Efficient Breaches: A Romance

Illustration by GOSIA HERBA

SPRING 2005

On Thursdays, Narayan Dasgupta, BSc, MEng, MFin, assistant director, finance, Mahalakshmi Chemicals, disappointed himself.

In the afternoon, he quit work early and caught a taxi outside the Mahalakshmi campus in southeast Calcutta. Once the ride started, he opened his briefcase and allowed himself finally to start on the rosogolla he had saved from lunch. His thumbnail slit open the shrink-wrap cover of the Styrofoam cup, and he took from his pocket an aluminum fork he stole from the canteen. As he fished the curds into his mouth, they gushed with the holy taste of rosewater. When the curds were done, he let himself drink the buffalo milk left in the cup, and, for the rest of the ride, Narayan could taste the grease on his lips.

The driver took the highway until he couldn’t and then pulled onto the city streets, pushing past fish markets and student cafés and department stores, past the boulevards of crumbling Victorian buildings—old warhorses of colonial administration—until he reached the shabbiest part of the city, where the only streets were alleys and he was sure Narayan would get lost.

Along the gangly lanes, carts and scooters rumbled forth. All along were blocks upon blocks of flimsy commerce, a refugee camp for capitalism: slim booths of corrugated steel that were manned by small men with oiled mustaches and sallow eyes, selling cigarettes, shoe polishes, magazines, or chicken meat. The booths were brightened with painted signs and strung lights and loudspeakers playing old-movie music. Shrill boys and girls crowded the taxi, slapping at the windows for change.

The poverty made Narayan regret his visit. But he had been regretting it already. At breakfast with Sunita and the children, Meena and Sankat, and on the route to work with Jagan, the family’s driver, their pleasantries all seemed more pointed, their questions inquisitorial. At work, Narayan had advocated for a promising M&A proposal that had come over the transom from Sweden, and it was passed over without even a murmur. Of course his colleagues couldn’t take his views seriously, he thought; they knew exactly what he would be getting up to.

Yet once the cab pulled into the proper block, Narayan’s anxiety turned into delight. No one here would know him but everyone he passed he wanted to meet, to press them close and hear their stories and thank them for being alive. And finally spotting the address he needed—a hostel sporting a red-and-white sign with a Mercedes symbol and the title hotel discotek—his joy turned into something better. His body was forced to walk when he wanted to bolt.

Though the desk clerk never bothered to ask, Narayan offered up a fake name and paid for eight hours. Up four rickety flights of stairs and through the hallway, until finally into the room, which was small and dusty, made of white-painted cinder blocks, but better than he expected. By way of decoration, there was a freshly painted aluminum dresser bolted to the wall. Through the floor, there came up the smell of gasoline from the streets and the smell of garlic and onions from the mess hall below. Narayan turned on the AC and pulled out his special prepaid phone to make the call.

At least an hour passed before Vik came. As usual, he offered no apology except to say he was coming from the gym. Americans.

Vik dumped his bag on the dresser and took out this month’s copy of Filmfare from its sheath. Vik did nothing until Narayan showed him the money, and then he emptied the little tea bag onto the glossy faces of Kajol and Rani and diligently milled the white mound into strips. As the benefactor, Narayan took the prerogative of the first line, Vik the next, and they tallied off.

Narayan had to hold his nose to keep it from going numb; inside his nostrils, the powder was clean and cold and sharp...