotherand filled with her daugh

fact, revisits the Congo almost a centuiy ters, sonsinlaw, and g er,

randchjl after Conrad's experiences there. Nai- His fath Seepersad who would serve Paul Won acclaim as one of the centu

ry's as the model for Mr. fiisWas in Nai- paul's most famous novel, A House greatest travel writers, with books on the for Mr. Biztvas (1961), was a strugglingWest Indies (The Mlle Passage, 1962) India (An Area of Darkness 1964), and

, journalist for the Trinidad Guardian Africa (A Congo Diasy,

1 980). In addi-and Occasional writer of poet and tion, the writer often used observations short stories; he encourage d his son's gleaned in his travels as the basis for his literary ambitions until his death, in fiction. His withering criticis

m of con- 1953. Depressive and resentfu

l of the temporary Islamic movements in PaId-domineering influence of his wife and stan in Among the Believers (1981)

his motherinlaw, Seepersad was a dis- brought him notoriety, as has his ambiv tant but loved figure in Naipaul's early alent attitude toward Trinidad. He life,

famously said of the country, "I was A scholarship student at the elite born there, yes. I thought it was a great Queen's Royal College, Naipaul, des- mistake." While traveli

ng the world, he perate to escape Trinidad, won one of has had his permanent home in Britain. four scholarships for the entire island In 2001 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1949 and left for Oxford the next for Literature. Fear, never to see his father again.

Despite his sometimes controversial While at Oxford Naipaul struggled to attitudes toward formerly coloniz ed peo

rnblish his work and occasionally felt lomesick, even pies, and Particularly toward those of

attempting suicide at African descent, Naipaul has been one he point He met Patricia Hale an of the most s ympathetic chroniclers of

)xford undergraduate, whom he mar- postcolonial life and of migratio

n. In the ed in 1955. The two remained unhap short story present ed here, "One Out of Many

ly married until Hale's death, in " (1971), re many and public,

his setting, unusually for 96. Naipaul's infidelities and abuses him, is the United States, The title refers After leaving Oxford and failing to to the motto on the Great Seal of the United States, E pluribus unum which

Id employment in the civil serv ice or originally referred to the union of the

irnalism Naipaul began work in states in a federal system Today, how -

54, as a broadcaster for the BBC's ever, the phrase suggest

s the ideal that, ribbean Voices, reviewing novels and made up of many culture s and races the enewng writers Later he regularly United States forms a unified society

. In lewed books for the New Statesman

the context of the story, the phrase also 57) first novel, The Mystic Masseur reflects the fact that the main character, 7 was indebted to his father's Santosh, is just one of many immigra

nts "C short stories His second, more ure no to the United States vel Miguel Street (1959)

Santosh leaves his wife and childre n

ten on a BBC typewriter, Was a in the hills of India and arrive

s in Cal success and was soon followed Washington D C as servant to an House for Mr. Biswas the first of Indian diplomat only to discover that

aul s many masterpieces his unofficial status and low pay seriously "Paul's work has often been com restrict his options Santosh undergoes With that of Joseph Conrad, and a numbe

r of comic embarrassments as of his novels

and travel books deal he accustoms himself to the American

1660 1 V. S. NAIPAUL

way of life. Missing his friends and family at home, he meets a sympathetic Indian restaurant owner and several African Americans, whom he describes as hu bs hi , a somewhat demeaning Hindi term for a person of African descent. Santosh has arrived at a time of racial tension, the late 1960s, and feels threat- ened by riots in Washington (after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.,

in April 1968). Yet he gradually comes to accept his life in his new country.

Naipaul, who once said that mod- ernism had "bypassed" him, achieves his sympathetic portrait of Santosh's situation by means of a precise realism. As the well-rounded first-person narra- tor tells his story, it is the vivid render- ing of his experiences and emotions that gives the work its power.

One Out of Many'

I am now an American citizen and I live in Washington, capital of the wo Many people, both here and in India, will feel that I have done well. But.

I was so happy in Bombay. I was respected, I had a certain position. I 'xor] for an important man. The highest in the land came to our bachelor chami' and enjoyed my food and showered compliments on me. I also had my frier We met in the evenings on the pavement below the gallery of our chamb Some of us, like the tailor's bearer and myself, were domestics who lived in street. The others were people who came to that bit of pavement to sk Respectable people; we didn't encourage riff-raff.

In the evenings it was cool. There were few passers-by and, apart from occasional double-decker bus or taxi, little traffic. The pavement was s\ and sprinkled, bedding brought out from daytime hiding-places, little oil-Lai lit. While the folk upstairs chattered and laughed, on the pavement we r newspapers, played cards, told stories and smoked. The clay pipe passed fi

friend to friend; we became drowsy. Except of course during the munson preferred to sleep on the pavement with my friends, although in our chami a whole cupboard below the staircase was reserved for my personal use.

It was good after a healthy night in the open to rise before the sun and he the sweepers came. Sometimes I saw the street lights go off. Bedding rolled up; no one spoke much; and soon my friends were hurrying in si competition to secluded lanes and alleys and open lots to relieve thcmsch was spared this competition; in our chambers I had facilities.

Afterwards for half an hour or so I was free simply to stroll. I liked wall beside the Arabian Sea, waiting for the sun to come up. Then the city and ocean gleamed like gold. Alas for those morning walks, that sudden o

dazzle, the moist salt breeze on my face, the flap of my shirt, that first cu hot sweet tea from a stall, the taste of the first leaf-cigarette.

Observe the workings of fate. The respect and security I enjoyed were du

the importance of my employer. It was this very importance which now a once destroyed the pattern of my life.

My employer was seconded by his firm to Government service and,

posted to Washington. I was happy for his sake but frightened for mine.

1. Refers to the Latin motto of the United States, E pluribus union

ONE OUT OF MANY 1661

was to be away for some years and there was nobody in Bombay he could sec- ond me to. Soon, therefore, I was to be out of a job and out of the chambers. For many years I had considered my life as settled. I had served my apprentic

e- ship, known my hard times. I didn't feel I could start again. I despaired. Was there a job for me in Bombay? I saw myself having to return to my village in the hills, to my wife and children there, not just for a holiday but for good. I saw myself again becoming a porter during the tourist season, racing after the buses as they arrived at the station and shouting with forty or fifty others for luggage. Indian luggage, not this lightweight American stuff! Heavy metal trunks!

I could have cried. It was no longer the sort of life for which I was fitted. I had grown soft in Bombay and I was no longer young. I had acquired posses- sions, I was used to the privacy of my cupboard. I had become a city man, used to certain comforts.

My employer said, "Washington is not Bombay, Santosh. Washington is expensive. Even if I was able to raise your fare, you wouldn't be able to live over there in anything like your present style."

But to be barefoot in the hills, after Bombay! The shock, the disgrace! I couldn't face my friends. I stopped sleeping on the pavement and spent as much of my free time as possible in my cupboard among my possessions, as among things which were soon to be taken from me.

My employer said, "Santosh, my heart bleeds for you." I said, "Sahib,' if I look a little concerned it is only because I worry about

you. You have always been fussy, and I don't see how you will manage in Washington. "

"It won't be easy. But it's the principle. Does the representative of a poor coun- xy like ours travel about with his cook? Will that create a good impression?"

"You will always do what is right, sahib." He went silent. After some days he said, "There's not only the expense, Santosh. There's the ILleStion of foreign exchange. Our rupee' isn't what it was." "I understand, sahib. Duty is duty."

* fortnight later, when I had almost given up hope, he said, "Santosh, I have unstilted Government. You will accompany me, Government has sanctioned, fill arrange accommodation. But no eenses. You will get your passport and our P form. But I want you to think, Santosh. Washington is not Bombay." I went down to the pavement that night with my bedding. I said, blowing down my shirt, "Bombay gets hotter and hotter." Do you know what you are doing?" the tailor's bearer said, "Will the Amen-Ins smoke

with you? Will they sit and talk with you in the evenings? Will they old you by the hand and walk with you beside the ocean?" It pleased me that he was jealous. My last days in Bombay were very happy.

packed my employer's two suitcases and bundled up my own belongings in ngtlis of old cotton. At the airport they made a fuss about my bundles. They id they couldn't accept them as luggage for the hold because they didn't like

i\lastcr (Hindi). Indian

unit of currency, worth about ten cents at the time of the story.

