The Fifth Man (6 page)

The phone buzzed like a cricket. The afternoon vigil had long ended. All the work was done, as were the meals. Digestion was done too. Listening to ghazals with drowsy eyes was done. Aritra was in his office. Pupu, in college. Like they were every day. Exactly like every day, three months ago. The house had returned to its rhythm. The beat had been missing, but now it was back in place. Such peace. Neelam was cutting fabric for a blouse. Scissors, a measuring tape, and a tailor’s chalk lay on the table. The blouse was dark brown. There would be scallops on the back and the arms. The iron was warm and ready. The scallops would not come out well otherwise. The phone was ringing.

‘It’s me. From Thane. Why the urgent summons?’

‘No particular reason, just spend a couple of days with us,’ said Neelam warily.

‘Where? At your house?’

‘As if we have space in our humble abode. It’s not like you don’t have your own house here.’

‘You needn’t have continued to live in your humble abode, Bhabi. I’ve been telling you for years to leave it to “Super Seal”. I’ll make you a palace. You could have paid at your convenience. You needn’t even have paid. It was only to satisfy Chowdhury Sahib’s ego that . . .’

‘Suppose you built us a palace with your own money, what would we tell the income-tax people if they questioned us?’

‘Oh Bhabi! Chowdhury Sahib is the P.R.O. of a huge multinational. He could well own plenty of property. Do you keep track? Leave all these little things to Seal. Now tell me what’s going on.’

‘Can’t I just want to see you and Seema? Ari’s recovered from such a serious accident. We need to celebrate.’

‘Is Ari Chowdhury inviting me to celebrate his recovery? News of the year!’

‘Please come. I was thinking of a short holiday to Mahabaleshwar or Matheran. Or Goa.’

‘If it’s Matheran you want to visit, come over. And madam, your mood doesn’t quite seem to match Matheran or Mahabaleshwar, or Goa! Two of them are in the hills, one by the sea. You seem bewildered.’

‘Let my mind wander, I’ll do what my heart tells me to.’

‘Right now is it me your heart wants?’ Intensely.

Neelam said, ‘So be it. I can’t argue with you.’ Neelam sitting behind Bikram, the scooter speeding through the air. You shop for groceries every day Bhabi. Let’s shop for happiness today.

‘Why the deadline of twentieth March?’

‘One of my old girlfriends is visiting after a very long time. We’ll have lots of fun together, all of us.’

‘Is the girlfriend alone in her dark room?’

‘So it seems. Bring Seema and come over.’

‘If I bring Seema how will your solitary reaper find a partner?’

‘She will, she will. You needn’t worry. Just come and . . .’ Neelam was about to say ‘save my life’, but changed it to the more formal ‘rescue me’.

‘Let me see if I can.’

‘As if you run a huge business empire or something. If you leave the cards with a dummy for a few days will you earn fewer cases of black money?’

‘Careful Bhabi, you can’t taunt me about black money.’

‘All right, all right, your money is white as driven snow. All right? Bye now.’

‘No no. Will the universe collapse if you talk a little longer? Your voice is just the same. Like birdsong. Let me hear it a little longer. I feel a tingle.’

Neelam put the phone down. Beads of perspiration had appeared on her brow. Your voice is just the same. Even Bikram had told her how much about her had changed. Only the voice hadn’t. The old Neelam did not exist. Nothing left of her. Neither in form, nor in nature. But if that were so, why were Bikram’s hands shaking as he answered the phone? Was it out of fear—the fear of doing something in secret? Still? Or was it romance? Bikram’s voice, seeing him in her mind’s eye, churned the foam in her memory. A powerful, forceful, strong, desirous man, with firm, fleshy lips, extremely garrulous, his song was not music, it was an expression of physical desire.

Lutf uske badan ka kuchh nah puchho
Kya jaaniye, jaan hai keh tan hai

Such indescribable pleasure from his touch, is it of the spirit or is it physical?

