Two young men followed Max as he worked his way back to Clare. They thrust their way through the crowd. Clare, watching through the glare of a spotlight as her husband approached, could see the faces of his pursuers clearly. One of them was somewhat fat, with a thick moustache. The other was younger, hardly more than a boy. They seemed very determined to catch up with Max. He reached her side completely unaware of them.
The spotlight moved on over the crowd. Clare shouted out, seeing the boy trying to snatch Max’s camera. In response, Max seized him in a judo hold, twisting his arm up behind him until he shouted in pain, and the camera fell from his grip. As Max picked it up, the man with the moustache flicked open a knife and made a feint lunge; the steel glinted in the light. Max let go of the boy, who sprang to his feet and moved out of reach. Clare was struck by his tearful, flashing eyes, with their look of injury and anger. He stared at Max for an instant before darting away with his companion, who threw a threatening look behind him.
The crowd swayed and jostled. There were shouts and startled faces, and a growing murmur of excited sympathy. An old man with a huge, untidy turban yelled in indignation. A cow ambled forward, waving its heavy head as if it disapproved. The voice of the orator angrily rattled on, enunciating endless grievous facts, while, high above, a rushing explosion shook the air. Fireworks. They burst into a hundred glittering threads of light that illuminated a tall, bearded figure lurching heavily on his crutches towards Max and Clare. Upon reaching them, he opened his mouth and pointed into it, holding out his begging bowl with a solemn look of dignity upon his face. He was middle-aged, his beard flecked with grey. As Max gave the man some money he leant forward to peer into his face, then Clare’s, before touching his head in a gentle salutation and swinging away.
Clare saw the two youths dart out of the crowd to join the cripple in a tense debate. She noticed that the fat one seemed frustrated as he looked at Max, as if there was more to the attack than the theft of an expensive camera. But this was mere conjecture on her part. It worried her more to think that they were somehow connected with the cripple, that he might not have been as harmless as he’d appeared.
‘Max,’ she whispered urgently, ‘I think they might be planning to have another try.’
‘Let’s go,’ he replied.
As they walked away, Clare noticed with dismay that the youths were in pursuit, appearing and disappearing from view among the people milling about in the street. Sometimes they were silhouetted by exploding fireworks; sometimes they were hidden in the shadows. She could hear them calling out menacingly. One of the youths came near, as if about to lunge at Max again to seize his camera. The other shook his fist in the smoky air.
Eventually Clare and Max put some distance between themselves and the youths and managed to lose them. At least they could relax now, although Clare kept looking behind, just in case. As they walked, Max started talking about something else. He referred to the corruption that had recently become a major issue in Indian politics, and the courage of Venkataraman, the speaker in the square, in apparently confronting it so strongly.
‘But Westerners are not so spotlessly corrupt that they can condescend to India on the matter,’ Max added. ‘Not after some of our recent Congressional and Parliamentary financial scandals.’
Trying to dismiss the attempted mugging from her mind, Clare began to worry about her marriage instead, as she had for a while now. Who or what was taking her husband’s interest away from her? She imagined it might be Vijaya, a vivacious and humorous woman they’d got to know while staying with Vijaya’s brother, Narayan, in Chennai. As Clare thought about Vijaya’s luxuriant black hair, she considered her own, very English, looks: her pale, thirty-year-old face, blue eyes and auburn hair made her appear so conspicuous out here in Southern India. Max could conceivably have developed an attraction to Narayan’s sister because of his close friendship with Narayan, who occasionally seemed to subtly flirt with Clare. Or did she flatter herself in suspecting this? He’d surely never risk the comradeship with Max that had led to Max and Clare’s visit in the first place. However, Narayan had said Vijaya was very much in love with her cousin, Tamilazhagam, whose name they shortened to Tammy.
Tammy was an odd puzzle of a man, really. He’d come with them on this expedition but was waiting back at the hotel. He’d refused to join them at the temple, although he’d looked curiously torn when Clare had pressed him to do so.