1662 1 V. S. NAIPAUL ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1663

the responsibility. So when the time came I had to climb up to the aircraft with all my bundles. The girl at the top, who was smiling at everybody else, stopped smiling when she saw me. She made me go right to the back of the plane, far from my employer. Most of the seats there were empty, though, and I was able

to spread my bundles around and, well, it was comfortable. It was bright and hot outside, cool inside. The plane started, rose up in the

air, and Bombay and the ocean tilted this way and that. It was very nice. When we settled down I looked around for people like myself, but I could see no one among the Indians or the foreigners who looked like a domestic. Worse, they were all dressed as though they were going to a wedding and, brother, I soon

saw it wasn't they who were conspicuous. I was in my ordinary Bombay clothes, the loose long-tailed shirt, the wide-waisted pants held up with a piece of string. Perfectly respectable domestic's wear, neither dirty nor clean, and in Bombay no one would have looked. But now on the plane I felt heads turning

whenever I stood up. I was anxious. I slipped off my shoes, tight even without the laces, and drew

my feet up. That made me feel better. I made myself a little betel-nut mixture4 and that made me feel better still. Half the pleasure of betel, though, is the

spitting; and it was only when I had worked up a good mouthful that I saw i had a problem. The airline girl saw too. That girl didn't like me at all. She spoke roughly to me. My mouth was full, my cheeks were bursting, and I couldn't say anything. I could only look at her. She went and called a man in uniform and he came and stood over me. I put my shoes back on and swal- lowed the betel juice. It made me feel quite ill.

The girl and the man, the two of them, pushed a little trolley of drinks down the aisle. The girl didn't look at me but the man said, "You want a drink, chum?" He wasn't a bad fellow. I pointed at random to a bottle. It was a kind

at first but then not so nice. I was worrying about of soda drink, nice and sharp it when the girl said, "Five shillings sterling or sixty cents U.S." That took me by surprise. I had no money, only a few rupees. The girl stamped, and I thought she was going to hit me with her pad when I stood up to show her who my

employer was. Presently my employer came down the aisle. He didn't look very well. He

said, without stopping, "Champagne, Santosh? Already we are overdoing?" He went on to the lavatory. When he passed back he said, "Foreign exchange, San tosh! Foreign exchange!" That was all. Poor fellow, he was suffering too.

The journey became miserable for me. Soon, with the wine I had drunk, the betel juice, the movement and the noise of the aeroplane, I was vomiting all over my bundles, and I didn't care what the girl said or did. Later there were more urgent and terrible needs. I felt I would choke in the tiny, hissing room at J the back. I had a shock when I saw my face in the mirror. In the fluorescent I light it was the colour of a corpse. My eyes were strained, the sharp air hurt nose and seemed to get into my brain. I climbed up on the lavatory seat anti squatted. I lost control of myself. As quickly as I could I ran back out into

,- ,', comparative openness of the cabin and hoped no one had noticed. The b

4. A popular, mildly narcotic substance like chewing tobacco, normally chewed

were dim now; some people had taken off their jackets and were sleeping. I hoped the plane would crash.

The girl woke me up. She was almost screaming. "It's you, isn't it? Isn't it?" I thought she was going to tear the shirt off me. I pulled back and leaned

hard on the window. She burst into tears and nearly tripped on her sari as she ran up the aisle to get the man in uniform.

Nightmare. And all I knew was that somewhere at the end, after the airports and the crowded lounges where everybody was dressed up, after all those take- offs and touchdowns, was the city of Washington. I wanted the journey to end but I couldn't say I wanted to arrive at Washington. I was already a little scared of that city, to tell the truth. I wanted only to be off the plane and to be in the open again, to stand on the ground and breathe and to try to understand what time of day it was.

At last we arrived. I was in a daze. The burden of those bundles! There were more closed rooms and electric lights. There were questions from officials.

"Is he diplomatic?" "He's only a domestic," my employer said. "Is that his luggage? What's in that pocket?" I was ashamed. "Santosh," my employer said. I pulled out the little packets of pepper and salt, the sweets, the envelopes

with scented napkins, the toy tubes of mustard. Airline trinkets. I had been collecting them throughout the journey, seizing a handful, whatever my condi- tion, every time I passed the galley.

"He's a cook," my employer said. "Does he always travel with his condiments?" "Santosh, Santosh," my employer said in the car afterwards, "in Bombay it

didn't matter what you did. Over here you represent your country. I must say I cannot understand why your behaviour has already gone so much out of

"I am sorry, sahib." "Look at it like this, Santosh. Over here you don't only represent your coun- y, you represent me." For the people of Washington it was late afternoon or early evening, I wldn't say which. The time and the light didn't match, as they did in Born- y. Of that drive I remember green fields, wide roads, many motor cars travel- ig fast, making a steady hiss, hiss, which wasn't at all like our Bombay traffic )ise. I remember big buildings and wide parks; many bazaar areas; then Taller houses without fences and with gardens like bush, with the hubshi iriding about or sitting down, more usually sitting down, everywhere. Espe- illy I remember the huh5hi. I had heard about them in stories and had seen le or two in Bombay. But I had never dreamt that this wild race existed in ch numbers in Washington and were permitted to roam the streets so freely. father, what was this place I had come to?

[wanted, I say, to be in the open, to breathe, to come to myself, to reflect. it there was to be no openness for me that evening. From the aeroplane to

Mildly derogatory term for a person of African descent (1-lindi).

1664 1 V. S. NAIPAUL

the airport building to the motor car to the apartment block to the elevator to the corridor to the apartment itself, I was forever enclosed, forever in the hiss-

ing, hissing sound of air-conditioners. I was too dazed to take stock of the apartment. I saw it as only another halt-

ing place. My employer went to bed at once, completely exhausted, poor Fel- low. I looked around for my room. I couldn't find it and gave up. Aching for the

Bombay ways, I spread my bedding in the carpeted corridor just outside our apartment door. The corridor was long: doors, doors. The illuminated ceiling was decorated with stars of different sizes; the colours were grey and blue and gold. Below that imitation sky I felt like a prisoner.

Waking, looking up at the ceiling, I thought just for a second that I had fallen asleep on the pavement below the gallery of our Bombay chambers. Then I real- ized my loss. I couldn't tell how much time had passed or whether it was night

or day. The only clue was that newspapers now lay outside some doors. It dis-

turbed me to think that while I had been sleeping, alone and defenceless, I had been observed by a stranger and perhaps by more than one stranger.

I tried the apartment door and found I had locked myself out. I didn't want to disturb my employer. I thought I would get out into the open, go for a walk. I remembered where the elevator was. I got in and pressed the button. The elevator dropped fast and silently and it was like being in the aeroplane again.

When the elevator stopped and the blue metal door slid open I saw plain con- crete corridors and blank walls The noise of machinery was very loud. I knew I was in the basement and the main floor was not far above me. But i no longer

wanted to try; I gave up ideas of the open air. I thought I would just go hack Lip

to the apartment. But I hadn't noted the number and didn't even know what floor we were on. My courage flowed out of me. I sat on the floor of the eleva- tor and felt the tears come to my eyes. Almost without noise the elevator door

closed, and I found I was being taken up silently at great speed. The elevator stopped and the door opened. It was my emphver, his hair

uncombed, yesterday's dirty shirt partly unbuttoned. He looked frightened. "Santosh, where have you been at this hour of morning? Without your

shoes." I could have embraced him. He hurried me back past the newspapers to our

apartment and I took the bedding inside. The wide window showed the early morning sky, the big city; we were high up, way above the trees.

I said, "I couldn't find my room." "Government sanctioned," my employer said. "Are you sureyou've looked.

We looked together. One little corridor led past the bathroom to his bed- room; another, shorter corridor led to the big room and the kitchen. I here was

nothing else. "Government sanctioned," my employer said, moving about the kitchen and

opening cupboard doors. "Separate entrance, shelving. I have the c0rresp0fl

dence." He opened another door and looked inside. "Santosh, do You think it is

possible that this is what Government meant?" The cupboard he had opened was as high as the rest of the

apartment and as

wide as the kitchen, about six feet. It was about three feet deep. It had

doors. One door opened into the kitchen; another door, directly opposite.

opened into the corridor.

ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1665

"Separate entrance," my employer said. "Shelving, electric light, power point, fitted carpet."

"This must be my room, sahib." "Santosh, some enemy in Government has done this to me." "Oh no, sahib. You mustn't say that. Besides, it is very big. I will be able to

make myself very comfortable. It is much bigger than my little cubby-hole in the chambers. And it has a nice flat ceiling. I wouldn't hit my head."

