Free Hot Water Man by Deborah Moggach Page B

figure-hugging jean-slacks through which can be observed the contours of her form. She walks with little shame. If he is not her cook-bearer but lolling at ease against some street corner, he would keep his eyes on the said form, even although her bosom, so visible, is of poor size. As it is he keeps his eyes averted when in bungalow. He has seen others, of course. He is man of the world. There are the hippie persons wandering hither and thither, lowest of the low. There are also the tourist ladies from the Intercontinental Hotel but those persons are guests of his country for only some days, perhaps not respecting Muslim ways but confined to the major thoroughfares and government shops. In addition, for the cost of one half-week’s salary a man of the world can purchase the
Penthouse
magazine or similar from Mr Khan who is keeping the
pan
kiosk backside of Reptile Handbag Emporium. But a memsahib is different matter. At large, his standing it is lowered.
    And there is one other point. They are already making two journeys to provision bazaar, once in car and once in taxicab when sahib is in office. But though she asks his advice the first occasion she now prefers to purchase alone and she is topful with delight whatsoever she is buying, never bargaining over the cost – in what respect do the vegetable-wallahs hold him now? She also carries a basket herself while he follows with another: is he not a man with strength in his arms? Is he not paid Rs 275 a month? She walks with lightest heart into the dirty alleys, venturing into places he is shamed that a British memsahib must be seeing, and where the shop-wallahs are knowing no English turn of phrase. This makes him look even smaller bearer. And now she is making the habit of going out alone with her baskets, summoning a rickshaw like a Pakistani clerk’s wife and dispensing with his services.
    It is not as he is expecting. He is thirty years old. First he works for Pakistani lady but he is rising in the world since that time. He is now at sixes and sevens. The very second day, memsahib Manley she is entering his kitchen – not, as is memsahib Smythe’s custom, summoning him to lounge or, if entering kitchen, giving loud warning, such politeness being secondary nature to such a memsahib. Memsahib Manley she is entering kitchen quiet as a mouse, she creeps around residence, her feet nude like beggarwoman, he not knowing where she is next popping up. She points her finger to his uniform. Swiftly he explains small mark on jacket caused by tomatoes ketchup. No it is not that. Complicated talking follows, his English words not so good in speech as in his mind, and her Urdu no good. The final result is she is asking him if he is not more happy wearing no uniform but own personal garments.
    He can make no reply. His cousin Jalauddin, who is dursi to many residences, among them German Consulate, has himself admired the double-stitching and superior cloth. The jacket bears CC of Cameron, formed in green. His own garments? He has one bush-shirt and slacks, and three shalwar-kemise; when wearing them what is to be distinguishing him from the many other men occupied in the most menial manner, or with no occupation at all? Not to mention bearers of inferior Pakistani households; bearers who cannot cook the potato chips the European style.
    That is another point. Memsahib Smythe is giving him most inestimable training not only in the English customs but also in the English cooking. After six months his Apple Charlotte is more superior, memsahib Smythe say, than even back in Wimbledon, England, where her residence lies. (She kindly sends him snapshot, already, with greetings from little Karen and Jamie, that scallywag.) For the first dinner for Manley-sahibs he is cooking his finest meal, that most beloved of the Smythe-sahibs, the fish and chips followed by the guava mould and custard – for this he has purchased tin of Bird’s Custard coming all the way from