As they reached the hotel, Clare watched a few streamers sail across the temple’s silhouette. They sputtered in the air, their delicate embers floating slowly down. She could make out the temple’s tower in the moonlight, looming above the crowded streets. She heard the resonant clanging of its bell. But then the brutal memory came back: the boy seizing the camera and then shouting in agony; the older one with his flick-knife; the glint of sharp steel. She imagined that knife ripping into Max’s muscular smooth body, and a sudden warmth of tenderness spread through her. Fearful, thinking Max could have been killed in that terrible moment, Clare decided to summon up the courage to discuss their marriage with him.
Tammy had been waiting on the veranda of the hotel. A meal was ordered and he listened, intrigued, as Max told him about the attempted theft of the camera.
‘They could’ve been ordinary thieves,’ Tammy said. ‘There are enough of those. Or they could, conceivably, have had political loyalties that your photography might’ve offended.’ He paused, looking at Max. ‘You can seem a touch intrusive with that telescopic lens of yours. They may not like their leaders being snapped without consent, especially by someone standing out as much as you do. They might think you a nosey foreign journalist, or a shady CIA agent.’
‘I try not to be too intrusive with my photos,’ Max said.
Tammy grinned broadly, as if wanting to emphasise that he’d been joking. He led Max and Clare upstairs, where he produced a bottle of whisky. While he poured the drinks, he talked about being an economist in India.
‘I’m driven round the bend by the country’s problems,’ he said. ‘This is the sorry fate of many economists out here.’
The meal arrived.
‘Some vegetarian mess wrapped in a banana leaf,’ Tammy said with joke disparagement.
Max had come to like the spicy food.
‘Chilli hunger,’ Narayan had called it when telling Max and Clare back in Los Angeles how much he craved the pungent, vegetarian dishes of his homeland.
‘It keeps my Indian soul intact, even after a year of insidious Americanisation,’ he’d said laughingly. If only Narayan had come with them, Max thought for the hundredth time. He longed for Narayan’s lively curiosity and the way he talked about his background with the exuberant affection that characterised his general attitude. Still, he wasn’t there. Max turned his thoughts back to Tammy as they began to eat. He couldn’t understand why Tammy had been so keen to come to this distant town of Madurai, given that he hadn’t wanted to visit its famous temple.
A fan rotated sluggishly on the ceiling, squeaking in complaint as if every revolution was going to be its very last. Max ate using his fingers, Indian style, as Narayan had taught him. Clare, who was less ambitious, relied upon a spoon. Outside, the noise of the electioneering was getting louder. A parade was going around the town, heading in their direction. Tammy was telling them about a regional political figure who, after years of spectacular misrule, recently had the good grace to die.
‘He was a hammy film star earlier in his life, and his flashy ostentation commanded huge loyalty from the sheep-like masses. In truth, he was appallingly corrupt. He appointed sycophantic lackeys to overpaid positions. He handed out dodgy contracts to his backhanding cronies and ruthlessly suppressed any rivals. Now they’ve decided he was a monster and they clamour for change.’
Max listened sceptically to Tammy, whose political information seemed to be so luridly exaggerated. Max and Clare were working on a book together on India, Max taking the photographs to illustrate Clare’s prose. Their aim was to provide a balanced portrait of modern India, avoiding too much cynicism and doom as well as excessive optimism. It was through getting to know Narayan in Los Angeles that the ambition to produce the book had been born. Narayan had been flattered by Max’s interest in India. When he learned that Max had written a book on Mexico and had studied comparative religion, he suggested that Max write a book about India. Max had been flattered but wondered if he and Clare were really up to it. He still did at times, despite Narayan’s enthusiastic help, and Tammy’s. The insights provided by this economics lecturer were especially beneficial.
‘Of course,’ Tammy went on, ‘the chemical works and nuclear reactors have done wonders for India’s morale, regardless, that is, of the dire environmental side effects or the fact that we could’ve put the money to much better use by spreading it around more.’
‘Spending it on what in particular?’ asked Max. ‘What are the priorities in your view?’
‘We need drains and tractors, and mobile medical units, and drilling equipment to combat increasing water shortages. The trouble is, we’re far too keen on national prestige and less concerned with popular well-being. So we make these gestures of false affluence and ignore our real problems: poverty, disease and massive social inequality. There’s inadequate spending on health and education and on the feeding of our undernourished children.’