"You don't understand, Santosh. Bombay is Bombay. Here if we start living in cupboards we give the wrong impression. They will think we all live in cup- boards in Bombay."

"0 sahib, but they can just look at me and see I am dirt." "You are very good, Santosh. But these people are malicious. Still, if you are

happy, then I am happy." "I am very happy, sahib."

And after all the upset, I was. It was nice to crawl in that evening, spread my bedding and feel protected and hidden. I slept very well.

In the morning my employer said, "We must talk about money, Santosh. Your salary is one hundred rupees a month. But Washington isn't Bombay. Every- thing is a little bit more expensive here, and I am going to give you a Dearness Allowance, As from today you are getting one hundred and fifty rupees."

"Sahib."

"And I'm giving you a fortnight's pay in advance. In foreign exchange. Seventy- five rupees. Ten cents to the rupee, seven hundred and fifty cents. Seven fifty U.S. Here, Santosh. This afternoon you go out and have a little walk and enjoy. But be careful. We are not among friends, remember."

So at last, rested, with money in my pocket, I went out in the open. And of course the city wasn't a quarter as frightening as I had thought. The buildings weren't particularly big, not all the streets were busy, and there were many lovely trees. A lot of the hubshi were about, very wild-looking some of them, with dark glasses and their hair frizzed out, but it seemed that if you didn't trouble them they didn't attack you.

I was looking for a café or a tea-stall where perhaps domestics congregated. But I saw no domestics, and I was chased away from the place I did eventually go into. The girl said, after I had been waiting some time, "Can't you read? We don't serve hippies or bare feet here

0 father' I had come out without my shoes But what a country, I thought, walking briskly away, where people are never allowed to dress normally but nust forever wear their very best' Why must they wear out shoes and fine lothes for no purpose What occasion are they honouring What waste what

)resumption! Who do they think is noticing them all the time And even while these thoughts were in my head I found I had come to a

oundabout with trees and a fountain where—and it was like a fulfilment in a Iream not easy to believe—there were many people who looked like my own )eople I tightened the string around my loose pants, held down my flapping hirt and ran through the traffic to the green circle Some of the hubshz were there playing musical instruments and looking quite tappy

in their way. There were some Americans sitting about on the grass and he fountain and the kerb Many of them were in rough friendly looking

1666 1 V. S. NAIPAUL

ONE OUT OF MANY 1667

clothes; some were without shoes; and I felt I had been over hasty in condemn- j I burst into tears, ing the entire race. But it wasn't these people who had attracted me to the "My poor Santosh, something has happened. Tell me what has happened." circle. It was the dancers. The men were bearded, bare-footed and in saffron "Sahib, I've spent more than half the advance robes, and the girls were in saris and canvas shoes that looked like our Own Went

out and had a coffee and cake and then I went gave me this morning. I ent to a movie." Bata shoes. They were shaking little cymbals and chanting and lifting their

His eyes went small and twinkly behind his glasses. He bit the inside of his heads up and down and going round in a circle, making a lot of dust. It was a top lip, scraped at his moustache with his lower little bit like a Red Indian dance in a cowboy movie, but they were chanting yousee. I told you it was expensive " teeth, and he said, "You see, Sanskrit words in praise of Lord Krishna.6

I was very pleased. But then a disturbing thought came to me. It might have been because of the half-caste appearance of the dancers; it might have been their bad Sanskrit pronunciation and their accent. I thought that these people were now strangers, but that perhaps once upon a time they had been like me. Perhaps, as in some story, they had been brought here among the hubshi as captives a long time ago and had become a lost people, like our own wandering gipsy folk, and had forgotten who they were. When I thought that, I lost my pleasure in the dancing; and I felt for the dancers the sort of distaste we feel when we are faced with something that should be kin but turns out not to be, turns out to be degraded, like a deformed man, or like a leper, who from a dis- tance looks whole.

I didn't stay. Not far from the circle I saw a café which appeared to be serv- ing bare feet. I went in, had a coffee and a nice piece of cake and bought a pack of cigarettes; matches they gave me free with the cigarettes. It was all right, but then the bare feet began looking at me, and one bearded fellow came and sniffed loudly at me and smiled and spoke some sort of gibberish, and then some others of the bare feet came and sniffed at me. They weren't unfriendly, but I didn't appreciate the behaviour; and it was a little frightening to find, when I left the place, that two or three of them appeared to be following me. They weren't unfriendly, but I didn't want to take any chances. I passed a cin- ema; I went in. It was something I wanted to do anyway. In Bombay I used to go once a week.

And that was all right. The movie had already started. It was in English, not too easy for me to follow, and it gave me time to think. It was only there, in the darkness, that I thought about the money I had been spending. The prices had seemed to me very reasonable, like Bombay prices. Three for the movie ticket, one fifty in the café, with tip. But I had been thinking in rupees and paying in dollars. In less than an hour I had spent nine days' pay.

I couldn't watch the movie after that. I went out and began to make my way back to the apartment block. Many more of the hubshi were about now and I saw that where they congregated the pavement was wet, and dangerous with broken glass and bottles. I couldn't think of cooking when I got back to the apartment. I couldn't bear to look at the view. I spread my bedding in the cup board, lay down in the darkness and waited for my employer to return.

When he did I said, "Sahib, I want to go home." "Santosh, I've paid five thousand rupees to bring you here. If I send you bach

now, you will have to work for six or seven years without salary to pay me back!

6. Hindu deity, also worshipped by the Hare Indian clothes and chant the names of 1Sb

Krishnas, mostly white American Hindus some- in Sanskrit, a classical Indian language. times viewed as a cult, who wear traditional

I understood I was a prisoner. I accepted this and adjusted. I learned to live within the apartment, and I was even calm.

My employer was a man of taste and he soon had the apartment looking like something in a magazine, with books and Indian paintings and Indian

fabrics and pieces of sculpture and bronze statues of our gods. I was careful to take no delight in it.

It was of course very pretty, especially with the view. But the view remained foreign and I never felt that the apartment was real,

like the shabby old Bombay chambers with the cane chairs, or that it had anything to do with me.

When people came to dinner I did my duty. At the appropriat e time I would bid the company goodnight, close off the kitchen behind its folding screen and

pretend I was leaving the apartment. Then I would lie down quietly in my cup- board and smoke. I was free to go out; I had my separate entrance. But I didn't like being out of the apartment. I didn't even like going down to the laundry room in the basement.

Once or twice a week I went to the supermarket on our street. I always had to walk past groups of hubshi men and children. I tried not to look, but it was hard. They sat on the pavement, on steps and in the bush around their redbrick

houses, some of which had boarded- up windows. They appeared to be very

much a people of the Open air, with little to do; even in the mornings some of the men were drunk. Scattered among the hubshi houses were others just as old but with gas-

lamps that burned night and day in the entrance. These were the houses of the Americans. I seldom saw these people; they didn't spend much time on the street. The lighted gas-lamp was the American way of saying that though a house looked old outside it was nice and new inside. I also felt that it was like a warning to the hubshi to keep off. Outside the supermarket there was always a policeman with a gun. Inside, there were always a couple of hubshi

guards with truncheons arid, behind the cashiers, some old hubshi beggar men in rags. There were also many young hubshi

boys, small but muscular, waiting to carry parcels, as once in the hills I had waited to carry Indian tourists' luggage.

These trips to the supermarket were my only outings, and I was always glad to get back to the apartment. The work there was light. I watched a lot of tele-vision and my English improved, I

grew to like certain commercials very much. It was in these commercials i saw the Americans whom in real life I so seldom saw and knew only by their gas-lamps. Up there in the apartment, with a view Of the white domes and towers and greenery of the famous city,

I entered the homes of the Americans and saw them cleaning those homes. I saw them cleaning floors and dishes. I saw them buying clothes and cleaning clothes, buying motor cars and cleaning motor cars. I saw them cleaning, cleaning.

668 1 V. S. NAIPAUL

The effect of all this television on me was curious. If by some chance I saw an American on the street I tried to fit him or her into the commercials; and I felt I had caught the person in an interval between his television duties. So to some extent Americans have remained to me, as people not quite real, as peo- ple temporarily absent from television.

Sometimes a hubshi came on the screen, not to talk of hubshi things, but to

do a little cleaning of his own. That wasn't the same. He was too different from

the hubshi I saw on the street and I knew he was an actor. I knew that his tele- vision duties were only make-believe and that he would soon have to return to

the street.