How many women lived within one? Like rabbits from a magician’s hat, or like white pigeons from a fist, they appeared on different cues. Aritra got one Neelam every morning and evening. The Neelam who responded to Bikram on the phone was a completely different one. Which Neelam was Pupu’s mother? Which Neelam had emerged at the possibility of Esha’s arrival? And which Neelam was it whom Mahanam had called out to that night? Besides these there was also Neelam Joshi Chowdhury, president of the Bijoya Dashami reception committee. Mandal, Shah, Iyengar or Khadelkar’s Neelam Bhabi. Neelam rose suddenly, going up to the mirror. All the furniture in this house was multipurpose, there was no such thing as a separate dressing table. There was a tall mirror in Ari’s bedroom. A round one in Pupu’s. Cosmetics for daily use were in a drawer in the desk next to the mirror. The rest were stored in Pupu’s box bed. The mirror was the only object in this house that Neelam did not clean with care. This tall mirror. A lace cover was draped on it. It was Mahanam who used to say: the splitting image of Jane Morris. I’ve never seen such resemblance. Jane Morris was Dante Gabriel’s friend’s wife and, like his own, the model of many of his paintings. Mrs Rossetti died so beautifully in her youth, why couldn’t Neelam have done the same? Dying early keeps a woman an object of love, romance and desire forever. She had hoped to die on the operation table. Her blood count was low. Her blood group was a rare one, she had needed several bottles. Two tables packed with empty bottles of blood and saline. Only Pupu’s face would float before her eyes in her semi-conscious state. What would happen to Pupu then, would a doll always come between every mother and her death wish? Pupu! Pupe! Why did you come? Whom do you belong to? Are you my sin? And yet you are all the forgiveness for all my sins. Who says there can be no forgiveness. Didn’t Aritra like to read the poet who said, ‘And yet there is forgiveness. Only forgiveness. It harbours no regrets.’ Would the godhead not forgive her if she begged with shame, clasping Pupu to her breast? Humans rued being ‘unable to forgive’, but god forgave. Forgive them, my father, for they know not what they do. No, no. Neelam was startled. It was humans who forgave. God did not. The youthful allure with which she had played her game had not been taken away by another human, but by him. He sent people with certain priceless assets. Health, beauty, intelligence, talent. And then he went off on a long vacation instead of waiting to be consulted or to control. He would come back one day to tot up the accounts. What have you done with your assets, Neelam Joshi? Would Neelam be able to stand in front of him with her curly hair at whose roots nature was sprinkling grains of talcum powder, with her rose-smooth skin that had been stretched so tight it seemed close to breaking, with her vital statistics of 40–38–48? Would she be able to tell him, look, my lord, this is what I have done with the assets you gave me. No, it would be better to keep herself in the background and thrust Pupu forward. Just as Yashodhara had thrust Rahul. The fiery girl was dark, wide-eyed, snub-nosed, curious but resolute. Pushing her forward, Neelam would say, this is what I have created. Check for yourself whether what you had given me has multiplied manifold or not. If Pupu stood there with her Sartre and Yeats, her collection of the Upanishads, Gora and Religion of Man, holding a T-square, would the godhead not say, but Neelam, the capital I invested in you has not grown with interest, you are offering me the enhancement of someone else’s assets. Everyone in the world said Pup had not inherited anything from either of her parents. Not her father’s attractive restlessness, nor her mother’s beauty, which lit up the world, nothing. She was different. All Neelam knew fully was the agony of bearing her in her womb for nine months, the pain of giving birth to her.

Opening the drawer, Neelam took out a comb and a brush. She was combing her hair. Untangling the knots, she was brushing it now. The more she brushed, the more it swelled, exactly like a river at high tide. It billowed, like the goddess Kali’s locks. Her oily skin as taut as the surface of an inflated balloon. No powder, no makeup stayed, everything fell off. With great care, Neelam was putting on a deep layer of lipstick on the thick but curved lips on her pink, oily face. So scarlet that the teeth behind them had lost the honour of their whiteness. Eyeliner, mascara, golden grey eye-shadow. Taking off her housecoat, Neelam put on the bright red sari which Bikram had bought her from Bangladesh for 1526 Taka ten years ago. Bikram would say, it’s a murderous colour, Bhabi, everything will turn red. Silver keys tucked in at her waist, thin golden bangles covering her arms, a necklace of discs around her neck, a choker at her throat, ear rings with peacock motifs. Much of Aritra Chowdhury’s bank balance was now on Neelam’s arms and around her neck. Neelam cleaned the mirror carefully with a moist sheet torn out of a newspaper. But! Who was this! Goddesses did not have human dimensions. Their idols were much larger than people. Durga, Lakshmi, Jagatdhatri. Who could claim that these were the only criteria of beauty! Don’t be upset, Neelam Joshi Chowdhury. Never accept someone else’s judgement. Check for yourself. You can still conquer the world if you want to. You can conquer Aritra, you can conquer Mahanam, Bikram is already in your grasp.