Tammy’s voice drifted away, or seemed to as far as Clare was concerned. She was thinking about her marriage again. She remembered the figure of Vishnu tenderly holding Lakshmi in the temple. It brought to mind an awareness of how open Hinduism was to amorous relationships, and how it celebrated sexual, married love such as she and Max had known for two years now. She and Max had met in a hilltop castle, eighty miles from Rome. They’d been on a study course that covered Italian language and civilisation. The castle had been reluctantly converted into a hostel, but it retained its leaking roof, reverberating plumbing and elderly, spasmodic electricity.
Max had shyly invited Clare up to his room, which overlooked a narrow valley that corkscrewed through the hills. She stood beside him at the window while he talked about his father, whose affection he’d always craved but whose political views he had abhorred. This came to a head with Bush’s invasion of Iraq, which his father had strenuously supported and Max had angrily opposed. He spoke of their bitter arguments, his father’s illness and their partial, uneasy reconciliation. He seemed so stressed about it that Clare felt the need to say he shouldn’t hand his father such power over him by caring so painfully about what he thought.
Max had kissed her then, on the lips, for the very first time. It had been diffident at first but it deepened as Clare responded. She’d sensed he would make no further moves unless invited, which she found both challenging and reassuring. As she said goodnight to him, she knew she wanted to go on seeing this troubled man who had been so open with her.
‘Look, I’d better join the crowds outside,’ Max said all of a sudden, breaking into Clare’s reverie. ‘There’s the potential for some really good pictures. Clare, don’t bother to come. It’s been a long day. You’re pretty whacked.’
Max got to his feet and reached for his camera. Tammy rose too, apologising to Max and hoping he hadn’t hogged the conversation.
‘Was I being too sweeping and dogmatic?’ he asked.
‘Oh don’t worry,’ Max said. ‘I like your critical spirit. It’s just my photographer’s neurosis coming into play. I’m terrified of missing out on some great photos.’
‘Sit down, Tammy,’ said Clare as Max departed. ‘Have more whisky.’
Tammy smiled at her, a little awkwardly. She liked his face but no one could convincingly call him good looking. He had a beaky nose and irregular features, and his skin was paler than Narayan’s. Clare thought Narayan more handsome, although he seemed genuinely oblivious to the fact. Vijaya was paler still. Her disarming little jokes and delicate gestures contrasted with the anger she expressed about the inferior status of most women in India. Clare wondered once more about Vijaya and Max, but her suspicion seemed far-fetched. Then she thought about Tammy’s feelings for Vijaya. He seldom mentioned her; when he did, he did so casually. He often assumed an air of cool indifference, as if he thought this made him seem self-possessed.
Clare decided she must press him gently on the subject – but not now.
‘Have you read the Bhagavad Gita?’ she asked him instead. ‘Or perhaps you’re so involved with the problems of modern India that your ancient classics seem irrelevant.’
‘You know, the trouble you India freaks cause us poor Indians,’ said Tammy, smiling. ‘I was shamed into reading it at Cambridge.’
‘In Sanskrit?’
‘You must be joking! Our classic language is Greek to me because of all that foreign education my Anglophile father insisted on. He sentenced me to a frigid English public school, in thrall to muscular Christianity, football and the sacred cricket pitch. I suffered from English insularity and just a touch of politely hidden racism. When I first returned to India, I felt like a sort of rootless and out-of-place expatriate.’
‘Did you do anything about that?’ Clare asked.
‘Yes. I travelled around India to find my roots. It’s an incredibly beautiful country, with its temples and mosques, great rivers, palaces and forts. Even the simple villages have a quiet beauty, with peacocks perching in banyan trees, and goats and monkeys and cattle ambling down the streets. The people are so friendly and smiling. And the vibrant colours of the clothing… the saris and turbans… I’d almost forgotten how gorgeous they could be. For the first time I fell in love with my own country, in spite of all its problems and basic poverty. One forgets the primitive sanitation!’
‘Did you do all this travelling alone?’