One day at the supermarket, when the hubshi girl took my money, she sniffed

and said, "You always smell sweet, baby." She was friendly, and I was at last able to clear up that mystery, of my smell.

It was the poor country weed I smoked. It was a peasant taste of which I was

slightly ashamed, to tell the truth; but the cashier was encouraging. As it hap- pened, I had brought a quantity of the weed with me from Bombay in one of my bundles, together with a hundred razor blades, believing both weed and blades to be purely Indian things. I made an offering to the girl. In return she taught me a few words of English. "Me black and beautiful" was the first thing she taught me. Then she pointed to the policeman with the gun outside and

taught me: "He pig." My English lessons were taken a stage further by the hubshi maid who

worked for someone on our floor in the apartment block. She too was attracted by my smell, but I soon began to feel that she was also attracted by my small- ness and strangeness. She herself was a big woman, broad in the face, with high cheeks and bold eyes and lips that were full but not pendulous. Her large-

ness disturbed me; I found it better to concentrate on her face. She misunder- stood; there were times when she frolicked with me in a violent way. I didn't

like it, because I couldn't fight her off as well as I would have liked and because in spite of myself I was fascinated by her appearance. Her smell mixed with the perfumes she used could have made me forget myself.

She was always coming into the apartment. She disturbed me while I was watching the Americans on television. I feared the smell she felt behind. Sweat, perfume, my own weed: the smells lay thick in the room, and I prayed to the bronze gods my employer had installed as living-room ornaments that I would not be dishonoured. Dishonoured, I say; and I know that this might seem strange to people over here, who have permitted the hubshi

to settle

among them in such large numbers and must therefore esteem them in certain ways. But in our country we frankly do not care for the hubshi.

It is written in

our books, both holy and not so holy, that it is indecent and wr ong for a man of

our blood to embrace the hubshi woman. To be dishonoured in this life, to be

born a cat or a monkey or a hubshi in the next! But I was falling. Was it idleness and solitude? I was found

atLracUs' I

wanted to know why. I began to go to the bathroom of the apartment simply to study my face in the mirror. I cannot easily believe it myself now, but

in Bom-

bay a week or a month could pass without my looking in the m irror: and t en

it wasn't to consider my looks but to check whether the barber had cut of too much hair or whether a pimple was about to burst. Slowly 1 made a disco

, e

ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1669

My face was handsome. I had never thought of myself in this way. I had thought of myself as unnoticeable, with features that served as identification alone.

The discovery of my good looks brought its strains. I became obsessed with my appearance, with a wish to see myself. It was like an illness. I would be watching television, for instance, and I would be surprised by the thought: are you as handsome as that man? I would have to get up and go to the bathroom and look in the mirror.

I thought back to the time when these matters hadn't interested me, and I saw how ragged I must have looked, on the aeroplane, in the airport, in that café for bare feet, with the rough and dirty clothes I wore, without doubt or question, as clothes befitting a servant. I was choked with shame. I saw, too, how good people in Washington had been, to have seen me in rags and yet to have taken me for a man.

I was glad I had a place to hide. I had thought of myself as a prisoner. Now I was glad I had so little of Washington to cope with: the apartment, my cup- board, the television set, my employer, the walk to the supermarket, the hubshi woman. And one day I found I no longer knew whether I wanted to go back to Bombay. Up there, in the apartment, I no longer knew what I wanted to do.

I became more careful of my appearance. There wasn't much I could do. I bought laces for my old black shoes, socks, a belt. Then some money came my way. I had understood that the weed I smoked was of value to the hubshi and the bare feet; I disposed of what I had, disadvantageously as I now know, through the hubshi girl at the supermarket. I got just under two hundred dol- lars. Then, as anxiously as I had got rid of my weed, I went out and bought some clothes.

I still have the things I bought that morning. A green hat, a green suit. The suit was always too big for me. Ignorance, inexperience; but I also remember the feeling of presumption. The salesman wanted to talk, to do his job. I didn't want to listen. I took the first suit he showed me and went into the cubicle and changed. I couldn't think about size and fit. When I considered all that cloth and all that tailoring I was proposing to adorn my simple body with, that body that needed so little, I felt I was asking to be destroyed. I changed back quickly, went out of the cubicle and said I would take the green suit The salesman began to talk, I cut him short, I asked for a hat When I got back to the apart- ment I felt quite weak and had to lie down for a while in my cupboard

I never hung the suit up Even in the shop, even while counting out the pre- cious dollars, I had known it was a mistake I kept the suit folded in the box with all its pieces of tissue paper. Three or four times I put it on and walked about the apartment and sat down on chairs and lit cigarettes and crossed my legs practising But I couldn't bring myself to wear the suit out of doors Later I wore the pants, but never the jacket I never bought another suit, I soon began wearing the sort of clothes I wear today, pants with some sort of zip- pered jacket

Once I had had no secrets from my employer, it was so much simpler not to have secrets But some instinct told me now it would be better not to let him know about the green suit or the few dollars I had just as instinct had already told me I should keep my growing knowledge of English to myself.

Once my employer had been to me only a presence. I used to tell him then that beside him I was as dirt. It was only a way of talking, one of the courtesies of our language, but it had something of truth. I meant that he was the man who adventured in the world for me, that I experienced the world through him, that I was content to be a small part of his presence. I was content, sleeping on the Bombay pavement with my friends, to hear the talk of my employer and his guests upstairs. I was more than content, late at night, to be identified among the sleepers and greeted by some of those guests before they drove away.

Now I found that, without wishing it, I was ceasing to see myself as part of my employer's presence, and beginning at the same time to see him as an out- sider might see him, as perhaps the people who came to dinner in the apart- ment saw him. I saw that he was a man of my own age, around thirty-five; it astonished me that I hadn't noticed this before. I saw that he was plump, in need of exercise, that he moved with short, fussy steps; a man with glasses, thinning hair, and that habit, during conversation, of scraping at his mous- tache with his teeth and nibbling at the inside of his top lip; a man who was frequently anxious, took pains over his work, was subjected at his own table to unkind remarks by his office colleagues; a man who looked as uneasy in Wash- ington as I felt, who acted as cautiously as I had learned to act.

I remember an American who came to dinner. He looked at the pieces of sculpture in the apartment and said he had himself brought back a whole head from one of our ancient temples; he had got the guide to hack it off.

I could see that my employer was offended. He said, "But that's illegal." "That's why I had to give the guide two dollars. If! had a bottle of whisky he

would have pulled down the whole temple for me." My employer's face went blank. He continued to do his duties as host but he

was unhappy throughout the dinner. I grieved for him. Afterwards he knocked on my cupboard. I knew he wanted to talk. I was in

my underclothes but I didn't feel underdressed, with the American gone. I stood in the door of my cupboard; my employer paced up and down the small kitchen; the apartment felt sad.

"Did you hear that person, Santosh?" I pretended I hadn't understood, and when he explained I tried to console

him. I said, "Sahib, but we know these people are Franks and barbarians." "They are malicious people, Santosh. They think that because we are a poor

country we are all the same. They think an official in Government is just the same as some poor guide scraping together a few rupees to keep body and soul together, poor fellow."

I saw that he had taken the insult only in a personal way, and I was disap- pointed. I thought he had been thinking of the temple.

A few days later I had my adventure. The hubshi woman came in, movi my employer's ornaments like a bull. I was greatly provoked. The sme much; so was the sight of her armpits. I fell. She dragged me down on t on the saffron spread which was one of my employer's nicest pieces C

folk-weaving. I saw the moment, helplessly, as one of dishonour. I Kali, goddess of death and destruction, coal-black, with a red tongue eyeballs and many powerful arms. I expected her to be wild and fiercl added insult to injury by being very playful, as though, because I was

1670 I V. S. NAIPAUL

ONE OUT 01 MANY 1 1671

strange, the act was not real. She laughed all the time. I would have liked to withdraw, but the act took over and completed itself. And then I felt dreadful.

I wanted to be forgiven, I wanted to be cleansed, I wanted her to go. Nothing frightened me more than the way she had ceased to be a visitor in the apart- ment and behaved as though she possessed it. I looked at the sculptur

e and the fabrics and thought of my poor employer, suffering in his office somewhere I bathed and bathed afterwards. The smell would not leave me. I fancied that

the woman's oil was still on that poor part of my poor body. It occurred to me to rub it down with half a lemon. Penance and cleansing; but it didn't hurt as much as I expected, and I extended the penance by rolling about naked on the floor of the bathroom and the sitting-room and howling. At last the tears came, real tears, and I was comforted.