Even after much thought Neelam could not decide which of these victories was imminent and which, essential. Her afternoon passed in a trance, sunk in a daydream. Now she had a mysterious smile on her face at the sight of the battle between Shumbha and Nishumbha, the next moment she looked down at Achilles’s valour, at Hector’s bravery, from the ramparts of the palace of Troy and told herself, all this is for me. At other times she walked in all her glory between the amassed armies of the Kurus and the Pandavas, unable to decide which of them was Aritra and which, Mahanam. All she could hear were cries of triumph from a distance. Or the weeping of many, many men who wanted her. Both the roars and the sobs wove her daydream, but her mind rejected them. She just could not extract her preferred response from the imagination of the men, she just could not. Thwarted, she lay down in exhaustion, wondering whether to finally welcome Cleopatra’s tiny poisonous wasp.

Returning home at twilight, Aritra found her asleep in this garb. The front door was unlocked but closed. It opened when he pushed it lightly. Ari stood inside for a while in surprise. Was Neelam busy somewhere at the back of the house with the front door unlocked? No matter how quickly she returned, it wasn’t safe. Someone else could have entered instead of Ari. Shambhaji patrolled the gate after dark. His working hours would start shortly. The gate was unguarded now. After a short wait Ari locked the door. Taking off his shoes slowly, he entered the bedroom, his feet aching and long-unaccustomed to being used. And was overcome with fear as soon as he did. Neelam was lying on the bed, all dressed up. Her hair spread over the pillow. Wearing a silk sari, sindoor smeared on her forehead as though a married woman had dressed up to die. Just before climbing on the pyre. Death by choice. Was this what Neelam had in mind? Aritra couldn’t produce a sound. He lifted the receiver to phone the doctor. Put it down again. Then, gathering all the courage at his disposal, he put his hand on Neelam’s forehead. Living, warm, sweet, compassionate, without the distance or detachment of death. ‘Neelam! Neelam!’

Neelam sat up with a start, rubbing her eyes. When she saw Aritra she said, ‘What’s wrong? Why are you looking like that?’

Aritra said, ‘I should be the one asking you. What’s the matter? Why are you in bed like this?’

With bewildered, overwhelmed eyes Neelam observed her own sari, and bangles, turning her hand over to look at the mascara smudged on the back, as though she had dressed up in a dream. She said, ‘I had a happy dream, Ari, we were having a Hindu marriage, in front of a fire, with the floor adorned for the seven rounds, you dressed like a groom. In wedding garb, with an embroidered shawl, chandan marks on your brow.’

Their wedding had only involved signing a register and some documents. It was a matter of lifelong regret for the imagination-prone Neelam, who loved ceremony, loved ornaments.

So Aritra said, his voice soft with compassion, ‘You can’t even imagine how beautiful you’re looking, Neelam. Just like a bride, really. Give me a cup of tea now.’

Neelam remained seated the same way, with freshly-awakened eyes, with the aura of dressing up still around her. Her profile was reflected in the mirror. The figure of a dancing deity from Khajuraho. Judging from the bronze figures of danseuses, only in the time of Mahenjodaro was slimness in the body of a woman valued in India. Since then all women had been depicted as heavy hipped and ample breasted. The ideal of the beautiful woman in this country involved plumpness. Neelam forgot everything as she watched herself in the mirror. All her sadness, all her fear, all her guilt from all these years. The twilight streamed in through the west window, sweeping everything away. Then she suddenly saw her own reflection in Ari’s glasses. He could no longer hear the call of this hour! The stars were obscured by clouds, Ari’s glasses had changed, so farewell was very easy. The defeat of a lifetime. Aritra Chowdhury had forgotten to hear the call. All this dressing up was an illusion, an act of pity. Aritra was leaving the twilight-filled room, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

‘Neelam, I want tea, bring some tea, a potful, I’m very thirsty, very.’

Aritra hurried Neelam for the liquid he wanted to pour into his parched throat. Neelam realized that the Greek army was returning, accepting Helen’s decision to enter the castle of Troy of her own free will. Agamemnon was going back, Ulysses was going back, Menelaus was going back. They would take Elphinstone Road, cross Holkar Bridge, go past Deccan College and then onto Ahmadnagar Road, heading for Ahmadnagar or Lohagaon.

