L text 5

The man walking towards England, towards our curious eyes, and towards the warm winter overcoat that I held in my hands, was not Flaubert the writer, though he had a similar grey moustache, two double chins, and not much hair. Not-Flaubert was smaller than me, about the same size as Princess Jeeta. But unlike her—and the exact shape of her was difficult to determine because of her roomy salwar kamiz—Changez had a stomach that rode out before him, with a dark-red stringy knitted jumper stratched over it. The hair that God had left him was sparse, dry and vertical, as if he brushed it forward every morning. With his good hand he shoved a trolley loaded with two rotting suitcases, which were saved from instant disintegration only by thin strings and fraying pyjama cords.

When Not-Flaubert spotted his name on the piece of cardboard I was holding, he simply stopped pushing the trolley, left it standing among the shoving airport crowd and walked towards Jeeta and his wife-to-be, Jamila.

Helen had agreed to help us out on this day of days, and she and I rescued the trolley and staggered around, heaving Changez's junk into the back of the big Rover. Helen wouldn't hold on to anything properly in case mosquitoes jumped out of the suitcases and gave her malaria. Not-Flaubert stood by us, not getting into the car until, sanctioned by his regal nodding approval, I finally locked the boot, ensuring his sacred suitcases were safe from dacoits and thuggees.

'Maybe he is used to servants,' I said to Helen in a loud voice as I held the door open for him to slide in next to Jeeta and Jamila. Helen and I got in front. This was a delicious moment of revenge for me, because the Rover belonged to Helen's dad, Hairy Back. Had he known that four pakis were resting their dark arses on his deep leather seats, ready to be driven by his daughter, who had only recently been fucked by one of them, he wouldn't have been a contented man.

The actual wedding was to be held the next day, and then Changez and Jamila would stay at the Ritz for a couple of nights. Today there would be a small party to welcome Changez to England.

Anwar was standing anxiously at the window of Paradise Store as the Rover turned into the street, outside the library. Anwar had even changed his suit ; he was wearing a late 1950s job, as opposed to the usual early 1950s number. The suit was pinned and tucked all over, for he was bony now. His nose and cheekbones protruded as never before, and he was paler than Helen, so pale that no one could possibly call him a darkie or black bastard, though they might legitimately have used the word bastard. He was weak and found it difficult to pick up his feet as he walked. He moved as if he had bags of sugar tied to his ankles. And when Changez embraced him in the street I thought I heard Anwar's bones cracking. Then he shook Changez's hand twice and pinched his cheeks. This effort seemed to tire Anwar.

Anwar had been extraordinarily exuberant about Changez's arrival. Perhaps it was something to do with his not having a son and now having gained one ; or perhaps he was pleased about his victory over the women. Whatever the extent of his self-inflicted frailty, I'd never seen him as good-tempered as he had been recently, or as nervously loquacious. Words weren't his natural medium, but these days, when I went to help out in the shop, he inevitably took me aside—blackmailing me with samosas, sherbet fountains and the opportunity not to work—for an extended earbashing. I'm convinced he drew me aside, away from Jeeta and Jamila, into the store-room, where we sat on wooden boxes like skiving factory workers, because he was ashamed, or at least bashful, about his unsweet victory. Recently Princess Jeeta and Jamila had been in funeral moods, not for a second allowing Anwar to enjoy the pleasure of his tyranny. So all he could do, poor bastard, was celebrate it with me. Would they never understand the fruits of his wisdom ?

The Buddha of Suburbia, Chapter 6, pages78-79