It was cool in the apartment; the air-conditioning always hummed; but I could see that it was hot outside, like one of our own summer days in the hills. The urge came upon me to dress as I might have done in my village on a reli- gious occasion. In one of my bundles I had a dhoti-length of new cotton, a gift from the tailor's bearer that I had never used. I draped this around my waist and between my legs, lit incense sticks, sat down crosslegged on the floor and tried to meditate and become still. Soon I began to feel hungry. That made me happy; I decided to fast.

Unexpectedly my employer came in. I didn't mind being caught in the atti- tude and garb of prayer; it could have been so much worse. But I wasn't expect-ing him till late afternoon.

"Santosh, what has happened?"

Pride got the better of me. I said, "Sahib, it is what I do from time to time." But I didn't find merit in his eyes. He was far too agitated to notice me prop-

erly. He took off his lightweight fawn jacket, dropped it on the saffron spread, went to the refrigerator

and drank two tumblers of orange juice, one after the other. Then he looked out at the view, scraping at his moustache.

"Oh, my poor Santosh, what are we doing in this place? Why do we have to come here?"

I looked with him. I saw nothing unusual. The wide window showed the colours of the hot day: the pale-blue sky, the white, almost colourles

s, domes of famous buildings rising out of dead-green foliage; the untidy roofs of apart- ment blocks where on Saturday and Sunday mornings people sunbathed

; and, below, the fronts and backs of houses on the tree-lined Street down which I walked to the supermarket

My employer turned off the air-conditioning and all noise was absent from the room. An instant later I began to hear the noises outside: sirens far and near. When my employer slid the window open the roar of the disturbed city rushed into the room. He closed the window and there was near-silenc

e again. Not far from the supermarket i saw black smoke, uncurling, rising, swiftly turning colourless. This was not the smoke which some of the apartment blocks gave off all day. This was the smoke of a real fire.

"The hubshi have gone wild, Santosh. They are burning down Washington. )17

I didn't mind at all. Indeed, in my mood of prayer and repentance, the news Was even welcome. And it was with a feeling of release that I watched and heard

to riots in 1968 after the assassination of the civi l rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr

ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1673

that in our country he had been a man of some standing, not quite the sort of person who would go into the restaurant business, I felt at one with him. He invited me in to look around, asked my name and gave his. It was Priya.

Just past the gallery was the loveliest and richest room I had ever seen, The wallpaper was like velvet; I wanted to pass my hand over

it. The brass lamps that hung from the ceiling were in a lovely cut-out pattern and the bulbs were of many colours. Priya looked with me, and the hollows under his eyes grew darker, as though my admiration was increasing his worry at his extravagance. The restaurant hadn't yet opened for customers and on a shelf in one corner I saw Priya's collection of good-luck objects: a brass plate with a heap of uncooked rice, for prosperity; a little copybook and a little diary pencil, for good luck with the accounts; a little clay lamp, for general good luck.

"What do you think, Santosh? You think it will be all right?" "It is bound to be all right, Priya."

"But I have enemies, you know, Santosh, The Indian restaurant people are not going to appreciate me. All mine, you know, Santosh. Cash paid. No mort- gage or anything like that. I don't believe in mortgages. Cash or nothing."

I understood him to mean that he had tried to get a mortgage and failed, and was anxious about money.

"But what are you doing here, Santosh? You used to be in Government or something?"

"You could say that, Priya."

"Like me. They have a sang here. If you can't beat them, join them. I joined them. They are still beating me." He sighed and spread his arms on the top of the red wall-seat, "Ali, Santosh, why do we do it? Why don't we renounce and go and meditate on the riverbank?" He waved about the room. "The yemblems

8 of the world, Santosh. Just yemblems,"

I didn't know the English word he used, but I understood its meaning; and for a moment it was like being back in Bombay, exchanging stories and phi- losophies with the tailor's bearer and others in the evening.

"But I am forgetting, Santosh. You will have some tea or coffee or some- thing?"

1672 1 V. S. NAIPAIJL

the city burn that afternoon and watched it burn that night. I watched it burn again and again on television; and I watched it burn in the morning. It burned like a famous city and I didn't want it to stop burning. I wanted the fire to spread and spread and I wanted everything in the city, even the apartment block, even the apartment, even myself, to be destroyed and consumed. I wanted escape to be impossible; I wanted the very idea of escape to become absurd. At every sign that the burning was going to stop I felt disappointed and let down.

For four days my employer and I stayed in the apartment and watched the city burn. The television continued to show us what we could see and what, whenever we slid the window back, we could hear. Then it was over. The view from our window hadn't changed. The famous buildings stood; the trees remained. But for the first time since I had understood that I was a prisoner I found that I wanted to be out of the apartment and in the streets.

The destruction lay beyond the supermarket. I had never gone into this part of the city before, and it was strange to walk in those long wide streets for the first time, to see trees and houses and shops and advertisements, everything like a real city, and then to see that every signboard on every shop was burnt or stained with smoke, that the shops themselves were black and broken, that flames had burst through some of the upper windows and scorched the red bricks. For mile after mile it was like that. There were hubshi groups about, and at first when I passed them I pretended to be busy, minding my own busi- ness, not at all interested in the ruins. But they smiled at me and I found I was smiling back. Happiness was on the faces of the hubshi. They were like people amazed they could do so much, that so much lay in their power. They were like people on holiday. I shared their exhilaration.

The idea of escape was a simple one, but it hadn't occurred to me before. I adjusted to my imprisonment I had wanted only to get away from Wash and to return to Bombay. But then I had become confused. I had looked mirror and seen myself, and I knew it wasn't possible for me to return to B to the sort of job I had had and the life I had lived. I couldn't easily becon of someone else's presence again. Those evening chats on the pavement, morning walks: happy times, but they were like the happy times of childl didn't want them to return.

I had taken, after the fire, to going for long walks in the city. And or when I wasn't even thinking of escape, when I was just enjoying the sigF my new freedom of movement, I found myself in one of those leafy where private houses had been turned into business premises. I saw a countryman superintending the raising of a signboard on his gallery. Th board told me that the building was a restaurant, and I assumed that di in charge was the owner. He looked worried and slightly ashamed, smiled at me. This was unusual, because the Indians I had seen on the of Washington pretended they hadn't seen me; they made me feel th didn't like the competition of my presence or didn't want me to start them difficult questions.

I complimented the worried man on his signboard and wished him goc in his business. He was a small man of about fifty and he was wearing a d breasted suit with old-fashioned wide lapels. He had dark hollows bel eyes and he looked as though he had recently lost a little weight. I cot

I shook my head from side to side to indicate that I was agreeable, and he alled out in a strange harsh language to someone behind the kitchen door. "Yes, Santosh. Yem-blems!" And he sighed and slapped the red seat hard. A man came out from the kitchen with a tray. At first he looked like a fellow

ountryman, but in a second I could tell he was a stranger. You are right," Priya said, when the stranger went back to the kitchen. "He

not of Bharat.9 He is a Mexican. But what can I do? You get fellow country-len, you fix up their papers and everything, green card and everything. And ben? Then they run away. Run-run-runaway. Crooks this side, crooks that [de, I

can't tell you. Listen, Santosh. I was in cloth business before. Buy for fty rupees that side, sell for fifty dollars this side. Easy. But then. Caftan, verybody wants caftan. Caftan-aftan, I say, I will settle your caftan. I buy one ousand, Santosh. Delays India-side, of course. They come one year later.

emblems 9. India (Hindi).

674 1 V. S. NAIPAUL

Nobody wants caftan then. We're not organized, Santosh. We don't do enough fellows at the embassy tell me. But if I do consumer research. That's what the

consumer research, when will I do my business? The trouble, you know, San- tosh, is that this shopkeeping is not in my blood. The damn thing goes against

business I used to hide sometimes for shame my blood. When I was in cloth when a customer came in. Sometimes I used to pretend I was ashopper myself. Consumer research! These people make us dance, Santosh. You and I, we will

beside Potomac' and meditate." renounce. We will go together and walk I loved his talk. I hadn't heard anything so sweet and philosophical since the

Bombay days. I said, "Priya, I will cook for you, if you want a cook." "I feel I've known you a long time, Santosh. I feel you are like a member of

my own family. I will give you a place to sleep, a little food to eat and a little

pocket money, as much as I can afford." I said, "Show me the place to sleep." He led me out of the pretty room and up a carpeted staircase. I was expecting

the carpet and the new paint to stop somewhere, but it was nice and new all like a smaller version of my employer's the way. We entered a room that was

apartment. "Built-in cupboards and everything, you see, Santosh." I went to the cupboard. It had a folding door that opened outward. I said,

"Priya, it is too small. There is room on the shelf for my belongings. But I don't see how I can spread my bedding inside here. It is far too narrow."