‘No. I went with an Indian Muslim friend, Shahpur. We met at Cambridge, where we both read economics and became close friends. There are 180 million Muslims in India, and he opened my mind to their religion. I tried to give him some vague idea of mine, although he’s a practising Muslim and I’m a rather lapsed Hindu.’
‘How did he open your mind about Islam?’
‘Well, about jihad for instance. The non-Islamic world thinks this means only holy war, but it principally means our inner war, in the cause of God. It’s about the fight between good and evil in one’s own self, despite what a tiny minority of hotheads might assume. God is closer to us than our own jugular veins. There’s nothing between God and ourselves. It’s a fine religion. The Koran exalts compassion, brotherhood and social justice. It stresses the moral and spiritual equality of the sexes, giving women the legal rights of inheritance and divorce.’
‘I didn’t know all of that,’ Clare said. ‘Getting back to feeling like an expatriate, I’m one too, I suppose. An Englishwoman living in Los Angeles, married to an American. But does having a country really matter? Belonging to one exclusively, I mean.’
‘Your case is different. I’ve got my over-extended family here, and this is where I’m expected to settle down and marry. You’ve met Vijaya. She’s a nice, high caste, traditional Indian girl, although she deplores the caste system as much as I do. She’s very sweet and has quite a sense of humour. I just can’t see us making a success of being married.’
‘That depends on whether you find her anything more than sweet and nice. You speak of her very condescendingly. It’s very unappealing.’
‘I’m sorry, but she’s so limited. She’s hardly left her wondrous South India. Okay, she once went to stay with some old relatives in Kolkata, where they’re sacrilegious enough to actually eat meat. As much as she hates me pouring fiendish booze down my throat, she’s far more shocked if I gorge myself on the flesh of animals. She’s full of feminist outrage, and I sympathise. But beneath the surface sophistication, surely you can see how naive she is. How can I talk to her about the real India, about the blood and guts of the poor country?’
‘And where is this real India, in your opinion?’
‘Out there,’ he said, gesturing through the window at the packed and sweltering town. ‘The reality of India is open drains and undernourished children, of which I’ve made a recent study. Over forty per cent of children here are underweight or stunted. Half of all living accommodation lacks flush toilets, so there’s open defecation, which breeds disease, something Vijaya is too refined and sheltered to discuss. There’s hideous overcrowding in the cities and the shantytowns are proliferating. It’s no wonder there’s growing frustration, communal prejudice and strife. I lecture and write about these things in the hope of pressuring government to try and make them better.’
‘Has there been all that much strife in recent years?’
‘There’s always the underlying possibility. It erupted at Ayodha ten years ago, when there were riots across Northern India. Shahpur came from near there. Thousands of Muslims were killed, and his terrified family had to flee. Hindu fundamentalists demolished an ancient mosque they claimed had been built above an even more ancient Hindu holy place. A few extremist Hindu nationalists urged them on, but it was deeply regretted by the Hindu moderate majority. Such rabid fanaticism! Such senseless rage and violence! The real enemies aren’t other people’s races and religions but hunger and the lack of plumbing and clean water, with the typhus and cholera that inevitably follow.’
Although Clare was impressed by the range and eloquence of Tammy’s opinions, she wanted a breath of air, and she suggested they move onto the terrace. The breeze had dropped. The moon seemed icy and remote. A moth trembled past on soft wings. A bat hurtled down, shuddered in mid-flight, then vanished like the shadow of a moment. A burst of cheering rent the air, briefly drowning out a pop song, all throbbing beat and quivering melody. An amplified political speech came echoing raucously over the rooftops. A large and brightly lit open-top bus was moving slowly along the street below.
Eventually, Clare spoke.
‘Surely you can discuss all of that with Vijaya?’
‘Vijaya? Cocooned as she is within her privileged, cushy background?’
‘Who isn’t cocooned a bit? We all need a cocoon to some extent.’
‘You’ve managed to escape from yours. You’re so adventurous, Clare. Coming out here, wanting to know about all things Indian… the grim as well as the good. I want to help with your book. I admire you so much.’
‘That’s nice of you. But, without being boringly full of wifely pride, there’s more to admire in Max. Not that either of us are all that wonderful.’
