Miss New India - Bharati Mukherjee [99]
"Still in Djakarta, Mr. GG?" Now she was the one standing, his face at her tummy level, and she could read the shock and surprise on his face. She flashed her famous smile, and he hit SAVE and flipped the lid down.
"Miss Bose! You're looking very fit and happy."
I am.
"Very pert and glowing."
"It must be Minnie's mutton stew."
He laughed. "I assumed it was because you are in love."
She bantered back. "I am in love. With Bangalore."
"Why haven't you called?" he asked.
"I don't have a phone."
"Let's get you a mobile, then. You can't not be within reach by voice or text in this town."
"I don't have the money."
"Maybe not today, but you'll have it tomorrow. But only if you carry a mobile in your handbag."
And so, half an hour later, Anjali Bose of 1 Kew Gardens, Bangalore, had a tiny silver cell phone, paid for by Mr. GG. She could call her sister or her mother or anyone in the world as long as she had the person's number, which she didn't, except for that of Moni Lahiri and Usha Desai and, if she thought about it, Rabi Chatterjee and Peter Champion. The phone presented more options than she could possibly master. "Is there a master number I can call for jobs?" she joked, and Mr. GG put his telephone number on speed dial for her. There seemed to be no need in the world that the phone could not satisfy. Owning a cell phone wasn't quite as impressive as inspecting virtual buildings in foreign countries, but on that morning, just having one, even a simple model—an unheard-of extravagance, in her family experience—felt nearly as miraculous. For weeks she'd been watching how everyone on the streets of Bangalore used this remarkable device, even the Muslim ladies in their black burqas: clutching their husbands, holding their children, and chatting on their silvery little phones as they rode on the back of a motorbike. Tookie carried hers in her hand, like a second purse; Husseina's had been stashed in a secret pocket sewn into her custom-tailored salwar. Anjali wondered where Husseina was honeymooning with Bobby of Bradford; she was the first-time owner of a phone, with no one to call.
"Any other numbers?" Mr. GG asked.
"Put in my father's," she said, and gave him the familiar Gauripur number. A sudden image of the heavy black phone, on a stool in the living room, its thick, dust-clogged cord gnawed by mice, appeared in her mind's eye. That number and the house must now belong to a stranger.
"And Usha Desai," she said, then recited the number, which she'd memorized. "And this one"; she read the number from Moni's torn-off slip of paper. "Call it ML."
"That's not a lot of numbers for a popular young lady," Mr. GG said.
"Put in Peter," she said, and gave him the number. She wished she had memorized Rabi's California number. That would have impressed Mr. GG.
"And how are things at Bagehot House?" he asked when he had inputted the numbers.
"The building's still standing."
"I meant the old lady. How's she holding up?"
"Surviving. But her mind is failing."
"Appearances can be deceiving," he said, smiling. "I trust in only the durability of the virtual universe."
Her bargain with Mr. GG went unspoken; in exchange for a few smiles and bright comments, she'd get a lift back to Bagehot House. He bowed to her: "Your Daewoo is waiting, Miss Bose."
The starving, bedraggled, overwhelmed Anjali, the one who, weeks ago, almost had to be carried into the Daewoo, had plumped into a "pert and glowing"—Mr. GG's words—cell-phone-owning HotBook cover girl.
Once again, she was walking to the Daewoo.
Mr. GG held the door open, always the gentleman. Vacation brochures were scattered on the front seat. "You asked about Djakarta," he said, "but we wrapped that up three days ago. Right now"—he put a brochure into her hands—"I'm working here, on a very cool condominium development in Puerto Vallarta."
"A pristine desert lapped by sparkling seas," she read.
"Mexico," he said, obviously amused. Anjali could see that he enjoyed imparting to her his wider knowledge.