He giggled nervously. "Santosh, you are a joker. I feel that we are of the same

family already." Then it came to me that I was being offered the whole room. I was stunned. Priya looked stunned too. He sat down on the edge of the soft bed. The dark

hollows under his eyes were almost black and he looked very small in his double- breasted jacket. "This is how they make us dance over here, Santosh. You say staff quarters and they say staff quarters. This is what they mean."

For some seconds we sat silently, I fearful, he gloomy, meditating on the

ways of this new world. Someone called from downstairs, "Priya!" His gloom gone, smiling in advance, winking at me, Priya called back in an

accent of the country, "Hi, Bab!" I followed him down. "Priya," the American said, "I've brought over the menus."

that rode up above thick He was a tall man in a leather jacket, with jeans and big rubber-soled shoes. He looked like someone about to run white socks

in a race. The menus were enormous; on the cover there was a drawing of a fat like the man in the

man with a moustache and a plumed turban, something

airline advertisements. "They look great, Bab." "I like them myself. But what's that, Priya? What's that shell doing there? the flee Moving like the front part of a horse, Bab walked to the shelf with

the little clay lamp. It was only then that I saw that the and the brass plate and shelf was very roughly made.

1. River in Washington, D.C.

ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1675

Priya looked penitent and it was clear he had put the shelf up himself. It was also clear he didn't intend to take it down.

"Well, it's yours," Bab said. "I suppose we had to have a touch of the East somewhere, Now, Priya—"

"Money-money-money, is it?" Priya said, racing the words together as though he was making a joke to amuse a child. "But, Bab, how can you ask me for money? Anybody hearing you would believe that this restaurant is mine. But this restaurant isn't mine, Bab. This restaurant is yours."

It was only one of our courtesies, but it puzzled Bab and he allowed himself to be led to other matters.

I saw that, for all his talk of renunciation and business failure, and for all his jumpiness, Priya was able to cope with Washington. I admired this strength in him as much as I admired the richness of his talk. I didn't know how much to believe of his stories, but I liked having to guess about him. I liked having to play with his words in my mind. I liked the mystery of the man. The mystery came from his solidity. I knew where I was with him. After the apartment and the green suit and the hubshi woman and the city burning for four days, to be with Priya was to feel safe. For the first time since I had come to Washington I felt safe.

I can't say that I moved in. I simply stayed. I didn't want to go back to the apartment even to collect my belongings. I was afraid that something might happen to keep me a prisoner there. My employer might turn up and demand his five thousand rupees. The hubshi woman might claim me for her own; I might be condemned to a life among the hubshi. And it wasn't as if I was leav- ing behind anything of value in the apartment. The green suit I was even happy to forget. But.

Priya paid me forty dollars a week. After what I was getting, three dollars and seventy-five cents, it seemed a lot; and it was more than enough for my needs. I didn't have much temptation to spend, to tell the truth. I knew that my old employer and the hubshi woman would be wondering about me in their respec- tive ways and I thought I should keep off the streets for a while. That was no hardship; it was what I was used to in Washington. Besides, my days at the restaurant were pretty full; for the first time in my life I had little leisure.

The restaurant was a success from the start, and Priya was fussy. He was always bursting into the kitchen with one of those big menus in his hand, say- rig in English, "Prestige job, Santosh, prestige." I didn't mind. I liked to feel I had to do things perfectly; I felt I was earning my freedom, Though I was in hiding, and though I worked every day until midnight, I felt I was much more ri charge of myself than I had ever been.

Many of our waiters were Mexicans, but when we put turbans on them they ould pass They came and went, like the Indian staff. I didn't get on with hese people They were frightened and jealous of one another and very treach rous Their talk amid the biryanis and the pillaus was all of papers and green ards They were always about to get green cards or they had been cheated out

green cards or they had just got green cards At first I didn't know what they were talking about When I understood I was more than depressed I understood that because I had escaped from my employer I had made

nyseif illegal in America At any moment I could be denounced, seized, jailed,

1676 I V. S. NAIPAUL

deported, disgraced. It was a complication. I had no green card; I didn't know how to set about getting one; and there was no one I could talk to.

I felt burdened by my secrets, Once I had none; now I had so many. I couldn't tell Priya I had no green card. I couldn't tell him I had broken faith with my old employer and dishonoured myself with a hubshi woman and lived in fear of retribution. I couldn't tell him that I was afraid to leave the restau- rant and that nowadays when I saw an Indian I hid from him as anxiously as the Indian hid from me. I would have felt foolish to confess. With Priya, right from the start, I had pretended to be strong; and I wanted it to remain like that. Instead, when we talked now, and he grew philosophical, I tried to find bigger causes for being sad. My mind fastened on to these causes, and the effect of this was that my sadness became like a sickness of the soul.

It was worse than being in the apartment, because now the responsibility was mine and mine alone. I had decided to be free, to act for myself. It Pained me to think of the exhilaration I had felt during the days of the fire; and I Felt mocked when I remembered that in the early days of my escape I had thought I was in charge of myself.

The year turned. The snow came and melted. I was more afraid than ever of going out. The sickness was bigger than all the causes. I saw the future as a hole into which I was dropping. Sometimes at night when I awakened my body would burn and I would feel the hot perspiration break all over.

I leaned on Priya. He was my only hope, my only link with what was real. He went out; he brought back stories. He went out especially to eat in the restau- rants of our competitors.

He said, "Santosh, I never believed that running a restaurant Was a way to God. But it is true. I eat like a scientist. Every day I eat like a scientist. I feel I have already renounced."

This was Priya. This was how his talk ensnared me and gave me the bigger causes that steadily weakened me. I became more and more detached from the men in the kitchen. When they spoke of their green cards and the jobs they were about to get I felt like asking them: Why? Why?

And every day the mirror told its own tale. Without exercise, with the sicken- Al ing of my heart and my mind, I was losing my looks. My face had become pudgy and sallow and full of spots; it was becoming ugly. I could have cried For ra that, discovering my good looks only to lose them. It was like a punishment for my presumption, the punishment I had feared when I bought the green suit. 7.

Priya said, "Santosh, you must get some exercise. You are not looking well. Your eyes are getting like mine. What are you pining for? Are you pining for Bombay or your family in the hills?"

But now, even in my mind, I was a stranger in those places. Priya said one Sunday morning, "Santosh, I am going to take you to see a

Hindi movie today. All the Indians of Washington will be there, domestics and everybody else."

I was very frightened. I didn't want to go and I couldn't tell him wily. He

insisted. My heart began to beat fast as soon as I got into the car. Soon there were no more houses with gas-lamps in the entrance, just those long WI

C

burnt-out hubshi streets, now with fresh leaves on the trees, heaps of r ubble on

bulldozed, fenced-in lots, boarded-up shop windows, and old smoke5tahu1 signboards announcing what was no longer true. Cars raced along the wi

e

roads; there was life only on the roads. I thought I would vomit with fear.

ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1677

I said, "Take roe back, sahib." I had used the wr

ong word. Once I had used the word a hundred times a day. But then I had considered myself a small part of my employer's presence, and the word was not servile; it was more like a name, like a reassuring sound, part of my employer's

dignity and therefore part of mine, But Priya's dignity could never be mine; that was not our relationship. Priya I had always called Priya; it was his wish, the American way, man to man. With Priya the word was servile. And he responded to the word. He did as I asked; he drove me back to the res-taurant. I never called him by his name again.

I was good-looking; I had lost my looks. I was a free man; I had lost my free-dom.

One of the Mexican waiters came into the kitchen late one evening and said, "There is a man outside who wants to see the chef."

No one had made this request before, and Priya was at once agitated. "Is he an American? Some enemy has sent him here. Sanitary-anitary

, health-ealth they can inspect my kitchens at any time," "He is an Indian," the Mexican said. I was alarmed. I thought it was my old employer; that quiet approach was like him. Priya thought it

was a rival, Though Priya regularly ate in the restaurants of his rivals he thought it unfair when they came to eat in his. We both went to

the door and peeked through the glass window into the dimly lit dining-roo m, "Do you know that person, Santosh?"