A complete break for quite some time now from the bonds of books, of listening and cogitating and meditating. Audio-visual experiences outside of daily habit for some time now. As the train plunged into the silence of the night, Esha breathed a sigh of relief, switched off the light above her eyes and lay down in her bunk. A light sheet covered her waist downward. The wind blew in through the open window near her feet. The soles of her feet tingled with the chill. A thrill spread through her. The tingling rose from her skin along the edges of her thin sari to her garments and then across the rest of her body. Even into her blood. Such a pleasure. Ah!

The first afternoon had not proved very difficult. She had turned drowsy, looking out the window through her sunglasses. She had managed to lean back and doze for some time, her face covered by a literary magazine. As evening approached, as the lights were lit, a buzz began in the train. The crunching of peanuts, biscuits, crisps. A child had been playing, he had come up to Esha too. Now suddenly he was screaming, ‘Make it whole again.’ His young mother had taken a lick of his lollypop, unable to control herself. That was it. His lozenge was damaged. It had to be made whole again. His abashed mother was offering him another one, red, green, blue, each a different colour. But he wouldn’t be distracted. He had to have the discoloured yellow lollypop he had been licking. But made whole again. Unable to perform a miracle, the pleas of his disturbed parents turned into annoyed rebuke. His father was shouting in a muted voice. Different groups of people were chatting, their voices merging with the sound of the train, one man’s deep voice rising above the others from time to time. ‘They used to have chilled water on the Geetanjali earlier.’

Esha sat, lost in the hum of conversations all around her, wrapping her yawning evening languor like a shawl around herself. Her magazine was open in her lap, but the light was so dim that it hurt her eyes to read—all she could do was see the pictures. The lady opposite her asked in Hindi, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Kalyan.’

‘Only up to Kalyan?’

Esha didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation. Her travelling companion was quite sociable. Someone or the other was there to meet her at every junction, carrying a tiffin box of either snacks or a meal. She had tried the sandesh Esha had offered her in the afternoon. Now she wanted to share her puri, subzi and pickles with Esha, but because Esha couldn’t stomach this sort of food, she turned the lady down courteously and ate the white roti and alu-chochhori that Piku had packed for her in polythene. Piku was unparalleled in these matters. It was difficult to tell whether she was a friend or a mother. For the second day too she had packed fine flattened rice, sweets, and wedges of lime with the seeds removed. Esha glanced sideways at her fellow passengers all evening. Who knew when they would sleep? Maybe they chatted till midnight or watched TV, some of them might even be used to having their dinner after midnight. Eventually, the gentleman in the middle rose to his feet and the man next to him went to the bathroom. Esha rose, stretching herself delicately. Night-long comfort, finally. There could be no one as wise and compassionate as the inventor of sleep. Lying on her bunk, Esha could see the sky with countless stars over open fields, beneath it tiny boxes filled with human drops. The stars were so bright, but they did not wander off, circling and eventually dying in their prescribed orbits, but the droplets of people moved about with irresistible life-force. According to their own wishes. I am one of them. I shall never be still. I shall keep moving and die this way. Is death like the sky? Monochrome, grim? But the application of free will that brings me comfort is not predestined, is it? The world’s movement on an orbit is not visible with the naked eye either.

The train raced across the earth like a heated shell. The windows were tightly shut. First only the glass panes had been closed. Now the wooden slats too. A hot wind blew outside. In the darkness of the carriage a compartment full of people panted like dogs with their tongues hanging out. The young Agarwal boy was off to his uncle’s house in Bombay after his school examinations. He had put a wet handkerchief on his face. Now he peeped at Esha, smiling. You could do this too, it’ll bring you some relief. She had no objection to learning from people, older or younger. Taking a tiny towel out of her bag, she soaked it in cold water and covered her own face, too. See how I can go one better than my teacher. If yours is a hanky, mine’s a towel, it won’t dry quickly.

