The first of the Chartered Shipbrokers exams came and went. Radhesh didn’t take them. He hadn’t studied enough. He was fundamentally superstitious; not only in ordinary ways, but in believing that certain procedures needed to be followed to the letter before success could be ensured. In his case, the ritual was absolute immersion in preparations. He’d once passed through a utopian phase in school, when he decided that anything less than perfect preparedness was useless. This was a consequence of running into his science teacher on the street prior to his Chemistry exam, when he’d enquired politely: “Sir, how do I ensure that I’ll do well?” The teacher said, “You should know every word in your Chemistry textbook” and went on his way. So Radhesh set about familiarising himself with each word. He never appeared for the Chemistry exam.

Ananda’s father speculated about whether he’d repeat those tactics in London. But he did write his Part One the next time he had an opportunity; he passed, without distinguishing himself. He was troubled; his ambitions were aimed much higher. He’d crammed shipping law like a fanatic for six months.

Radhesh thought it over and changed strategy. Clearly, identity was key. Chartered Shipbroking was well known for being a white man’s domain. They wouldn’t let just anyone in, especially to the pucca upper strata. The Fellowship was fiercely competed over by men from Harrow and Rugby. Radhesh considered his surname—Nandy Majumdar. A double-barrelled kayastha title of (he liked to boast to Ananda) kulin ancestry. Majumdar. The examiners doubtless thought he was African. Majumdar, Majoomba—it was the same to them. They couldn’t let an African in: as simple as that. He re-enrolled, lopping off Majumdar. (“From ‘mauja daar,’ ” another wastrel relative had bragged to Ananda, “ ‘owner of several villages.’ ”) He became the universal, non-committal “Nandy.”

He stood First in Part Two—“in the world,” Ananda was often reminded, as examinees were scattered globally and throughout the Commonwealth. In Belsize Park and Belsize Village, his uncle was celebrated for his metamorphosis to world-conqueror.

—

And what happened then? What changed from when Ananda’s parents left him in his triumph?

Ananda remembered his first expedition to Belsize Park from the bed and breakfast on Haverstock Hill in 1973. They’d arrived the previous night; they were woken up by a buzzer summoning them to breakfast. They sat at a large table with a man in thick glasses and a black suit who buttered, back and forth, four slices of toast, breathing hard. His mother’s sari shone like an exotic plumage. Then—once the disciplinarian silence of breakfast was lifted—they were liberated, and were out on Haverstock Hill, crossing the road and marching down Belsize Avenue. When they reached the house his parents had left twelve years before, his father, instead of going up the steps to press the buzzer, cried in the sunlit space to the first-floor window: “Radhesh?” The heavy window creaked onerously as it was lifted; his uncle peered out. “Open the door!” The three went up the steps and united on the porch, as if posing for a family photograph. Radhesh, lurking inside in his dressing gown, opened the door a few seconds later. Through it they passed into the dark stairwell, and up the wide stairs on which the electric light shone a minute at a time. The house closed upon Ananda in a years-old smell of dust and curry. In Rangamama’s bedsit, nothing had been polished or dusted for a few years at least. Things had multiplied: pots, cups, pans; greeting cards. Telephone numbers, including country codes (Ananda’s father’s among them), were inscribed in a large clear hand above the mantelpiece. (That bedsit had pink wallpaper.) A pile of the Pan Book of Horror Stories occupied the rug near the bed. Dust had settled in an ashen nuclear winter on the table and chairs, and formed serpentine moustaches on the sides of walls. Ananda’s uncle held forth, the perfect host. The bed was unmade; he hadn’t smoothed the sheet or pulled up the blanket. Ananda’s father instructed his wife and Ananda to step through the windowsill on to the half-octagon of the parapet. With barely room to sit, they looked out at the breadth of Belsize Avenue, talking, Ananda glancing now and then over his shoulder. His uncle, standing in his maroon dressing gown, was declaiming, releasing statements pent up for years. His father, dressed in a suit as if for a business appointment, had covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. He was beating surfaces with a duster, leading to black storms within. When the storms subsided, the two returned from the sunshine into the room.