‘You are very wonderful to me,’ Tammy said.
As Clare looked into Tammy’s eyes, she saw bewilderment and much anxiety. She turned away, wanting to discourage the feelings she feared she was sensing but not to snub him. She gazed down at the bus, with Venkataraman up aloft. People waving flags and banners followed the exuberant procession. Clare looked across at the now-distant temple tower, seeing in her mind those gods and goddesses, carved on its sides, gazing serenely down at what went on in the hectic world below: all the excitement and frustration, conflict and confusion of the human heart.
‘I’ve been feeling this for a while,’ Tammy said. ‘It’s why I came with you on this trip.’
‘You’d no right to come because of that.’
‘I know. It’s wrong of me. I suppose it was the way we talked together. Vijaya’s so backward looking. She’s got a whole collection of ancient carvings. Her room is like a shrine… a shrine to a past age. She has so little involvement in the present, living world, apart from her fervent feminism.’
‘Then why not help her to become more involved?’
‘I don’t want to marry her, Clare,’ Tammy said bluntly. ‘That’s the truth of it.’
‘You’re surely a free agent. Do you feel bound by your dead parents’ wishes?’
‘It’s not just that. It’s the expectations of both our families. It’s Narayan, who’s been like a brother to me since our childhood. Vijaya is like a kid sister. I can’t bear the thought of hurting her in what would be a cruelly public manner. She’d be totally humiliated. All this makes me feel so claustrophobic.’
‘I’m sorry, Tammy. I see your problem.’
He looked at her. What he said came out so softly Clare thought she had misheard him.
‘I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love with you.’
Time stopped for Clare for a few awkward, heavy seconds. Tammy’s words were absurd. She felt he had had no right to be embarrassing her like this.
‘That’s mad,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Please believe me.’
‘You shouldn’t say things like that, Tammy. I love Max more than I can say. I think I’d better go. I’m sorry.’
Clare left, feeling an urgent need to be with her husband. What Tammy had said was both annoying and unreal. She didn’t believe he loved her, although, frustrated as he was over his engagement, he might indulge himself with such a fanciful idea. She thought she might find Max following the electioneering bus and so she went downstairs, trying to wipe Tammy’s words from her mind. Out on the street, she turned a corner and found herself in a throng of people pushing along and cheering. Between the whoops and shouts, she could hear Venkataraman’s continuing oratory and the whooshes and bangs of the fireworks. Over the noise, she heard Tammy call her name, doubtless anxious about her venturing alone into this seething mass of people. She really disliked him saying he loved her. It was just a transient infatuation, and one she had to tactfully discourage.
There came a burst of applause as the bus –draped with strings of marigolds – turned a corner. Its sides were painted with scenes of a glowing heaven-upon-earth. There was a hero, glaring with romantic fierceness, a plump heroine, lustrous-eyed and smiling beatifically, and a flight of crimson parrots. A multicoloured elephant and a cow with golden horns also formed part of this touching vision of paradise.
The drums beat on. Some boys were jogging along and dancing. A man on crutches dipped with a convulsive movement of his shoulders. The bus was crawling past, and Clare found herself being pushed with sudden violence. On top of the bus, Venkataraman was energetically waving at the crowd. Someone threw a flower up at him, which he caught with surprising skill. Two small, excited boys sat on the bumpers beneath ropes of wilting flowers and dusty paper streamers. Joss sticks sent up smoky threads of incense that mingled with the smells of sweat and diesel fumes.
Tammy caught up with Clare. He was smiling hesitantly, as if about to apologise for declaring his love. Clare couldn’t see Max anywhere, but she suddenly found herself next to the thin boy who’d tried to snatch Max’s camera. She’d clearly seen his face before the incident, but Max hadn’t because it had been dark. The boy was pushing forward now, and she was struck by his expression of fear and by his smooth, good looks; they were extraordinary, even for India, where beauty and ugliness were starkly contrasted. The boy was trembling slightly, as if nervous, his mouth slightly open and his eyes a little tearful. In front of him was his overweight accomplice. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder in a gesture of affectionate encouragement.
