Day #1 – Preliminaries
Thirty-seven years ago, urban India. Philip, the good-looking young American businessman, reasonably fluent in Hindi — a fact greatly to his advantage in negotiating complex deals such as this. Quick, personable, aggressive in the best American business tradition. And wearing tennis shorts and a tee-shirt to business meetings, EGAD, Sir!
Negotiations were nearing what loomed as a very successful conclusion. The local side was nominally represented by a consortium of several mucky-mucks, but Mister Devasi (shortened to Deva) was obviously the real power, in that all data, all history, all plans seemed to reside at least in his domain, if not actually in his head. Exclusively so.
Yet much to Philip’s disgust this energetic and very capable man was largely being treated as a mere minor gofur. Deva was clearly the elder, perhaps close to twice Philip’s age, and was sought out for information, then abruptly or casually dismissed again after each appearance — it was clear to Philip that things would have progressed faster still had Deva been simply included in the meeting. But no — the situation being a product of the caste system, he was sure — a system which he profoundly detested as inhuman, in-humane, and exceedingly wasteful of human talent.
Late morning, negotiations done, the whole group shook hands — with Deva pointedly excluded. The muckies exited en masse to do whatever it was they did that earned them their keep.
They left Philip and Deva together to tie up loose ends, which was fine with them both. They had gotten along famously from the get-go.
Deva in fact admired everything about this American, found it astonishing that so young a man could wield such authority so easily and so considerately, not to say diplomatically! Philip embodied American characteristics which Deva had often encountered in his long and variegated career. Intensity and concentration on the task, an almost brutal (but friendly) bluntness and honesty; a brushing-aside of trivia; an ability to evaluate a situation, to find instantly the crux of things, determine and locate the information needed for a decision; and then (unlike Deva’s local counterparts) MAKE the decision and move forward.
The pace of dealing with Philip’s culture, even within an Indian milieu, was breathtaking — and utterly refreshing once one understood that the American was being anything BUT rude.
Since the beginning, Deva had been reporting on the meeting, and on Philip, to his only child, daughter Lakshmi, well named after the Hindu goddess of wealth and business. A woman of 21 now, and unlikely ever to marry in spite of being both beautiful and unusually well-educated.
She was more than reasonably fluent in English and, said Papa, a complete nut on English literature. Lakshmi had never met an American: she queried Papa endlessly — in detail — about the current foreigner, with whom Papa clearly got along so well. She bored into him for information.
About Philip’s intelligence – which she found monumentally impressive — he being (at the age of 26 for the Gods’ sakes!) simultaneously a businessman, an advocate, a scientific researcher and a university professor!
About appearance – a large man by local standards, just short of six feet tall, well muscled, no fat on him. With strong legs, that detail knowable because he was given to wearing shorts in the Indian climate, even to business meetings. Blond and blue-eyed.
About personality, Papa reported a fine sense of humor, a love of intelligent conversation.
A thoroughgoing hatred of the caste system in all its manifestations — no such thing in America, said Mister Philip — only individual efforts counted, there were no inherited rankings.
“A very attractive man, overall!” said Papa, patiently answering her ongoing and quite detailed inquiries.
That noon, the final details having been cared for and the muckies all long-gone, Philip said to Deva with his usual disarming directness, “Tell me, Deva. The others treat you badly, as if a servant, when it is quite clear to me that YOU are the core of this entire project. Is there some aspect of caste at work here? As you know already, I seriously despise that system, such a multiplier of human unhappiness, such a waster of talent. Ugh!”
Deva hesitated for a moment, considering, then drew upon a resolution he’d made recently – to imitate this youngster’s characteristics. Now, directness… not a commonplace in Indian dealings. He steeled himself and proceeded.
“Yes” he said: “…you are quite astute. A matter of caste indeed. Four generations past, my forebear was a member of the untouchable caste profession that collects dung and makes it into cakes for use as fuel in cooking.”