The young man consumed nothing but cold drinks. Esha had bought a vegetarian meal wrapped in aluminium foil. She simply could not eat it. The pulau, daal, potatoes and pickles had all been mashed up together. It would have been best to have been on a diet of fruits and cold drinks like the young man. She had her own food with her too. Piku had said, ‘Fine Patna flattened rice, soak it in water and eat with lime juice and sugar. It will cool you.’ She had told her, and she had told her again. But Esha wasn’t up to such effort in a moving train just to eat. Now, as she transferred the hot mass served on the train from one hand to the other and back, feeling like a fool, she realized that Piku had more experience and practical sense. She should have relied on them. When the two of them had considered building a house in the suburbs, Piku had said with a smile, ‘I’ll manage your home, you manage my world. But what if you marry?’

Esha had said without a smile, ‘Once is enough. But you might marry too.’

Piku was worse than she was, saying seriously, ‘Once is enough.’

Both of them had laughed. Putting her arms around Esha, Piku had said,

‘Tumi niye chalo amaake lokottore. Tomake bondhu aami lokayete bandhi.’

[‘Take me away from people, let me bind you amidst them.’]

At Nagpur Agarwal bought large oranges, cheap. Finally abandoning his silence, he said, ‘The oranges are delicious, taste one, Jiji.’ He made Esha buy a dozen. They sat munching on their oranges as the train moved ahead. These Nagpur oranges were far superior to the ones from Darjeeling. And yet Calcutta considered Nagpur oranges inferior. It felt that people from Nagpur kept the best for themselves and sent the poor quality oranges to other places. In West Bengal we do just the opposite. Prawns and honey from the Sunderbans, superior rice from Bardhaman, the best tea from Darjeeling are all exported for foreign exchange. We keep the worst, often inedible, things for ourselves. No one can match us in self-humiliation.

No sooner had they crossed Warba than black, cultivated land became visible on both sides. A balm for the eyes. The Sahayadri had arranged large black rocks on dry riverbeds. Esha gazed in wonder at what looked exactly like a group of small and big elephants emerging from the water after their frolic. How whimsical nature was. It had presented a Jataka tale through wayside sculptures. In the Chaddanta Jataka, Bodhisattva had been born as an elephant with six tusks. There he was, the glorious king of the elephants. But Piku wasn’t here. Esha felt no pleasure unless she could share her joy and wonder. Still she kept looking at the scene through the window as long as she could. Subrata Agarwal had realized there was something special out there, but he was not sitting by the window. He had the furthest seat from the window on the bench opposite Esha, he couldn’t see anything despite craning his neck. The riverbed was quite low. Eventually he couldn’t contain himself any longer and said, ‘Something unusual, Jiji?’ Esha smiled. ‘Nothing unusual, just rocks.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’ How was she to recount the story of the elephant in the Chaddanta Jataka, and its sculptural depiction through the boulders of the Sahayadri, to young Agarwal across the length of the compartment?

The train was passing through one tunnel after another. Each time it entered the darkness, Esha welcomed it as she thought of the threatening moment when she would meet Ari. And when the train emerged into the light, the fear dissipated. She had been through a lot in life. Why should she be afraid? Someone seemed to be saying to the rhythm of the train,
abhi bhava, abhi bhava
. At once Esha became completely calm. Then she wondered why she had wired Aritra. She could have taken a bus from Jalgaon. Or she could have asked a travel agent to make arrangements. Their itineraries involved visiting a different place every day. This form of travel was never satisfying, which was why Esha avoided travel agents despite the assurance they offered. Why did she have to make Aritra her agent? In one letter after another Ari had written, ‘Friendship is very valuable, Esha. Friendship is the last word. Can’t we be friends? Just friends. Time is infinite, and the world is enormous, life is so short in comparison. The harshness of refusing friendship does not suit you.’

The train was running late. What would she do if there was no one there when she arrived late at night? She could pay extra money to spend a day or two at the Bengal Lodge and sort things out after that. No, the train would reach Victoria Terminus even later at night. Never mind, we’ll see what happens. As the train swayed from side to side, Esha went to the toilet in preparation of getting off. Subrata Agarwal looked up at her and smiled. Mrs Jain shifted her huge body to make room. Manmad, Nashik Road, Igatpuri . . .