Then he noticed Clare and seemed to recognise her.
Clare caught her breath and tried to hang back, but the crowd was irresistibly carrying her along. On her left hobbled a man with crinkly hair dangling down to his shoulders and parallel white lines painted on his forehead. On her right strode a tall, middle-aged woman with fiercely made-up eyes and a distinctly imperious air. She seemed to be the leader of a group of women, whose brilliant saris in red, vermilion and icy green contrasted with the stark whiteness of the clothing of the men or with their dark, naked upper torsos.
The two youths were conferring with an older, bearded, man. It was the man Clare had seen earlier, whom she now recognised as the cripple who had approached them with his begging bowl. The boy seemed fearful as the cripple and the boy’s companion urgently exhorted him. The cripple had a commanding but not unkind expression. The boy at first seemed unwilling to do something. He briefly argued back, stammering in frustration. The plump youth stared at Clare, as if disliking her observation of them, while the boy’s nervous glances gave way to a look of steely resolution.
A push from behind carried Clare right to the back of the bus, where she saw a tiny, shivering monkey held by a smiling boy riding on the bumper. He had displaced the boys who had been sitting there, and they were now trudging sulkily along behind. The monkey clung tightly to the boy with wrinkled and leathery black fingers. It twisted its head to stare with enormous, blinking eyes at the people around it.
The bus stopped completely, such was the crush of people in the street. The women had been pushed into a huddle, which the tall woman did not appreciate at all. She glared haughtily around, hands held up in protest at this unceremonious treatment of her flock, which she was bossily trying to protect like a flustered mother hen. Her flock paid her scant attention, though, and carried on smoothing their saris and chewing betel nut. One of them opened her reddened mouth to merrily spit out the juice. They were chattering to each other excitedly.
All attention was diverted. The fat youth bent down and the younger one jumped on his back, vaulted up the side of the vehicle, caught the railing and swung his legs up and over. An astonished cheer rose up at this achievement. The women shrieked out their approval. The boy had been holding a marigold between his teeth, which he now presented to Venkataraman with a theatrical low bow, perhaps something he seen in some romantic Bollywood film full of improbable heroics. Nonetheless, it was rather touching.
Venkataraman smiled and stepped forward to accept the flower. Clare wondered if this was why the boy had been so scared? Had it been the stage fright of an ardent devotee? Was it political devotion that had made him try to seize Max’s camera? Maybe he hadn’t wanted his hero photographed without consent, as Tammy had suggested. That could explain his look of mild fanaticism. Perhaps he was a shade simple-minded too, bowing so extravagantly low, as if struck with sudden shyness, before moving quickly forward to embrace the speaker.
The women clapped their hands, which sparkled with bright rings. Venkataraman looked surprised as the youth put his arm around his neck. At this, the women raised their arms, bangles jangling, and made further noises of encouragement. Venkataraman smiled again, less certainly this time, and hesitantly accepted the embrace.
But then the boy’s arm drove hard forward. His elbow jerked backwards with a plucking motion, and he again thrust forward with a violent twist.
Venkataraman looked astounded and let out a sharp cry. The boy held his body close but as though it were a shield to prevent his face being seen.
The cheering died away to a hush. Then there came a throb of strident music, fast and hectic, vibrating along the narrow streets. A trumpet blared. A drum was beaten. The man and boy seemed to cling to one another, as if in some weird climax of devotion.
But then Venkataraman stumbled backwards.
A knife had been stuck into his chest.
Blood was pulsing from the wound, spreading through Venkataraman’s shirt and down his arm.
Clare looked away in horror. She saw the cripple again, with his grizzled beard and furrowed cheeks. He was staring up at Venkataraman with a look of appalling triumph. Seconds later, he noticed Clare. Their eyes met, for just a second, and then his gaze returned to the terrible scene above.
One of the women let out a stifled scream. A heavy collective groan spread among the onlookers. Venkataraman slumped against a horrified colleague. Two of the women clung to each other, shrieking. A guard edged forward, holding a revolver.