"Yes, sahib,"

It wasn't my old employer. It was one of his Bombay friends, a big man in Government, whom I had often sewed in the chambers. He was by himself and seemed to have just arrived in Washington. He had a new Bombay haircut, very close, and a stiff dark suit, Bombay tailoring. His shirt looked blue, but in the dim multi-coloure

d light of the dining-room everything white looked blue. He didn't look unhappy with what he had eaten. Both his elbows were on the curry-spotted tablecloth and he was picking his teeth, half Closing his eyes and hiding his mouth with his cupped left hand,

"I don't like him," Priya said, "Still, big man in Government and so on. You must go to him, Santosh,"

But I couldn't go.

"Put on your apron, Santosh. And that chef's cap. Prestige. You must go, Santosh,"

Priya went out to the dining-room and I heard him say in English that I was oming.

I ran up to my room, put some oil on my hair, combed my hair, put on my lest pants and shirt and my shining shoes It was so, as a man about town ather than as a cook, I went to the dining room

The man from Bombay was as astonished as Priya We exchanged the old ourtesies and I waited But, to my relief, there seemed little more to say. No

ifficuit questions were put to me; I was grateful to the man from Bombay for is tact I avoided talk as much as possible I smiled The man from Bombay

filed back Priya smiled uneasily at both of us So for a while we were smil g in the dim blue-red light and waiting.

The man from Bombay said to Priya, "Brother, I just have a few words to say ray old friend Santosh,"

1678 1 V. S. NAIPAUL

Priya didn't like it, but he left us. I waited for those words. But they were not the words I feared. The man

from Bombay didn't speak of my old employer. We continued to exchange courtesies. Yes, I was well and he was well and everybody else we knew was well; and I was doing well and he was doing well. That was all. Then, secre- tively, the man from Bombay gave me a dollar. A dollar, ten rupees, an enor- mous tip for Bombay. But, from him, much more than a tip: an act of

graciousness, part of the sweetness of the old days. Once it would have meant

so much to me. Now it meant so little. I was saddened and embarrassed. And I

had been anticipating hostility! Priya was waiting behind the kitchen door. His little face was tight and seri-

ous, and I knew he had seen the money pass. Now, quickly, he read my own face, and without saying anything to me he hurried out into the dining-room.

I heard him say in English to the man from Bombay, "Santosh is a good I'd- low. He's got his own room with bath and everything. I am giving him a hun- dred dollars a week from next week. A thousand rupees a week. This is 'a first-class establishment."

A thousand chips a week! I was staggered. It was much more than any man in Government got, and I was sure the man from Bombay was also staggered, and perhaps regretting his good gesture and that precious dollar of foreign

exchange. "Santosh," Priya said, when the restaurant closed that evening, 'that man

was an enemy. I knew it from the moment I saw him. And because he was an

enemy I did something very bad, Santosh." "Sahib." "I lied, Santosh. To protect you. I told him, Santosh, that I was going to give

you seventy-five dollars a week after Christmas." "Sahib." "And now I have to make that lie true. But, Santosh, you know that is money

we can't afford. I don't have to tell you about overheads and things like that. Santosh, I will give you sixty."

I said, "Sahib, I couldn't stay on for less than a hundred and twenty-five." Priya's eyes went shiny and the hollows below his eyes darkened. He giggled

and pressed out his lips. At the end of that week I got a hundred dollars. And Priya, good man that he was, bore me no grudge.

Now here was a victory. It was only after it happened that I realized how badly

I had needed such a victory, how far, gaining my freedom, I had begun to accept death not as the end but as the goal. I revived. Or rather, my senses rev i\ ed. But

in this city what was there to feed my senses? There were no walks to be taken,

no idle conversations with understanding friends. I could buy new clothes. But

then? Would I just look at myself in the mirror? Would I go walking, inviting passers-by to look at me and my clothes? No, the whole business of

clothes and

dressing up only threw me back into myself. There was a Swiss or German woman in the cake-shop some doors away, and

there was a Filipino woman in the kitchen. They were neither of them attrac-

tive, to tell the truth. The Swiss or German could have broken my back wi

slap, and the Filipino, though young, was remarkably like one of our older hi

-a

ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1679

women. Still, I felt I owed something to the senses, and I thought I might frolic with these women. But then I was frightened of the responsibility. Goodness, I had learned that a woman is not just a roll and a frolic but a big creature weigh- ing a hundred-and-so-many pounds who is going to be around afterwards.

So the moment of victory passed, without celebration And it was strange, I thought, that sorrow lasts and can make a man look forward to death, but the mood of victory fills a moment and then is over. When my moment of victory was over! discovered below it, as if waiting for me, all my old sickness and fears: fear of my illegality, my former employer, my presumption the hubshi woman. I saw then that the victory I had was not something I had worked for, but luck; and that luck was only fate's cheating, giving an illusion of power.

But that illusion lingered, and I became restless. I decided to act, to challenge fate. I decided I would no longer stay in my room and hide. I began to go out walking in the afternoons. I gained courage; every afternoon I walked a little far- ther. It became my ambition to walk to that green circle with the fountain where, on my first day out in Washington, I had come upon those people in Hindu cos- tumes, like domestics abandoned a long time ago, singing their Sanskrit gibber- ish and doing their strange Red Indian dance. And one day I got there.

One day I crossed the road to the circle and sat down on a bench. The hubsh were there, and the bare feet, and the dancers in saris and the saffron robes. It was mid-afternoon, very hot, and no one was active. I remembered how magi- cal and inexplicable that circle had seemed to me the first time I saw

it. Now it seemed so ordinary and tired: the roads, the motor cars, the shops, the trees, the careful policemen: so much part of the waste and futility that was our world. There was no longer a mystery. I felt I knew where everybody had come from and where those cars were going. But I also felt that everybody there felt like me, and that was soothing. I took to going to the circle every day after the lunch rush and sitting until it was time to go back to Priya's for the dinners.

Late one afternoon, among the dancers and the musicians, the hubshi and the bare feet, the singers and the police, I saw her. The hubshi woman. And again I wondered at her size; my memory had not exaggerated. I decided to stay where I was. She saw me and smiled. Then, as if remembering anger, she gave me a look of great hatred; and again I saw her as Kali, many-armed, goddess of death and destruction. She looked hard at my face; she considered my clothes. I thought: is it for this I bought these clothes? She got up. She was very big and her tight pants made her much more appalling. She moved towards me. I got up and ran. I ran across the road and then, not looking back, hurried by devi- ous ways to the restaurant

Priya was doing his accounts He always looked older when he was doing his accounts, not worried, Just older, like a man to whom life could bring no-fur-ther surprises I envied him

"Santosh, some friend brought a parcel for you It was a big parcel wrapped in brown paper. He handed it to me, and I

hought how calm he was, with his bills and pieces of paper, and the pen with vhich he made his neat figures and the book in which he would write every Jay until that book was exhausted and he would begin a new one

I took the parcel up to my room and opened it Inside there was a cardboard )Ox, and inside that still in its tissue paper, was the green suit

1680 I V. S. NAIF'AUL t ONE OUT OF MANY 1 1681 I felt a hole in my stomach. I couldn't think. I was glad I had to go down almost immediately to the kitchen, glad to be busy until midnight. But then I had to go up to my room again, and I was alone. I hadn't escaped; I had never been free. I had been abandoned. I was like nothing; I had made myself nothing. And I

couldn't turn back. In the morning Priya said, "You don't look very well, Santosh." His concern weakened me further. He was the only man I could talk to and

I didn't know what I could say to him. I felt tears coming to my eyes. At that moment I would have liked the whole world to be reduced to tears. I said,

"Sahib, I cannot stay with you any longer." They were just words, part of my mood, part of my wish for tears and relief.

But Priya didn't soften. He didn't even look surprised. "Where will you go, San-

tosh?" How could I answer his serious question?

"Will it be different where you go?" He had freed himself of me. I could no longer think of tears. I said, "Sahib, I

have enemies." He giggled. "You are a joker, Santosh. How can a man like yourself have

enemies? There would be no profit in it. I have enemies. It is part of your hap- piness and part of the equity of the world that you cannot have enemies. That's why you can run-run-runaway." He smiled and made the running gesture with

his extended palm. So, at last, I told him my story. I told him about my old employer and my

escape and the green suit. He made me feel I was telling him nothing he hadn't

already known. I told him about the hubshi woman. I was hoping for some rebuke. A rebuke would have meant that he was concerned for my honour, that I could lean on him, that rescue was possible.

