Free The Splendor Of Silence by Indu Sundaresan Page B

had very easily mistaken that just because Raman was Indian, he could not, naturally, be the political agent. What did he consider him? A peon? A secretary? There was, however, nothing offensive in his guest's manner. He had an engaging smile and an evenly browned face. His eyes were a startling blue among all that earth color, the hair a glossy, India ink black, too long in the front for an army man. Sam had to, every so often, toss his head slightly, or swipe the hair from his eyes. It was not an unmanly gesture, and yet Raman had not seen much of it before, as used as he was to the straitjacket rigidity of the officers of the British Indian army.
    Somehow, that lack of insistence on protocol made him American to Raman. His accent rang strange too, true, but not unpleasantly. Raman wondered what he was doing here in Rudrakot.
    "May I ask, Captain Hawthorne," he said, "how old you are? If it is not a too terribly invasive question?"
    "Not at all," Sam replied. "But I'm sorry; I don't know with whom I am talking ..."
    "My name is Raman." And so Raman deliberately kept the information from Sam yet another time.
    "Just that?" Sam asked before he had the time to think. It was not a rude question in itself, but the manner of asking it denied etiquette. But Raman let it pass, for it told him more about Sam than his appearance had. He did not need to know how old Sam was anymore; in Raman's mind he could not be more than twenty-five, or twenty-six at the most. But a few years older than Kiran, though he seemed to possess more of himself than Kiran did. His eldest son was a restless, unhappy creature, especially now. Raman shifted in his chair, and as he had earlier, tore his attention from Kiran to Sam.
    "My name is just Raman," he said. "Do you know something of Indian names, Captain Hawthorne?"
    "Sam, please. Please call me Sam."
    "All right," Raman said, surprised and somewhat pleased. It was not less than he had expected from an American--for all of Raman's ideas of Americans were based on what he had been told by friends who had traveled to that country. So he had expected this openness, this immediate and somewhat rash friendship, because Sam did not know who Raman was, yet insisted upon a familiarity that was, because it was so unusual to Raman, charming.
    "And yes," Sam added, "I've been in India long enough to distinguish between different names, not very well though. My batman taught me that the name could point to many different things: religion, of course, though it's easy enough to tell from a name whether you are Hindu or Muslim, also what your caste is, what part of the country you come from, in some cases what languages you speak." Sam grinned. "I must admit that it was all quite confusing, I understood that much from what Ramsingh told me, but not enough to actually use any of it."
    Raman smiled at this much information. Sam had come to Rudrakot on the night train from Palampore; his clothes and his person held that iron-and-metal smell of railway travel. He had also come here, in the notso-distant past, from some war front, or some training camp; the color of his face and hands gave that away. Sam Hawthorne had taken the trouble to talk with his batman about the origin of Indian names.
    "You have an erudite batman, Captain Hawthorne," Raman said. "I don't know many men in that class of life who would choose to engage their masters in conversation other than the shine of polish on their shoes or the ironing of their uniforms."
    "Ramsingh was certainly unusual, sir," Sam said. "I do not employ him anymore. He was assigned to me in the barracks in Assam and is probably serving another captain now. But you were saying about your name. "
    "Ah, yes. I digress a lot; my children tell me this constantly," Raman said, bending his head toward Sam in a little apology. Both of their coffees had cooled in the conversation, and Sayyid, still standing behind Raman's chair, was but an unnecessary adjunct, for neither man had, for