Arms Race (4 page)

His nephew Raj, the tout, stood at the front desk with the day clerks, clustered
mindlessly round a radio. They looked up with the faces of men short on sleep and
pay. Jora didn't care. They were all family. Without him they'd be hauling bricks
in the villages. He brandished the book. It's here, he cried. This time!

The men grinned and left the desk and jostled him up the stairs, and floor by floor
the whole staff of nephews and sisters and cousins crowded in behind. When Jora emerged
into the restaurant on the roof he felt like a king leading his entourage. He placed
the book on a table.

Who will read? he said.

They pushed forward Jora's niece Nisha, a bright bird of a girl still in school.
She took the book in her hands like it was a holy text, and leafed through the photocopied
pages until she found the spot. A hush fell. The winter sun was clear and bright
on her face.

Lonely Planet India
, she announced in a careful voice. Jaisalmer. Where To Stay.
Hotel Rajasthan. Raja's Palace. Sarkar Hotel. Swami Mansions.

Well? Jora said.

Nisha read the listings a second time. She checked the index. She couldn't look at
her uncle.

I'm sorry, Uncle-
ji
, she said quietly. Not this year.

All eyes turned to Jora. A sour rage passed through him. He looked past their faces,
past the medieval town tumbling down the slope to the desert sands beyond. With
the
loans he'd taken to build the hotel, they couldn't afford another year of hoping.

He picked up the guidebook. I will get us written into this book, he said.

There were sceptical murmurs.

How? cousin Sunil asked. The book comes from abroad.

The bookwallah said it came from Delhi, Jora replied.

But it's written in England.

Australia, Nisha said.

No, Jora's right, someone said. It's Delhi we need.

It was Raj, the tout. He came forward with his oiled black hair and sharp cowboy
boots, and took the book from Jora's hands. These are all photocopies, he said. They
come from Delhi.

Then I'll go to Delhi, Jora said. I'll find who prints them and I'll make the sons
of bitches put us in their book.

Jora took a bus to Jodhpur station, then fought his way aboard a sleeper for the
capital. At four in the morning he woke to a sandstorm blasting through the open-sided
carriage. It seemed a bad sign. He'd grown up poor in Bandha, and he couldn't read
or write, and he covered his shame by bragging about all three. He was proud that
an illiterate man could own a hotel. But how could an illiterate man get himself
published in a book? He and his fellow passengers were coated in fine white desert
sand.
He wrapped his blanket round his face and drifted into gritty sleep.

Outside Old Delhi Station, Jora hired an auto-rickshaw. He leaned from the open side
of the vehicle to scan the road. It was early and freezing. Traffic ghosted through
the smoke from last night's rubbish fires.

He found what he sought in Chandni Chowk. An old man unloaded books from the back
of his bicycle, and there on his rug was the telltale blue of
Lonely Planet
.

Baba
, he called. Is your
Lonely Planet
real, or an Indian copy?

The man looked offended.
Sahib
, all my books are real.

Then I don't want it.

Wait. The man carried the book slowly to the rickshaw and put it in Jora's hands.
You mean is this book a real
copy
? Then you're in luck, my friend.

Jora smiled. How much?

Sixty rupees.

I'll give you eighty if you tell me where you got it from.

Jora spent the day following the guidebook across Delhi. The old bookwallah bought
his copies from a stall in Khan Market, whose owners got them from a back-alley distributor.
An hour arguing in the street with the stout Punjabi who ran the place and a small
fortune in
baksheesh
got him directions to the warehouse. From there it was a short
drive to the factory on the outskirts of Okhla Phase III.

Jora stepped from the rickshaw and gazed up at the building. It was painted the same
blue as the guidebooks, and from where he stood it seemed as big as a stadium. The
guard waved him through the front gate without question. Jora walked down to the
reception past a long line of pristine Mercedes and Audis. The drivers watched him
pass.

I'm here to see the manager.

