Miss New India - Bharati Mukherjee [6]
Mindful of parental wrath if she was to return home on the back of a man's bike, Anjali insisted that she would stay only a few minutes and then take a bus back. If Baba or the nosy neighbors saw her get off the bus at the stop close to home, they would suspect nothing. She wasn't ready for a screaming match with Baba. But she stayed an hour, speaking more freely of her longings than she did with her girlfriends. She didn't want marriage. Her classes were dull. She wanted something exciting, life-changing, to save her from the tedium of Gauripur. "I understand," Mr. Champion said. Ali was sent off to buy sweets. Angie had been Peter Champion's fondest project, someone very much like him, he said, who couldn't live in the small town of her birth. What a pain it is, to know that one is somehow fated to set sail for the farthest shore. "What a calling it is for someone like me," he joked, "to fill that ark with passengers."
Mr. Champion was in high teaching mode, in full confessional selfdisplay. He was, he said, a man in love.
"So that explains the woman's touch," she said. "But where is she?"
"Angie, Angie." He tut-tutted.
She wondered for a moment if she herself was the woman he'd chosen and if the next words from his mouth would be "I love you, Angie, I always have, and I won't let you leave until you agree to go to America as my bride..." She had a romantic nature; she assumed any man could love her.
Bravely, she asked, "So who is this person you want me to meet?"
"You've met him, Angie."
She was left in the dark, still smiling. She hadn't seen anybody, and there was no place to hide.
"It's too late for me to leave," he said, "but for you I want the best." Is this a proposal, she wondered, and almost asked out loud, trying to help him. I'll do it! I'll make you happy! Then he said, "You must try a larger city." She'd always imagined herself in Bombay or maybe on the beaches of Goa, and so she mentioned those possibilities to him. Eventually, even in America, she thought, though she dared not say it for fear of inviting the evil eye.
"Bombay?" He laughed. "You've been seeing too many bad movies. Bombay is yesterday. It's a hustler's city. Bangalore's the place for a young woman like you."
She wondered, Is that where he's taking me? Why not? I'll go. Then: What kind of girl am I?
She knew nothing of Bangalore, a southern city as alien to her as the snows of Kashmir. Mr. Champion was back in teaching mode. He explained that for two hundred years Bangalore had been a British army base, a cantonment, and the Britishers had left a few scars—golf courses and racetracks and private gymkhanas—that moneyed Indians adopted a little too enthusiastically. But now it's a hopping place. And he had contacts in Bangalore, people who would listen to his recommendations. The call centers, luring thousands of young people from all over the country, people like her, the new people.
Ali returned with a box of sweets.
"In Bangalore," Mr. Champion said, "if you've got the talent, there's a market."
This time she asked the question that was always on her mind. "And what is my talent, Mr. Champion?"
"Peter, please. Don't you know what your talent is?"
"I haven't the p'oggiest."
"Foggiest, Angie. Initial f-sound, not p. Initial w-sound, not v, and vice versa. Wedding, not vedding. Vagaries, not wagaries. Not wice wersa. Develop, not dewellup. Keep practicing."
She could cry. They'll always find you out.
"Your talent, Angie? You have the passion. You're not satisfied. But you're still very innocent. Innocence is appealing in a young girl, but not blindness, not ignorance. Look at us." She smiled at his way of including her, but then he said,—"Look closely at us, Angie, take a long look at Ali and me."
At the mention of his name, Ali smiled and began to dance. The boy was a good dancer; he must have seen a hundred movies. And then Peter stood and put his arm over Ali's shoulder, and Ali nestled his head against Peter's cheek.
A clash of emotions met the dawn of consciousness: she could have