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 “There’s something strange going on,” he wanted to say, “my voice,” but he didn’t know how to put it, and held his tongue.

“People like you,” she snorted, kissing his shoulder. “You come back after so long and think godknowswhat of yourselves. Well, baby, we got a lower opinion of you.” Her smile was brighter than Pamela’s. “I see,” he said to her, “Zeeny, you didn’t lose your Binaca smile.”

Binaca . Where had that come from, the long forgotten toothpaste advertisement? And the vowel sounds, distinctly unreliable. Watch out, Chamcha, look out for your shadow. That black fellow creeping up behind.

On the second night she arrived at the theatre with two friends in tow, a young Marxist film-maker called George Miranda, a shambling whale of a man with rolled-up kurta sleeves, a flapping waistcoat bearing ancient stains, and a surprisingly military moustache with waxed points; and Bhupen Gandhi, poet and journalist, who had gone prematurely grey but whose face was baby-innocent until he unleashed his sly, giggling laugh. “Come on, Salad baba,” Zeeny announced. “We’re going to show you the town.” She turned to her companions. “These Asians from foreign got no shame,” she declared. “Saladin, like a bloody lettuce, I ask you.”

“There was a TV reporter here some days back,” George Miranda said. “Pink hair. She said her name was Kerleeda. I couldn’t work it out.”

“Listen, George is too unworldly,” Zeeny interrupted. “He doesn’t know what freaks you guys turn into. That Miss Singh, outrageous. I told her, the name’s Khalida, dearie, rhymes with Dalda, that’s a cooking medium. But she couldn’t say it. Her own name. Take me to your kerleader. You types got no culture. Just wogs now. Ain’t it the truth?” she added, suddenly gay and round-eyed, afraid she’d gone too far. “Stop bullying him, Zeenat,” Bhupen Gandhi said in his quiet voice. And George, awkwardly, mumbled: “No offence, man. Joke-shoke.”

Chamcha decided to grin and then fight back. “Zeeny,” he said, “the earth is full of Indians, you know that, we get everywhere, we become tinkers in Australia and our heads end up in Idi Amin’s fridge. Columbus was right, maybe; the world’s made up of Indies, East, West, North. Damn it, you should be proud of us, our enterprise, the way we push against frontiers. Only thing is, we’re not Indian like you. You better get used to us. What was the name of that book you wrote?”

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