The tall receptionist gave him a sarcastic smile. I'm sure you are, sir. They're
about to start. Good luck.

She pressed a button and the door at her back clicked open. Jora had no idea what
she was talking about. He gave her a curt nod and went straight through, into a lobby
with a strangely low ceiling and an elevator set in one wall. He chose the top floor.
If he were manager, that's where his office would be.

He was staring at his tired face in the polished steel doors when they slid open.
His reflection split in half to reveal a metal gangway suspended above an enormous
factory floor. A vaulted ironwork ceiling arched overhead.

Jora moved to the edge of the gangway and gripped the railing. Far below, rows of
battered photocopiers, thousands of them, stretched off into the distance. An army
of workers in blue overalls loaded cartridges and paper, or stood conversing in tight
groups. The bustle called to mind a great railway station.

You there! a rich, fruity voice cried. Last bets.

Jora turned to see a small crowd gathered further
along the walkway. They were drinking
champagne and watching the preparations below. A man with a formidable moustache
strode towards him. He had the same short stocky build as Jora, and when they were
face to face Jora saw they wore identical glasses.

I have business with the manager, Jora said.

The man looked him up and down and paused, as if making a decision, then gave a small
formal bow.

I am the manager, he said. Business must wait. Any last bets?

What are we betting on? Jora asked.

We are betting on the copying of the
Lonely Planet
guide. Where are you from?

I grew up in the poorest village in Rajasthan. But now I'm—

Yes, the manager cut him off. You look like a village man. Which one?

Jora stiffened. Jaisalmer will do.

Jaisalmer it is. You are betting on page two hundred and twelve. Minimum bet five
hundred rupees.

Jora took his wallet and casually counted out ten thousand rupees. It was far more
than he could afford. He had just enough left for the train home.

The manager took the money and made a note in his book. Then he turned to the railing
and pointed down to a group of workers in the vivid red turbans of Jaisalmer men.

That is your row, the manager said. They have never
won. Now, let us begin. He leaned
over the railing and clapped his hands.

An air-raid siren filled the factory. The workers below rushed into a vast and swirling
choreography, as intricate as a North Korean spectacular. Chaos resolved itself into
row upon perfect row, a worker standing to attention at each machine. Jora watched
transfixed. Around him the betting crowd moved to the railing.

At the end of the factory an official made his way across the floor. He stopped at
the first copier in each row and handed its operator a white envelope.

The originals, the manager said. Each row gets one page from the original guidebook
to copy. Three hundred pages, three hundred rows.

Once the envelopes were distributed a hush fell. The workers and the crowd fixed
their total attention on the manager. He raised both arms above his head, then brought
them swiftly down.

Go!

The little crowd roared, and at the start of each row the workers tore open their
envelopes and thrust the precious originals into their machines. A mighty whirring
clamour filled the factory like a flock of mechanical pigeons taking flight, and
a jagged line of light flared across the roof. Jora raised a hand to shield his eyes.

The first copies rolled from the machines; as in a baton race the next worker in
each row seized the duplicate and
fed it into his machine and made a copy, which
was in turn taken up and copied by the next and so on, passing copies of copies of
copies down the factory in a furious relay.

The race passed beneath Jora's feet and away to the south, where the machines were
old and decrepit and soon began to choke and jam. The stench of toner filled the
air. Repair teams raced along the rows, vanishing and reappearing amid the steam
and smoke. The strobing line of light that marked the progress of the race grew ragged
as some rows fell behind and others surged ahead.

At the front, the Jaisalmer row was neck and neck with a sleek Delhi team. Jora found
himself gripping the rail and urging his desert cousins on.

Go, you sons of bitches!

At that, a woman leaned over the railing to cheer the Delhi team. She thrust one
slender arm into the air, spilling champagne from her glass. The golden liquid, seemingly
an extension of her glittering sari, rained down upon the last copier in the Delhi
line. The machine stuttered and sizzled. The operator stumbled back. Across the floor
Jaisalmer forged ahead. Their final machine spat out the final copy and the turbanned
workers threw up their arms in victory.