The boy suddenly leapt over the side of the bus. He hit the ground right next to Tammy, who seized him around the waist. They faced each other, and the boy began twisting frantically in Tammy’s grasp. He stared into his face, whimpering in frustration. He thrashed the air with his arms and shouted out. His mouth was trembling. His shirt was patchy with his victim’s blood. The older youth dodged forward and raised a knife, glaring aggressively at Tammy. Before he had time to attack, the tall woman stepped forward. Her mouth gaped open, with its snaggle teeth and bright red gums. Incensed, she spat a gob of betel juice into the moustachioed face.
The young boy broke free of Tammy.
The guard jumped down. The swaying crowd pushed Clare until she was almost off her feet. Although seized by a momentary, claustrophobic panic, she managed to recover her balance and found the older youth standing right in front of her. He looked at her with hostility before he and his accomplice bolted off and vanished down an alley. The guard fired at them but missed. Two astonished colleagues were supporting Venkataraman, a look of utter disbelief on his face.
There was pandemonium. People began running in all directions, wailing and shouting. Clare saw a thin little girl toddling forward, weeping. She looked totally lost and seemed about to be trampled on by people hurtling about in confusion. In terrified bewilderment, the girl fell to the ground, where a man almost stumbled over her in panic. Clare pushed forward and snatched the girl up. She held the child close and could feel the heavy thumping of her heart within her emaciated, trembling body.
The cripple came swinging up, distraught and gasping, accompanied by a woman in a state of hysteria. They’d seen Clare rescuing the child and looked at her with enormous gratitude. Tammy spoke with them in Tamil. He told Clare the cripple was the child’s father. His wife had been knocked down in the rush and the crowd had carried off their child. Clare handed the girl over to the cripple. He cradled his daughter in his arms with desperate protectiveness, tears of relief welling in his eyes. The little girl clung tightly to him, while his wife sobbed uncontrollably.
Clare gazed into the cripple’s face, realising this was the man she’d seen with that repulsive look of triumph just after Venkataraman had been stabbed. She’d first seen him after the camera incident. Had he approached them at the time only to see their faces better? Had the youths conferred with him? Had the three of them plotted to seize the camera because Max had photographed something they didn’t want recorded? Was he their accomplice or the mastermind?
The man handed the child to his wife, who was talking rapidly. She was pleading with the cripple, in ashamed apology for having lost their daughter in the turmoil. The cripple spoke to her forgivingly, and she gazed at him in thankful adoration. He explained to Tammy that they’d been childless for many years; their only child had been born to them late in life, and they felt very blessed because of her. Turning back to Clare, he put his hands together in the gesture of Namaste, and his wife bowed her head and touched her forehead.
Guards rushed past, chasing after the youths. Clare heard the siren of a police car. Venkataraman, who was still on his feet and being supported by two horrified colleagues, seemed mesmerised by the fireworks that had incongruously started up again, exploding in glittering hoops and whirling circles in a mad crescendo of now wholly inappropriate celebration. Amazingly, Venkataraman still held the flower, now soaked in blood that still dripped. The cripple continued to regard Clare with great appreciation, honouring her with another salutation before turning and moving away; the little girl was carried by her weeping mother.
The police and the ambulance arrived. Venkataraman was laid upon a stretcher. He stared at the sputtering fireworks, their descending sparks extinguished one by one, as if he was gazing at some bright yet disappearing vision. As he was lifted into the ambulance, the tall woman placed a red hibiscus flower on his chest. One of her followers, a crystal stud in her nostril and a shimmer of blue beads around her neck, took the coil of flowers from her hair and placed it at Venkataraman’s feet.
Tammy offered himself to the police as a witness. Clare wanted to do the same, but he advised her to return to the hotel. He asked a policeman to accompany her there, and they walked past huddled groups of murmuring people. When they reached the hotel, Clare was anxious to find out where Max was. She went up to their bedroom and was relieved to find him already there. He hadn’t followed the procession after all but had returned to the temple to take more photos. When she told him about the stabbing, he was appalled. He held her in his arms with that firm protectiveness she loved.