There! He’d gotten it out. Now, to see what result. Deva peered up at Philip’s face, awaiting reaction. He found curiosity, but no judgment. In fact, Philip suddenly grinned, then laughed, and clapped Deva on the shoulder, startling the poor man thoroughly.
“So what!?” said Philip: “… as a child I spent every summer on my grandparents’ farm, where my own father was born and grew up to become a university professor. I spent those summers working hard. They raised many cattle. I myself have shoveled a great many tons of dung, Deva. Whole large wagons filled with it, stinking in the hot sun — I would then spread it on fields as fertilizer. An honorable if smelly occupation. Such work is hardly cause for being a pariah within MY culture. You and I, we are brothers, members of the same caste! I am honored!”
Both relieved and astounded, Deva laughed, shook Philip’s hand, and thought to himself “No bloody wonder the damn Yanks pretty much own the world! No castes, and from manure to professor by his own efforts, in a very few years!”
Then Philip asked “What happened in your family? You are not exactly a dung-collector these days.”
Deva shrugged: “Here, unfortunately, one cannot readily escape one’s caste, however lucky or skilled one might be otherwise. Will I tell you a short bit of my family history?”
“Please do!”
“My great grandfather was of course illiterate, living in a tiny village some hundreds of kilometers from here. But he was very smart. He realized that everyone, from the Emperor down to himself, everyone short of a god, must cook or be cooked for, and that almost always over a dung fire. This meant that the dung collectors were, if only they could see it, in control. Control any aspect of a people’s food supply and you will be some sort of king!”
“Therefore he organized the collectors in his village, then in the surrounding many small villages. Together they forced a big increase in the price of dung for the other classes who could afford to pay a bit more: all benefitted, and he took a small percentage of the added value. All benefitted, even the users, because the prices became known and stable as did the supply.”
“He sent his eldest son to school, insisting on the value of education, a family first-ever event. Next generation it was better education and movement into supplying and distributing compressed gas for cooking and to run motor vehicles. Then a fleet of tuk-tuk cabs for my very father himself, and school through a two-year college, business school, for me, thus to this job. A progression upwards both economically and in education.”
“Nonetheless, Mister Philip, in India no-one can truly escape from one’s caste even today. I am still, to most people and including those who run this business, an untouchable. Despite my abilities and experience. As you have said, it seems a terrible waste.”
Deva sighed, shrugged, eyed Philip briefly, and took another plunge.
“We can be finished by 1300” he said. “Would you be interested…” He almost stopped, managed to proceed — “…in coming to my home for tea, to celebrate this contract, to relax, to meet my family, which means my daughter, her mother being long since dead of cancer.”
He hurried on: “It is but a modest small home and has of course never been visited by any of my business associates, all of whom are trapped in our caste system, and with them no such invitation could possibly be given much less accepted. But you are absolutely not caste-bound, and in that and in other ways also, Mister Philip, I would be like you.”
A pause, Philip waited, not yet his turn, really.
“You would be meeting my daughter and only child. She is VERY curious about Americans, yet has never met one. I have told her a great deal about you and about our negotiations — perhaps a bit more than is really polite, but nothing secret I hope. Even that you conduct business while dressed for tennis! No personal secrets were revealed, except that you are handsome and single — details which she absolutely demanded, and which I, poor man, had to supply.”
He sighed: “She is named Lakshmi; she is beautiful but of course all fathers must say THAT. You would have to judge for yourself. As her parent, I cannot guarantee any degree of accuracy in my evaluation. Importantly, her English is greatly better than mine, and she will likely wish to practice it extensively on you, a native speaker.”
He finished nervously: “I wonder – would such an invitation be appropriate?”
Philip stuck out his hand, shook Deva’s, and said, looking him straight in the eyes, “Deva, I am honored by an invitation into ANY man’s home. I accept, with thanks!”
“Will you ride home with me on my motorcycle, Mister Philip? Have you any experience with cycles? They can be … perplexing!”
Philip had, indeed. “Of course, no problem. I own a powerful cycle myself and have ridden it many thousands of miles — when necessary, I can be a sack of potatoes on the rear seat. Let’s go!”
