shared only with Surjeet Shona, his eager acolyte: What are the Stracheys doing here in this crazy, filthy, smoggy, out-of-control city? Do they really need this apartment, this Rajmahal, these ancient toothless servants, just for the sake of a view of the crowded maidan , access to a few shabby clubs, an idea that their Raj is still here? How do they face the sly hints about the greed of the British during the Raj, their savage revenge after native uprisings? I have heard them being taunted about the famine. Have they forgotten how they went skipping across starving bodies on their way into Firpoâs? What about all the writing on this British indifference, the writing which reviles it? What about Jack Stracheyâs own true background? (I know what this means, after all, though I was so young when I left Russia. Jack Strachey was a full adult when he left his country.) A âtrueâ background means a wholeness which can never exist in another country, in spite of a long lifeâs association. It means knowing people of your own family, your region, your background . . . It means recognizing who you are and what you are, your true level . . . Ah! There I may have hit on something. Perhaps Jack Stracheyâs level in England is the problem . . .
Small differences with the Indians on which Jack and Myrna had commented and laughed over the years were now like monster barriers.
âItâs rude to tell the truth, but not to yawn, spit, and burp.â
âAnd fart too.â
â W hat about nose picking?â
âHave more, na, please, but you must . . . â
âNo thank you . . . â
âAre you sure . . . ?â
âOf course I am, I said so didnât I!â
Exasperating. Maddening. As if one doesnât know oneâs own mind.
âLook at him Jack, piling my plate, itâs monstrous!â
âShshsh. Just eat as much as you can . . . â
âMyrna, give Mr. Ghosh another helping . . . â
âI just asked him, he said ânoâ!â
âMyrna! Insist, go on! Or youâll offend him . . . â
But Jack knew the Indian experience would deny him simple solutions, that, in the end he could not have re-adjusted his personality and status-consciousness in Britain. Here his level was intact and understood. It was himself now and till the end.
Myrnaâs familiar quack quacking penetrated.
âWhat dear?â he said mildly.
âHow do I look ?â Myrna said in that anxious tone close to hysteria. âHow do I look , Jack? Youâre not listening !â
How did she look indeed? Jack realized he hadnât looked at her recently, because of her incessant natter, because of his incessant concern for her. â You . . . â automatically, knowing his best strategy. âDarling, you . . . look . . . just fine . . . â
âDonât lie! I donât believe you meant a word of that!â
âWhat dear?â
âI used to be so sexy.â Myrnaâs voice took on a mewling tone.
âDonât I know it!â Jack dutifully lunged at a heavily corseted breast.
Myrna slapped him away. âStop it!â She started crying, turning Jackâs heart and lowering his resistance so painfully that he groaned out loud.
âOh Jack, I donât know how I should do my hair, and what I should wear . . . Itâs so hard . . . â
âHush.â Jackâs voice trembled. âHush . . . â
âI canât decide! Should I dye my hair? And look at these stays, they hardly make a difference. Itâs too awful of Martin to forget the new ones . . . And, and, should I dye my hair? Itâs awful .â Desperate. âYou arenât saying anything. Should I dye my hair, Jack Strachey, should I dye it, so theyâll look at me again... â
âI love you.â Jack was saying under his breath, all this while, like a mantra. âI love you. Hush, hush.â He held