Tammy returned about twenty minutes later, saying that the police wanted to see him again the next day. He said Venkataraman wasn’t expected to survive. The police pursuit of the assassin had been in vain, and they regarded Tammy as the best eyewitness. They seemed confident he would be able to describe the young boy. No one else had seen the face of the assassin clearly, that hypocritical low bow having served its purpose.
‘I told the policeman who brought me back here about the cripple,’ Clare said. ‘And I told him I can identify the killer and his accomplice.’
‘If it gets round that a European woman saw what happened, you could surely be in danger,’ Max said.
‘Well I insist on talking to the police again at some point,’ Clare declared.
The following morning it was announced on the news that Venkataraman had died in hospital in the early hours.
‘I’m really angry,’ Clare said over breakfast. ‘The savagery of it, disguised in that gesture of false homage! I hope those assassins are caught as soon as possible. I must talk to the police.’
She didn’t have to go to see them. Inspector Veerapan, a senior police official, had been quickly flown down from Chennai and put in charge of the case. He came to see Clare and Tammy. The Inspector, a man with meticulously combed hair and a politely mournful manner, told them he’d been involved in the investigation into Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination in 1961.
‘His murder was unwittingly filmed by an amateur photographer,’ he said. ‘The photographer died in the explosion but his camera was found at the site. That was an election meeting, too. Rajiv was approached by a suicide terrorist who had an explosive device hidden under her sari. As she touched his feet in pretend respect, she detonated it. I hear Venkataraman’s assassin approached him with similar false devotion, but no one inadvertently filmed this killing. At least not as far as we know.’
‘They could be lone fanatics with personal, obsessive grievances,’ Tammy suggested.
‘I agree it’s possible,’ said the Inspector. ‘I fear, however, that they’re hit men hired by some group that felt threatened by Venkataraman’s campaign against corruption.’
Max told him about the attempted theft of his camera.
‘Do you think there’s a connection?’
The Inspector nodded.
‘I think it’s very likely,’ he said. ‘I suspect you must have unwittingly photographed more than just Venkataraman speaking.’
‘The cripple and the older youth urged on the younger one,’ said Clare. ‘He seemed nervous at first. He seemed reluctant. The cripple looked… well, he looked triumphant when Venkataraman was stabbed. The killer looked so delicate and innocent, though.’
‘That might be why he was chosen,’ the Inspector said. ‘Anyone looking rough or sinister would hardly have presented a flower without exciting suspicion. The guards would’ve been alerted. Venkataraman wouldn’t have so readily stepped forward. This suggests it was a group operation, and the boy had been carefully selected.’
‘He’d probably been chosen because of his slimness and agility,’ Tammy added. ‘The other youth was far too fat and lumpish to have been able to leap up the side of the bus like that.’
Veerapan pushed long fingers through his impeccably burnished hair before fastidiously polishing his already brilliant spectacles.
‘I’ve studied the psychology of terrorists,’ he went on. ‘They feel fear, certainly, but they transmute it into angry grievance. They suppress any guilt by feeling outraged instead.’
‘Is there a lot of terrorism these days?’ Max asked.
‘It’s much increased of late. Questions have been asked in Parliament about the country’s capacity to defend itself against terrorist attacks. Three months ago, a radio journalist was shot in Chennai. We don’t yet know who’s responsible. He was due to lead a demonstration against corruption and attempts to stop it being investigated.’
The Inspector hesitantly touched his flawless hair again, as if fearful of it getting even mildly out of hand. Clare suspected he was worried because it might have been dislodged; such perfection told her it was probably a wig. He now spoke about an aim to strengthen those in charge of prosecutions, although it was hard to prove how widespread the corruption was.
‘It’s a worldwide problem, like terrorism. It’s a political disease we must do our best to see eradicated.’
He asked for a copy of the photo Max had taken at the election meeting. The photo did include the boy but only in quarter-profile. As Veerapan readied himself to leave, he stressed there was a need for Clare and Tammy to be cautious about where they went alone, since hit men might pursue a couple of prime witnesses. The couple were disturbed by this warning, although Tammy made light of it once the Inspector had gone.
‘Being alarmist makes him feel important,’ he declared. ‘There’s no great reason for us to worry. I’m quite sure nobody is coming after us.’