“Ah… wonderful!” said Deva “But first I must warn daughter Lakshmi who is our hostess. For when you eventually do marry, you must never forget this. Never, NEVER appear at home with an unannounced guest!”
He stepped to the desk, set the business phone on ‘speaker’ and dialed.
A perfectly lovely female voice answered, in the classical Indian version of English, with its musicality and implied head-bobbling.
Deva announced Philip’s presence — the disembodied voice greeted him, introduced its owner as Lakshmi, Deva’s eldest and only daughter.
Philip introduced himself, and immediately said “Your Papa has invited me to come home with him for tea… but I do not want to accept unless you can assure me it is not inconvenient, that it will not disrupt your activities.”
A slight sigh and giggle from Lakshmi, then “I, that is WE, would love to have you for tea and perhaps for some discussion about English literature if you do not mind that as a topic. Your presence would interfere with nothing whatever, in fact the opposite, it would serve nicely to fill a void of activities and intelligent company. Please DO come, but give me time to do the usual woman-thing and change my clothes, then prepare the tea. Papa… can you two arrive home in about one-half hour, but not less?”
Papa agreed on the schedule, Philip thanked the lovely voice, and they broke the connection. Papa grinned shyly at Philip: “She is very excited, a father can always tell. We almost never have guests and she loves to entertain, even just providing a simple pot of tea. And right now this immediate minute, I can assure you, she is busy having trouble deciding what to wear. Women!”
He was, of course, correct: in the next fifteen minutes Lakshmi went through five changes, settling finally on something almost daring, a diaphanous, not to say gossamer, pair of long Punjabi-pants — the fabric opaque when not touching skin, but functionally transparent wherever it did. A lace bra under an equally see-through short sari-blouse. Sandals. Her spectacular hair given a once-over touchup.
And a very careful job of facial makeup — nothing glaring or garish or overdone — just enough, and so applied, to highlight her extraordinary eyes and mouth, her personal short-list of ‘best features’.
Then came the doubts whilst staring into the mirror — why did she feel the need to dress so enticingly — it would likely disturb Papa, and god know what it might do for (or TO!) a young male of the species. But then, that effect was precisely what she wanted to test — having literally never been on anything resembling a western “date”. Papa had instigated this, had primed her with stories about this man, so Papa would have to regard any personal internal disquiet as being his own damned fault!
Satisfied and excited, she headed for the kitchen. She would have everything ready on time.
It was a twenty minute cycle trip from the office to Deva’s home. Part way, Philip asked “Is there a flower shop nearby? Something better, fancier, than a mere tub of marigolds?”
Deva answered, shouting into the wind roaring past, “Certainly! All India is mad for flowers! Shall we go there? It takes perhaps five minutes of extra time.”
Philip was in the shop only briefly, returned with a nice bouquet of a dozen small blood-red roses. Deva eyed them, said “Very nice flowers! Extravagantly nice in fact.” Then, matter-of-factly, he said “Quite romantical, indeed. Roses are generally thought to be, no? Same in America, I think.”
Philip shrugged as he remounted the bike: “These are a gift for the Lady of the House to which I have been invited. If I were dating that Lady — which I most definitely am NOT! – then they might have a different meaning than just ‘Thank you!'”
He shouted into Deva’s ear as they roared off into traffic again “After all, a man can give the same type of flowers to the same women many times, each time with a very different meaning!”
Deva managed to make his reply understood — “One man most certainly can do that! But I am quite sure, Mister Philip, that this will be the very first time in Lakshmi’s entire life that she receives flowers from ANY man, for ANY reason! Even, I am ashamed to state, from myself! I will be interested to see her reaction!”
He slowed the cycle as they approached the house, chuckled, said to Philip as the motor stopped, “Which means you will shortly get very high marks indeed for something — shall we call it simply DIPLOMACY?”
Philip dismounted, said “If the Lady is as attractive as you say, and has never received flowers, then she must be surrounded by the dumbest and least sensitive group of men ever assembled on the planet!”
Deva shrugged, muttered “Perhaps it is so!” He paused. “Myself included!”