A win, cried the manager, a surprise win for two hundred and twelve!

Jora cheered until he was hoarse. A Jaisalmer worker held up the final copy for all
to see. It looked completely blank.

When the noise died down the manager held out his hands. Ladies and gentlemen, that
concludes the fifty-second copying of
Lonely Planet India
. The floor will now be
closed for collation and binding. We will see you all next month.

He turned to Jora, his mouth a thin displeased line. Follow me.

At the end of the walkway the manager entered an office lined with oak. Framed first
editions of
Lonely Planet India
hung around the walls. He sat at his desk, unlocked
a drawer and counted out a very large sum of money. He shoved this across the table
to Jora.

So, the manager said. Business.

Jora ignored the money. He was feeling good. He crossed one leg over the other and
said, I want to change the guidebook.

The manager smiled. Impossible, he replied.

Jora said nothing. He let the silence grow.

What do you want to change, the manager said, irritated.

I want my hotel listed.

Impossible, the manager repeated. If I change the guidebook it is no longer the guidebook.
No one will buy a copy if it differs from the original.

But they're already different. Those last copies are blank.

Those we sell in the villages. The further from Delhi, the worse the copy. But this
a problem of technology, not intention. If I could make every copy perfect, I would.

All I ask is one small addition. Here.

Jora passed a crumpled slip of paper across the manager's desk. Grains of sand spilled
onto the dark wood. The manager took the paper, then swept his sleeve across the
desk. He began to read.

But this is a fantasy, he said. I am sure you would like your hotel to have
the best
food in Rajasthan
. You wish it to be so, but your desire does not make it so.

But it's the honest truth.

Perhaps. But it would be dishonest of me to make this change.

You think you're honest, copying someone else's book?

The copies I make are honest
to the original.

But are they honest to India? How, if they don't include my hotel?

Ask the editors of
Lonely Planet
.

It's a tiny addition. Two lines of text.

Do you see two lines of empty space waiting for you? Go back to your village. India
is full.

Jora clasped the stacks of thousand-rupee notes and slid the money back towards the
manager. India is never full, he said.

The manager's nostrils flared. He gripped the arms of his chair and sat forward.
Listen,
choot
. You are an illiterate village dog. I have been to the West. I know
what these people want, and I will stay true to their vision. They are not interested
in yours.

Jora stood and scooped the cash into his bag. I am a village man, he said, and you
are an uncle-fucking pirate and a fool. Put me in your book!

The manager rose to his feet, and the two short men stood glaring at each other.

Out of the question, the manager shouted. Now get out of my office!

Jora spent the seventeen-hour journey home in a fury. He railed against the manager
and the sons of daughters of camels who had fathered him. Yet, hour by hour, the
steady weight of the bag in his lap calmed him down. There was enough in there to
pay off much of his debt. But he wouldn't pay off his debt. When he stepped from
the bus into the freezing sands of Jaisalmer, he knew what he would do instead.

Sir, you need a hotel? a tout called out to him. Shahi Palace! Very good write-up
in
Lonely Planet
!

It was his nephew Raj, sitting at Shinde's chai stall. Jora sat and called for tea,
and handed Raj the bag.

Feel that, he said.

What's in there?

About ten
lakh
cash.

Raj laughed and weighed the bag in his hand. Books,
na
? How many copies did you get
changed?

Have a look.

Raj opened the bag and went still. He looked up at his uncle, then back down into
the bag. What is—he said. How is this—

That's for you, Jora said. I want you to buy every photocopier in Rajasthan.

Raj and his brothers' battered yellow Maruti became a familiar sight, trundling back
and forth with copiers strapped to the roof. In a month they acquired enough machines
to fill a derelict tannery. The north wall was half buried beneath sand blown in
from the desert, but the rent was cheap.