But he said, "Santosh, you have no problems. Marry the hubshi. That will

automatically make you a citizen. Then you will be a free man." It wasn't what I was expecting. He was asking me to be alone forever. I said,

"Sahib, I have a wife and children in the hills at home." "But this is your home, Santosh. Wife and children in the hills, that is very

nice and that is always there. But that is over. You have to do what is best for

you here. You are alone here. Hubshi-ubshi, nobody worries about that here, if

that is your choice. This isn't Bombay. Nobody looks at you when you walk down the street. Nobody cares what you do."

He was right. I was a free man; I could do anything I wanted. I could, if it

were possible for me to turn back, go to the apartment and beg my old employer

for forgiveness. I could, if it were possible for me to become again what I once was, go to the police and say, "I am an illegal immigrant here. Please deport me to Bombay." I could run away, hang myself, surrender, confess, hide. It didn

t

matter what I did, because I was alone. And I didn't know what I wanted to do, 1111

It was like the time when I felt my senses revive and I wanted to go out and

enjoy and I found there was nothing to enjoy. To be empty is not to be sad. To be empty is to be calm. It is to

renOuflC

Priya said no more to me; he was always busy in the mornings. I left him an went up to my room. It was still a bare room, still like a room that in half aft hour could be someone else's. I had never thought of it as mine. I

Was

I

ened of its spotless painted walls and had been careful to keep them spotless. For just such a moment.

I tried to think of the particular moment in my life, the particular action, that had brought me to that room. Was it the moment with the hubshi woman, or was it when the American came to dinner and insulted my employer? Was it the moment of my escape, my sight of Priya in the gallery, or was it when I looked in the mirror and bought the green suit? Or was it much earlier, in that other life, in Bombay, in the hills? I could find no one moment; every moment seemed important. An endless chain of action had brought me to that room. It was frightening; it was burdensome. It was not a time for new decisions. It was time to call a halt.

I lay on the bed watching the ceiling, watching the sky. The door was pushed open. It was Priya.

"My goodness, Santosh! How long have you been here? You have been so quiet I forgot about you."

He looked about the room. He went into the bathroom and came out again. "Are you all right, Santosh?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and the longer he stayed the more I realized how glad I was to see him. There was this: when I tried to think of him rush- ing into the room I couldn't place it in time; it seemed to have occurred only in my mind. He sat with me. Time became real again. I felt a great love for him. Soon I could have laughed at his agitation. And later, indeed, we laughed together.

I said, "Sahib, you must excuse me this morning. I want to go for a walk. I will come back about tea time."

He looked hard at me, and we both knew I had spoken truly. "Yes, yes, Santosh. You go for a good long walk. Make yourself hungry with

walking. You will feel much better." Walking, through streets that were now so simple to me, I thought how nice

it would be if the people in Hindu costumes in the circle were real. Then I might have joined them. We would have taken to the road; at midday we would have halted in the shade of big trees; in the late afternoon the sinking sun would have turned the dust clouds to gold; and every evening at some village there would have been welcome, water, food, a fire in the night. But that was a dream of another life. I had watched the people in the circle long enough to know that they were of their city; that their television life awaited them; that their renunciation was not like mine. No television life awaited me. It didn't matter. In this city I was alone and it didn't matter what I did.

As magical as the circle with the fountain the apartment block had once been to me, Now I saw that it was plain, not very tall, and faced with small white tiles. A glass door; four tiled steps down; the desk to the right, letters and keys in the pigeonholes; a carpet to the left, upholstered chairs, a low table with paper flowers in the vase; the blue door of the swift, silent elevator. I saw -he simplicity of all these things. I knew the floor I wanted. In the corridor, with its illuminated star-decorated ceiling, an imitation sky, the colours were )lue, grey and gold. I knew the door I wanted. I knocked.

The hubshi woman opened. I saw the apartment where she worked. I had never ;een it before and was expecting something like my old employer's apartment,

1682 1V. S. NAIPALJL

LESLIE MARMON SILKO

born 1948

which was on the same floor. Instead, for the first time, I saw something arranged

for a television life. I thought she might have been angry. She looked only puzzled. I was grateful

for that. I said to her in English, "Will you marry me?"

And there, it was done. "It is for the best, Santosh," Priya said, giving me tea when I got back to the

restaurant. "You will be a free man. A citizen. You will have the whole world

before you." I was pleased that he was pleased.

So I am now a citizen, my presence is legal, and I live in Washington. I am still with Priya. We do not talk together as much as we did. The restaurant is one world, the parks and green streets of Washington are another, and every evening

some of these streets take me to a third. Burnt-out brick houses, broken fences,

overgrown gardens; in a levelled lot between the high brick walls of two houses,

a sort of artistic children's playground which the hubshi children never use; and

then the dark house in which I now live. Its smells are strange, everything in it

is strange. But my strength in this

house is that I am a stranger. I have closed my mind and heart to the English language, to newspapers and radio and television, to the pictures of hubshi

runners and boxers and musicians on the wall. I do not want to understand or

learn any more. I am a simple man who decided to act and see for himself, and it is as though

I have had several lives. I do not wish to add to these. Some afternoons I walk to the circle with the fountain. I see the dancers but they are separated From me as by glass. Once, when there were rumours of new burnings, someone scrawled in white paint on the pavement outside my house:

Soul Brother.2 I

understand the words; but I feel, brother to what or to whom? I was once part of the flow, never thinking of myself as a presence. Then I looked in the mirror and decided to be free. All that my freedom has brought me is the kno

wledge

that I have a face and have a body, that I must feed this body and clothe this

body for a certain number of years. Then it will be over.

2. An African American man or friend to African Americans, here i ndicating th

house should not be vandalized.

ovelist, poet, memoirist, and writer of short fiction, Leslie Marmon Silko

can comfortably alternate between prose and poetry within the confines of a single work, in a manner reminiscent of tradi- tional Native American storytellers. For all its seriousness and lyricism, Silko's work is marked by a touch of irreverence. Well acquainted with the proverbial trick- ster Coyote, Silko has demonstrated her own wit and versatility as a narrator of Coyote tales. But storytelling is a game with serious ends. "I will tell you some- thing about stories," warns an unnamed voice in one of her novels: "They aren't just entertainment. Don't be fooled."

Silko was born in Albuquerque but grew up in Laguna Pueblo, New Mex- ico. "I am of mixed-breed ancestry," she has written, "but what I know is Laguna. This place I am from is every- thing I am as a writer and human being." A Keresan-speaking district, Laguna Pueblo is an old Native com- munity that whites first joined in the mid-nineteenth century when two gov- ernment employees from Ohio, Walter and Robert Marmon, arrived as survey- ors and set down roots. The brothers Wrote a constitution for Laguna mod- eled after the U.S. Constitution; each served a term as governor of the pueblo, an office that no non-Native had held before. They also married Laguna Women: Robert Marmon is the great- grandfather of Leslie Marmon Silko. Silko attended Laguna Day School until fifth grade, when she was trans- ferred to Manzano Day School, a small Private academy in Albuquerque. Between 1964 and 1969, she studied English at the University of New Mex- ico, married while still in college, and

gave birth to the older of her two sons, Cazimir Silko. During these years she published her first story, "Tony's Story," a provocative tale of witchery.

Following graduation, Silko stayed on at the university and taught courses in creative writing and oral literature. She studied for a time in the university's American Indian Law Program, with the intention of working in the legal area of Native land claims. In 1971, however, a National Endowment for the Arts Dis- covery Grant changed Silko's mind about law school, and she quit to devote herself to writing. Seven of her stories, including "Yellow Woman," were pub- lished in 1974 in a collection edited by Kenneth Rosen--The Man to Send Rain Clouds: Contemporary Stories by Ameri- can Indians. The novel Ceremony, her first large-scale work, appeared in 1977. An enormously complex novel that appeared just after the Vietnam War, Ceremony follows a Second World War veteran of mixed ancestry through his struggle for healing. Widely hailed, the novel propelled its author to the front of the growing ranks of indigenous writers in the United States. On the strength of Ceremony, Silko was awarded a MacAr- thur Fellowship (known as the "genius grant") in 1981.

Although much of Silko's work empha- sizes the healing of conflicts—between white and Native Americans, between the human and natural worlds, between war- ring aspects of the self—some of her nov- els also reveal a more aggressive and despairing tone. Such a novel is Almanac of the Dead (1991), which turns a merci- less eye on an America that drugs, prosti- tution, torture, organized crime, and forms of sexual violence have corrupted

683