They parked the cycle in the closet that passed for a garage, and headed upstairs. Philip felt a bit funny about showing up in tennis shorts and a tee-shirt, but he’d had no choice — those were the clothes in which he’d been doing business all week, receiving nary a sidelong glance for commentary. He carried the dozen roses in his hand, behind his back.
Up the stairs they trotted: the door opened as they arrived, as if on an electronic sensor but actually powered by an acutely-aware Lakshmi.
Deva introduced them at the threshold. “Mister Philip, my daughter Lakshmi. Lakshmi, this is the Doctor Philip you have heard so much about recently.”
Before Philip stood, quite simply, a goddess. Small, almost tiny but not quite. The most exquisite figure Philip had ever seen in the flesh — and that figure was quite unsuccessfully veiled by gauze-like house-pants and blouse that showed clearly every stitch of her underlying bra. Papa was visibly — if briefly — nonplussed.
In the first five seconds of wide-open eye contact, Mister Philip was instantly toast, psychologically so far and so deeply gone that he couldn’t even wonder whether he was being obnoxiously obvious to his host and hostess. Philip could not see his own reactions, but they seemed to satisfy the goddess, for she blushed, dropped her eyes, then flicked them back up at him for more contact.
Philip’s libido simply exploded. He felt as if his entire insides had been instantly turned to boiling jelly. He’d never in his life had anything remotely resembling this reaction, not to any of his many women, and it rendered him stunned and breathless.
It seemed as if someone had gone to all the cultures of the world, collected the most erotic and beautiful features of their women, distilled each feature down to its absolute essence, then mixed them all together and poured them into the mold of a perfectly shaped, perfectly proportioned woman. Café skin, overlain with a dusky, subtle, slightly purplish tone. Makeup at the highest level of effectiveness to emphasize her eyes and lips and teeth.
The intense sexuality of every Indian erotic sculpture he’d ever seen, with the exaggerated features reduced to their proper proportions. The most nearly perfect figure and set of facial features he had ever encountered, far beyond any imagining.
Awkwardly, almost ninth-grader bashful, he held out the roses: Lakshmi looked thoroughly startled, then very graciously received them. They eyed one another silently across the flowers, then, hands full of roses, she made her Namaste to him, bending her head well downwards.
The world’s most beautiful hair confronted him… glistening jet black, parted down the middle and then plaited, the single tapered braid so long she could easily sit on it. Philip’s senses were at maximum acuity now — he looked at the top of her head, down into the central part that exposed a midline streak of scalp. No “I am a married woman” sandooram resided there. The small crimson bindi on her forehead, between the eyebrows, was perfectly done — difficult to do, its perfection a show-off item mostly between women – but simply a makeup beauty-mark of no informational significance.
She stood there as transfixed as he, feeling much the same way and utterly confused by it. She said to him, in a near-whisper “My first flowers ever, Mister Philip… I thank you!”
As he tried to catch his breath, Philip made a decision, quite coolly, based on his reactions — this woman was going to be his life’s partner. There wasn’t the least doubt in his mind, despite having disbelieved in such ‘instant relationship’ fables all his adult life. Lakshmi was his other half, the missing fifty percent. And he could clearly see a reaction on her part that was similar to his own. A genuine ‘OhMyGod’ moment.
She rose from her namaste’s greeting-bow, said in excellent, idiomatic English, “Welcome to our little home, Mister Philip. Our humble abode, as it were. A safe trip from the office, so I see. That is always good. Since you were invited for tea, perhaps that is where we can begin!”
She led them to the low table in the living room: a double tea-service sat there, freshly filled, waiting. Beside it lay a mid-sized red book — Mark Twain’s selected short stories!
Papa grinned at Philip’s surprise, said “I told you, Mister Philip, that she is intelligent, well read and very nearly fanatical about her English, most of which she has learned entirely on her own. They only provide four years of English classes in her school, and not so terribly good. I also warned you that she might want to practice the language with you — you who are her very first American. Not an imposition, I do hope!”