Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri [19]
"I don't feel like it," Bobby said, not moving. He was sitting in the front seat beside Mr. Kapasi studying a picture of the elephant god taped to the glove compartment.
"No need to worry," Mr. Kapasi said. "They are quite tame." Mr. Kapasi was forty-six years old, with receding hair that had gone completely silver, but his butterscotch complexion and his unlined brow, which he treated in spare moments to dabs of lotus-oil balm, made it easy to imagine what he must have looked like at an earlier age. He wore gray trousers and a matching jacket-style shirt, tapered at the waist, with short sleeves and a large pointed collar, made of a thin but durable synthetic material. He had specified both the cut and the fabric to his tailor - it was his preferred uniform for giving tours because it did not get crushed during his long hours behind the wheel. Through the windshield he watched as Ronny circled around the goat, touched it quickly on its side, than trotted back to the car.
"You left India as a child?" Mr. Kapasi asked when Mr. Das had settled once again into the passenger seat.
"Oh, Mina and I were both born in America," Mr. Das announced with an air of sudden confidence "Born and raised. Our parents live here now, in Assansol. They retired. We visit them every couple years." He turned to watch as the little girl ran toward the car, the wide purple bows of her sundress flopping on her narrow brown shoulders. She was holding to her chest a doll with yellow hair that looked as if it had been chopped, as a punitive measure, with a pair of dull scissors. "This is Tina's first trip to India, isn't it, Tina?" "I don't have to go to the bathroom anymore," Tina announced.
"Where's Mina?" Mr. Das asked.
Mr. Kapasi found it strange that Mr. Das should refer to his wife by her first name when speaking to the little girl. Tina pointed to where Mrs. Das was purchasing something from one of the shirtless men who worked at the tea stall. Mr. Kapasi heard one of the shirtless men sing a phrase from a popular Hindi love song as Mrs. Das walked back to the car, but she did not appear to understand the words of the song, for she did not express irritation, or embarrassment, or react in any other way lo the man's declarations.
He observed her. She wore a red and white checkered skirt that stopped above her knees, slip-on shoes with a square wooden heel, and a close-fitting blouse styled like a man's undershirt. The blouse was decorated at chest-level with a calico appliqué in the shape of a strawberry. She was a short woman, with small hands like paws, her frosty pink fingernails painted to match her lips, and was slightly plump in her figure. Her hair, shorn only a little longer than her husband's, was parted far to one side. She was wearing large dark brown sunglasses with a pinkish tint to them, and carried a big straw bag, almost as big as her torso, shaped like a bowl, with a water bottle poking out of it. She walked slowly, carrying some puffed rice tossed with peanuts and chili peppers in a large packet made from newspapers, Mr. Kapasi turned to Mr. Das. "Where in America do you live?"
"New Brunswick. New Jersey."
"Next to New York?"
"Exactly. I teach middle school there."
"What subject?"
"Science. In fact, every year I take my students on a trip to the Museum of Natural History in New York City. In a way we have a lot in common, you could say, you and I. How long have you been a tour guide, Mr. Kapasi?"
"Five years."
Mrs. Das reached the car. "How long's the trip?" she asked, shutting the door.
"About two and half hours," Mr. Kapasi replied. At this Mrs. Das gave an impatient sigh, as if she had been traveling her whole life without pause. She fanned herself with a folded Bombay film magazine written in English.
"I thought that the Sun Temple is only eighteen miles north of Puri," Mr. Das said, tapping on the tour book. "The roads to Konarak are poor. Actually, it is a distance of fifty-two miles," Mr. Kapasi explained Mr. Das nodded, readjusting