The long-expected train was finally reaching Kalyan. The clanking of the wheels was slowing down, getting heavier. Esha’s feet stuck to the floor of the compartment. Like walking in a dream, she was moving forward but not advancing. Suddenly Subrata appeared from the back and took her light suitcase. Esha only had her bag on her shoulder. She stood still in the frame of the carriage door for some time. The platform was busy. The Geetanjali Express had arrived late, the entire platform was active, noisy, on the move. Where was Aritra? How would she recognize him if he had changed a lot? A gap of eighteen years. Life had changed, people’s appearances had changed, the environment had changed, on what basis had she taken this plunge into the unknown? The platform was not particularly long. Esha could not spot a familiar face or familiar gesture amongst all these strangers. She kept walking with slow footsteps, kept walking, holding a fibre suitcase, a bag slung over her shoulder, Esha kept walking.

Aritra had seen her from a distance, though, seen her from afar. From the time that Esha was a bright yellow spot near the furthest star, at the door of her carriage. Aritra looked at her in wonder, standing still. Esha was coming, but eighteen years had not elapsed. She was standing at the same spot where she had said goodbye. The same corner in the right wing of the supper floor of the Coffee Shop. It was from that exact spot that Esha was approaching him. A pensive mass of hair on her shoulder. Not quite visible, a thin curtain of moist, bluish cloud, the sun shining through it. The rhythm of her movement shook the universe of Aritra’s attention to the core.

You come from a new age, from the heart of womanliness, awakening from your charmed sleep

Silencing the armies of time with a signal from your divine mouth

You come with the terrifying inevitability of a nuclear storm

Like a tumultuous rebellion you come like the contagion of a million viruses in blood cells

This was what an engrossed, hypnotized Aritra was reciting softly when Esha reached him where he stood, still and unmoving. Railway workers, porters and passengers walked past the eulogist, none of them paying him any attention. Aritra didn’t pay them any either. Just as a water-laden cloud showers firebolts from time to time, lightning began to flash in Esha’s heart as she listened to the mesmerized song of praise. She wanted to scream, ‘You’re lying. Not I, it was you, you who used to come this way, like an unwelcome virus, unwanted but irresistible. Contagious. Making my blood rise in extreme, intoxicated rebellion. Your dishevelled hair raising a thousand hoods like the offspring of a king cobra, your forehead invisible, your nose like a sharpened sickle, your eyes like slits. Drunk, verdant, vernal, mutinous. A constant flow of words like smoke from a Charminar, a cyclonic storm, the torrent of a waterfall in the mountains, streaking like a bus on a highway, rumbling, sometimes a light drizzle, tinkling autumn flowers, unceasing, accurate, and, again, a hundred times irresistible.’

Travelling along Upper Circular Road, the car had turned left at Vivekananda Street and then into Cornwallis Street. In her absent-mindedness she hadn’t noticed, but to their left were Dasgupta, International and Chakraborty Chatterjee, rows of bookshops, the pavement, students with tired faces thronging the railings, the inevitable professor with a portfolio bag and dark glasses, researchers—how could you still not recognize the neighbourhood of College Street? It had been exactly five years. Back home after five years. And yet those five years were an entire age. Five years of a strict vow to forget so many things. Not from very far away, however, only from the treasury of the world, West Asia. Money and leave to go home every year were always available. She had spent it visiting whichever of the Gulf countries she could, and leapfrogging through India, Burma, Singapore, Hong Kong and Japan. She hadn’t even considered returning home. Those days what Esha thought was what Esha did, that was how it was. Her husband was exactly seventeen years, three months and five and a half days older than her.

She said to the chauffeur Gobindolal, ‘Can you stop for a minute, Gobindo-da, I want to get off for a bit.’

It was difficult to park on the road, so the car turned into Colootola Street. Esha returned to the world of books. She was enveloped in the sharp odour of old volumes, the petrichor of new editions. Fat guidebooks for students at every kiosk, paper, maps, flowers, birds, vehicles, superheroes.

‘What do you need, Didi, which book?’

‘Just tell us what you want.’

An overly enthusiastic young man offered her a stool, saying, ‘All the guidebooks for the English fifth paper are out, Didi. Complete in one volume.’

Heaven knew why they had considered Esha a student or a teacher in search of guidebooks for the English fifth paper. She still gave off a scent of luxury, of a foreign country. Students or teachers didn’t exude such fragrances. The glow of her skin was the kind that could be seen only on those who had been abroad recently. Those who spent all their hours from morning till night in air-conditioned rooms, who had not encountered contaminated drinking water, who had long become accustomed to unadulterated food and cosmetics.