10

Kusum watched Jack’s face. His eyes had widened slightly at the mention of “my sister.” Yes, there was something between these two. The thought filled Kusum with pain. Kolabati was not for Jack, or any casteless westerner. She deserved a prince.

Jack stepped back and let the door swing open wider, keeping his right shoulder pressed against the edge of the door. Kusum wondered if he was hiding a weapon.

As he stepped into the room he was struck by the incredible clutter. Clashing colors, clashing styles, bric-a-brac and memorabilia filled every wall and niche and corner. He found it at once offensive and entertaining. He felt that if he could sift through everything in this room he might come to know the man who lived here.

“Have a seat.”

Kusum hadn’t seen Jack move, yet now the door was closed and Jack was sitting in an overstuffed armchair, his hands clasped behind his head. He could kick him in the throat now and end it all. One kick and Kolabati would no longer be tempted. Quick, easier than using a rakosh. But Jack appeared to be on guard, ready to move. Kusum warned himself that he should not underestimate this man. He sat down on a short sofa across from him.

“You live frugally,” he said, continuing to inspect the room around him. “With the level of income I assume you to have, I would have thought your quarters would be more richly appointed.”

“I’m content the way I live,” Jack said. “Besides, conspicuous consumption is contrary to my best interests.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But at least you have resisted the temptation to join the big car, yacht, and country club set. A lifestyle too many of your fellow countrymen would find irresistible.” He sighed. “A lifestyle too many of my own countrymen find irresistible as well, much to India’s detriment.”

Jack shrugged. “What’s this got to do with Kolabati?”

“Nothing, Jack,” Kusum said. He studied the American: a self-contained man; a rarity in this land. He does not need the adulation of his fellows to give him self-worth. He finds it within. I admire that. Kusum realized he was giving himself reasons why he should not make Jack a meal for the rakoshi.

“How’d you get my address?”

“Kolabati gave it to me.” In a sense this was true. He had found Jack’s address on a slip of paper on her bureau the other day.

“Then let’s get to the subject of Kolabati, shall we?”

There was an undercurrent of hostility running through Jack. Perhaps he resented being disturbed at this hour. No… Kusum sensed it was more than that. Had Kolabati told him something she shouldn’t have? That idea disturbed him. He would have to be wary of what he said.

“Certainly. I had a long talk with my sister tonight and have convinced her that you are not right for her.”

“Interesting,” Jack said. A little smile played about his lips. What did he know? “What arguments did you use?”

“Traditional ones. As you may or may not know, Kolabati and I are of the Brahmin caste. Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“It is the highest caste. It is not fitting for her to consort with someone of a lower caste. “

“That’s a little old fashioned, isn’t it?”

“Nothing that is of such vital concern to one’s karma can be considered ’old fashioned.’ “

“I don’t worry about karma,” Jack said. “I don’t believe in it.”

Kusum allowed himself to smile. What ignorant children these Americans were.

“Your believing or not believing in karma has no effect on its existence, nor on its consequences to you. Just as a refusal to believe in the ocean would not prevent you from drowning.”

“And you say that because of your arguments about caste and karma, Kolabati was convinced that I am not good enough for her?”

“I did not wish to state it so bluntly. May I just say that I prevailed upon her not to see or even speak to you ever again.” He felt a warm glow begin within him. “She belongs to India. India belongs to her. She is eternal, like India. In many ways, she is India.”

“Yeah,” Jack said as he reached out with his left hand and placed the phone in his lap. “She’s a good kid.” Cradling the receiver between his jaw and his left shoulder, he dialed with his left hand. His right hand rested quietly on his thigh. Why wasn’t he using it?

“Let’s call her and see what she says.”

“Oh, she’s not there,” Kusum said quickly. “She has packed her things and started back to Washington.”

Jack held the phone against his ear for a long time. Long enough for at least twenty rings. Finally, he replaced the receiver in its cradle with his left hand—

—and suddenly there was a pistol in his right hand, the large bore of its barrel pointing directly between Kusum’s eyes.

“Where is she?” Jack’s voice was a whisper. And in the eyes sighting down the barrel of that pistol Kusum saw his own death—the man holding the gun was quite willing and even anxious to pull the trigger.

Kusum’s heart hammered in his throat. Not now! I can’t die now! I’ve too much still to do!